Evangeline's eyes were wide, dark circles staining the skin beneath her beautiful golden irises. Her exquisite face was marred with soot and dust, and yet… even then, it did nothing to diminish her beauty. When Damon said he was going to make her walk for those mana cores, he wasn't kidding. Her head throbbed from the strain of using mana without pause… her legs ached from the unending battles… she hadn't closed her eyes or rested in four days. That's right—four days. That's how long they had gone without rest. Four days of fighting, surviving, barely clinging to their sanity. Beyond the mental strain and trauma of battle, they had to endure the presence of things… strange and eldritch… horrors that twisted the world around them. People were surprisingly… adaptable. Even unimaginable fear and terror—after enough time—just became normal. Maybe that's what made humans terrifying in their own right… or maybe they'd all just gone mad. The sun had risen, a pale thing above the mist-choked trees. She didn't need to light up the area herself, but the forest remained no less dangerous. Between the unceasing whispers and that pale sun that couldn't pierce the veil of trees and fog, this place felt like it existed outside the world they once knew. She glanced at Damon. He had a small smile on his dried lips… She was certain now—they'd all gone mad. And Damon, who led them without hesitation, was the maddest of them all. "Now that I think about it… has he ever been sane…?" Not that she could recall. He always did whatever he pleased. It was stupid in hindsight—someone who refused to conform to things he didn't accept… Especially back when he was weaker… She wondered what kind of will and resolve drove a man to such lengths. Or was it because he was sure—so sure—that he wouldn't die? That he couldn't be killed? She shook her head. That was doubtful. "Maybe he just didn't care if he died…" And if that was the case, then her feelings shifted—from admiration… to sadness. What could've driven a boy her age… to have no regard for his own life? Her gaze remained on his back. He walked forward like he didn't doubt—not even for a moment—that he would live through this hell. He accepted the horror. He accepted the suffering. But not death. He had accepted pain… but he refused to believe it could kill him. Her golden eyes narrowed slightly as he came to a halt. He turned to them. "There's something ahead…" They all drew their ascendant weapons. Ready for another battle. One of many. In the past four days, sometimes they ran. Sometimes they fought. Sometimes they bled. And sometimes… they hid. Whispering prayers to whatever god might listen—hoping they would be ignored by whatever nightmare lurked too close. Damon smiled thinly, his eyes as dark as ever. Their reactions had become fast. Automatic. Gone were the weak academy students—now, they were something else entirely. He glanced at the academy-issued bracelet on his wrist. It was still counting points, accumulating like it was still part of a game. "We aren't under attack… not yet at least…" He pointed just beyond the fog. "There's something there… I see runes and rock… I think…" He couldn't be sure with the mist this thick… but one thing was certain. He saw statues. They say fortune favors the bold… but in the Whispering Forest, that saying might very well lead to a horrible demise…. Or worse. It was for that reason Damon and his party approached with caution—every weapon drawn, every step measured. For safety, they all equipped the third form of their Ascendant armors—each of them covered from head to toe in thick, heavy plating. It would hinder their movement, slow their escape if things went south… but it might be the only thing that kept them from being killed in a single hit. At least, Damon hoped so. Some monsters could tear through even enchanted steel like wet parchment. The mist ahead of them slowly parted as they advanced. The damp leaves underfoot gave off a soft, wet rustle with every step, muffled but ever-present. Sylvia narrowed her eyes, her gaze flicking to the worn map in her hand. "We've arrived… this is one of the forest shrines," she murmured. Xander glanced up, his gaze sweeping the eerie, hollow space. It was a ruin—abandoned, broken, forgotten. Massive runes had been carved into the rocks. Statues, monoliths, all in pieces, shattered by time or something worse. The place was exposed to the elements, a circular structure open to the pale sky. "More like the ruins of one…" he muttered, voice low. Damon took a slow step forward, eyes scanning every shadow. "Let's check it out," he said, his tone calm but firm. "This is a sign… we're close to Lysithara. The architecture—definitely that of the ruined city." Evangeline gave a small nod. Her armor shifted, the heavy plating receding and becoming lighter as it adapted into its second form. The edges of her steel shimmered faintly as her rapier snapped into her grasp. She turned toward one of the cracked monoliths forming a ring around the clearing. "Let's enter, then." Damon nodded in return. His voice was quiet. "Keep your wits about you…" He stepped forward, crossing the invisible boundary of the shrine—walking right past the first monolith. The moment he did, he felt the world ripple. It was subtle, but unmistakable. A familiar sensation washed over him. The tingling hum of arcane power brushing against his skin… the telltale feeling of crossing a barrier. What lay before him looked the same—still the shattered shrine, still the broken circle of stone—but now… Something had changed. The mist had cleared. The whispers were gone. And in their place—silence. A thick, unfamiliar silence that pressed against his ears like a weight. After days of hearing constant voices in the mist, the quiet felt unnatural. But that wasn't what froze him. All across the ground, there were traces of battle. Dried blood. Gouges in the stone. Weapons left behind. And corpses… so many corpses. Some had been ripped apart. Others shattered like glass. Some were little more than withered husks… and a few had already rotted down to skeletal remains. They wore armor, now dulled and caked in grime. Some wore robes, shredded and stained. This wasn't a scouting party. This had been a full force. And something had killed them all. Sylvia stepped closer, her voice catching in her throat. Her eyes stopped on a particular figure slumped against one of the monoliths—a corpse still in armor. Or… what remained of it. Its helmet had fallen off. Its head… had no face. No eyes. No nose. No mouth. Just smooth, pale skin stretched where a human face should be. Yet somehow… somehow it was still unmistakably human. A single word left Sylvia's lips, her heart freezing over. Its fate was obvious. "…Face Stealer."