NOVEL WEB Chapter 2: Celestafell
Serena trudged along the cracked, ancient road, a chilling wind biting at her cheeks. Each step was accompanied by the muffled scrape of her boots on jagged stones. Though the path snaked downward into a valley shrouded in perpetual twilight, her eyes pierced the half-light with unnatural clarity—a remnant of the powers she had ripped from her fallen enemies. As she descended, she mentally reviewed the fifteen skills she now possessed, each name and effect glowing in her thoughts like arcane inscriptions:
Predator – Her ultimate devouring ability, allowing her to consume living beings and assimilate their skills, memories, and knowledge. Claw Rend – A vicious close-combat strike inherited from the Gnawlings, enabling her to slash enemies with terrifying force. Enhanced Hearing – Sharpened auditory perception that let her detect the barest whisper or scuttling footstep. Night Vision – The gift of seeing in darkness as though it were broad daylight, perfect for the dim world she now roamed. Shadow Tendrils – A power gleaned from a lurking shade, allowing her to summon coiling threads of darkness to bind or lash out at her foes. Blood Siphon – A vampiric technique granting her the ability to drain vitality through physical contact, restoring some of her own health in the process. Minor Regeneration – A sluggish but reliable healing factor that gradually knitted her wounds back together. Fear Inducement – A baleful aura radiating primal dread, causing weaker creatures to cower or flee. Venom Spit – An acidic projectile spat from her mouth, corroding whatever it touched. Warped Carapace – A defensive shell of hardened energy, briefly shrouding her body to blunt incoming blows. Ebony Cloak – A stealthy veil of shadows that obscured her presence, letting her blend into the darkness or even phase through it for a heartbeat. Corruption Resistance – An inner bulwark protecting her mind and body against the miasma permeating Nethoria. Keen Scent – Predator-grade olfactory senses letting her track prey across great distances. Devouring Resilience – A boon that slightly bolstered her physical stats each time she used Predator. Lingering Presence – A spectral afterimage of herself she could project, confounding foes by appearing in more than one place at once.
She took a moment to flex her fingers, marveling at the faint sheen of power dancing over her skin. Every movement felt both her own and alien, weighted with the memories of the creatures she had consumed. With a slow exhale, she gazed at the landscape spreading before her. The road descended into a diseased valley, once green and fertile—now a rotting panorama of twisted trees and stagnant pools.
Under the perpetual twilight, leafless branches jutted skyward like skeletal arms pleading for mercy. A rancid odor clung to the black soil, and lumps of carrion dotted the ditches on either side of the path. Shadows flitted among the dead trunks—too quick and too silent to be mere animals. Torn banners, their sigils long faded by the poisonous air, flapped limply from cracked pillars that marked a ruined border post. Every so often, she'd glimpse a flicker of movement: a gaunt figure limping through the gloom or some carrion crow picking at the flesh of the freshly fallen.
An eerie hush blanketed the valley, broken only by the low moan of a distant wind. Serena felt her heart thrum harder with each step. With the unholy might now coursing through her veins, she realized she was both appalled by this dying land and strangely enthralled by its forlorn majesty. No matter how far she traveled, it seemed corruption stained every corner of Nethoria.
Serena trudged toward the city's massive iron gates, her boots grinding against the cracked stone road. A bitter wind gnawed at her, bringing with it the scent of decay that choked Nethoria's countryside. Above, the ramparts rose like jagged teeth, torchlight flickering across frayed banners. In spite of her determination, a creeping dread settled in her chest—no ordinary town, this place radiated a cold menace, even from afar.
Abruptly, a soft glow appeared at her periphery.
"Now entering Celestafell," announced the cool voice of Great Sage within her mind. "It is said to be the city of Celestia's Lost Blessing. Ironic, given its reputation."
Serena stared at the high walls. "Celestafell…" she murmured. The name dripped with foreboding, as though mocking the Goddess's once-revered grace.
A handful of travelers gathered near the gate, each awaiting judgment from a pair of grim-faced guards. Their spiked helmets glinted maliciously in the dying light. One guard sneered at a ragged merchant whose coin purse looked pitifully thin, then motioned him aside with a jerk of his spear. The merchant gripped his bag in trembling hands, trying to offer what little he had, but the guard's scowl deepened. A moment later, he shoved the man away.
Meanwhile, a finely dressed noblewoman rode up in a grand carriage, her driver dismounting to present a gleaming pouch of coins. She was waved through, no questions asked. A few others in expensive cloaks followed suit, slipping discreet bribes into the guards' palms. Each time, the gates yawned open just enough to admit them.
Serena narrowed her eyes. "They're letting in the wealthy and turning away the rest."
"Such corruption is common here," Great Sage observed. "The city remains one of the last refuges in these lands, and its rulers ensure only those of use—or those who can pay—gain entry."
A resigned bitterness tensed Serena's jaw. She waited until the guards had bundled up a huddle of despondent travelers and disappeared inside to drop the portcullis once more. Then she closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, recalling the swirl of shadows she had learned to bend.
"Ebony Cloak… Phase through darkness," she whispered, tapping into her skillset. The gloom pooled at her feet, beckoning her closer like liquid night. She stepped forward—and melted into the blackness cast by the towering walls.
In a heartbeat, she emerged on the other side of the gate, disoriented by the sudden flurry of light and sound. The city within was… alive. Narrow streets bustled with vendors hawking questionable potions, smiths hammering away at red-hot steel, and mages performing illusions to snare gawking onlookers. Neon wisps of magic crackled in the air, fueling lampposts that shimmered in prismatic hues.
Serena stared in grim wonder at stalls draped in vibrant fabrics, hawking spiced meats and glittering trinkets. Taverns poured forth laughter and hearty toasts. It was a stark contrast to the dying world just beyond the walls—a hidden oasis of flickering cheer amid the nightmare that was Nethoria.
Great Sage reappeared in the corner of her vision, its orb pulsing with measured calm. "Celestafell's barrier is maintained by an artifact known as the Requiem Core," the voice explained. "Most large cities in Nethoria rely on such enchantments to ward off the encroaching corruption. With enough power, they can seal out the worst of the plague and provide at least the illusion of normal life."
Serena scanned the citizens walking by, their faces showing a mixture of relief, apprehension, or weary resignation. "So all of this—" she gestured to the lively thoroughfare, where a magician ignited swirling flames for a wide-eyed child, "—it's because they've locked everything else out?"
"Yes," Great Sage answered. "Though it comes at a high price. Resources are scarce. The city's leaders grow rich from bribes, while the poor waste away outside. But they survive."
For a moment, Serena's mind flicked back to the desperate souls she had seen turned away at the gates, and an uneasy chill prickled her skin. Here she stood, an uninvited visitor, walking through the city's artificial glow with powers stolen from monstrous beings. If this was a refuge, it was built on a hollow promise—shelter for those who could afford it and a fortress of exclusion for everyone else.
A clamorous marketplace buzzed around her, lanterns casting shifting pools of light across the damp cobblestones. Vendors bellowed prices for everything from jewel-encrusted daggers to spell-laden amulets, their voices battling to out-shout one another. Beneath a worn black hood, Serena's features remained hidden, though her eyes drank in every corner of the bustling thoroughfare.
As she slipped between clusters of passing townsfolk, the orb of Great Sage flickered in the edge of her vision. "Do not linger on your old life, Serena Bowlington," the calm voice intoned, resonating directly in her mind. "That existence ended at the moment of your death. You are the Vengeful One now—embrace your purpose."
She paused under the shadow of a half-collapsed archway. The smell of exotic spices and the warm glow of torchlight felt almost comforting, but it all rang hollow. Memories of her office job and the screech of that fateful truck haunted her thoughts, stirring guilt she couldn't quite bury. Her cloak fluttered with each anxious breath.
"I can't just ignore who I was," she whispered, voice low enough to be swallowed by the market's din.
"You must," Great Sage insisted, unwavering. "Your path is no longer dictated by mortal constraints. Your decisions carry a different weight, powered by the anger and pain you have inherited. The time to reconcile your past is gone."
Serena's gaze drifted over the crowd. She saw false smiles and frantic trades, all beneath the looming shadow of a city that fed on its own desperation. Tightening her grip on the edges of her hood, she exhaled slowly and turned away, melding into the mass of bodies. The name 'Serena Bowlington' was already starting to feel distant, like a voice echoing down an abandoned corridor.
Her hooded silhouette disappeared into the flicker of candlelit alleyways, and in its place walked the one they would come to call the Vengeful One.
Serena found herself moving through streets far more vibrant than she'd ever expected to see in this war-torn land. Above her, banners of crimson and gold fluttered from balconies, their colors glowing under shimmering mage-lights. Crowds bustled around vendors shouting daily specials and spellcasters performing feats of illusion for stray coin. Children ran underfoot, chasing flickering wisps that their parents conjured as a casual form of entertainment. Even the clank and hiss of passing clockwork automatons—mechanical sentries patrolling in place of flesh-and-blood guards—added an air of the fantastical to Celestafell's otherwise grim undertones.
Weaving through the throng, Serena kept her hood drawn low to hide the glow of predatory magic simmering in her eyes. As she paused to let a troop of armored lizardkin march past, she exhaled and spoke under her breath:
"Great Sage… what do I do now? Where do I even begin in a place like this?"
The soft orb of light twinkled at the edge of her vision, and that echoing voice filled her thoughts.
"You have already seen the city's wards at work, courtesy of the Requiem Core. As your guide, I recommend you head to the castle manor. Seize control—become the new lord. With the Requiem Core at your disposal, you can practice advanced magic freely, tapping into its energy to bolster your spells until you've mastered them."
Serena blinked at the suggestion, picturing herself standing in some grand hall, issuing commands. The idea felt absurd—but also strangely enticing. She glanced around at the swirling currents of street life: an elven bard strumming a harp of woven moonlight; a goggle-wearing artificer hawking mechanical birds; a masked jester dancing on stilts to the laughter of passersby. All the while, the city's deeper rot—the bribery at the gates, the hush of fear in every whispered conversation—reminded her that this was no paradise. Yet if she claimed power over this protected bastion, she could tap into the Requiem Core's reservoir of mana and learn to wield her gifts without fear of draining the land further or exposing herself to the horrors outside.
"The Requiem Core can fuel your magical growth and bestow upon you intricate control over the spells that govern this city. With its assistance, you'll be equipped to train rapidly past any physical limitations that might otherwise hinder you without fear of anything ambushing you in an exhausted state." Great Sage adds as its owner seems hesistant
Taking a steadying breath, Serena turned her gaze toward the distant silhouette of the castle manor perched atop a steep rise in the city's heart. More than just thick walls separated its grandeur from the streets below; there, she suspected, lay the seat of authority that kept Celestafell's uneasy peace intact. If she was truly the Vengeful One, destiny might demand she step into that space—and twist it into something new. With her decision made, Serena tightened the grip on her hood and pressed forward, the lively hum of the crowd parting around her like a restless sea.