The starlight Directive

Victor's breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. His chest heaved as if he'd been holding his breath for hours, his spear trembling in his grip. Fog still clung to the ground, curling around his ankles like unseen hands trying to pull him under. His eyes darted left, right, up, down — searching for movement, for the figure, for anything.

But there was nothing. Just the stillness of the mist and the fading echo of the words still clawing at his mind.

"You are the catalyst."

He could hear it even now, like it had been etched into his skull. No matter how hard he tried to push it away, it echoed back, louder each time.

Victor lifted his gaze toward the rift above. Its glow pulsed like a beating heart, slow, methodical, and wrong. Each flash of blue light sent ripples through the air, and with each pulse, Victor felt something shift inside him — like something small and unseen was waking up.

No. Stay in control.

His grip on the spear tightened until his knuckles whitened. He took a slow, steadying breath, eyes never leaving the glow of the rift. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to leave this place, but his legs wouldn't listen.

The fog moved again. Not like before — this was slower, deliberate, like something was breathing through it. A chill ran down Victor's spine. He twisted his body toward the movement, spear raised, his heart pounding like a war drum.

"Who's there?" he called out, his voice sharp, filled with more anger than fear.

The fog parted, but nothing stood there. No figures. No monsters. Just more of that swirling gray mist, twisting in slow, unnatural spirals. His eyes squinted, his breathing shallow. It's a trick. The fog is playing with you. Just move. Get out of here.

But then, the whispers returned.

Not distant this time. Right behind him.

"You are the catalyst."

Victor spun, spear ready to thrust, but there was nothing there. His feet shifted, his eyes wild with panic. Sweat trickled down his temple despite the cold, his breath ragged as his body stayed locked in a fighting stance.

"No more games!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the fog. His eyes darted to every shadow, every ripple in the mist. His head snapped to the left. Then right. Nothing. But something's here. He could feel it.

The fog began to rise. Slowly, it lifted from the ground, pulling away from his feet like steam rising from a hot spring. It climbed higher and higher, rising past his knees, past his waist, until it hovered at chest level.

No. No, no, no.

Victor stepped back. One step. Two. Three. His breath was quick, his eyes locked on the swirling wall of fog. It wasn't acting like fog anymore. It was like it had a will of its own. He reached out slowly with the tip of his spear, pressing it into the thick gray mist.

Nothing.

The spear passed through without resistance, like it was just fog after all. But as soon as the spear pulled back, the fog moved. It darted toward him, curling around his arms, his chest, his face. He stumbled backward, coughing, swiping at the air like it was a swarm of insects.

Get it off. Get it off!

The fog was cold. Icy cold. It felt like needles digging into his skin. His breath caught in his throat as he tried to push it away, but his arms moved slower than they should have. His muscles felt heavy, like weights had been tied to them.

"Get—off—me!" he shouted, twisting his body as he slammed his back against a nearby stone. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his spine, but it was enough. The fog loosened. It fell away from him, swirling back into the air like it had lost interest.

Victor coughed, his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. His fingers were freezing. That wasn't normal. That wasn't just fog. He wiped at his face, checking his hands for any sign of it sticking to him, but his hands were dry. No marks. No burns.

He looked around, scanning every inch of the foggy landscape. The mist had gone still again, quiet as ever. His heart was still racing, his mind replaying the sensation of it crawling on him. It had been alive. He knew it. It wasn't a hallucination. It was real.

"Stupid," he muttered under his breath. "Jumping at fog. Get it together."

His eyes flicked to the rift. It was still there. Always there. Pulsing. Watching. Alive. He hated how it made him feel, like he was a bug under glass.

I need to get away from it. Away from all of this.

He turned to leave, taking his first step forward—

"You are the catalyst."

He stopped. The voice was different this time. Clearer. Not distant. Not a whisper.

It was right behind him.

Victor didn't hesitate. He spun, swinging the spear with every ounce of strength he had, his eyes wild with panic. But there was no one there. His spear cut through empty air, the mist swirling in its wake.

"STOP IT!" he shouted, voice cracking with desperation. He spun again, checking every side, every shadow, every flicker of movement. Nothing. No one. Nothing.

But something was here. He could feel it.

His breathing slowed, his eyes narrowing as he crouched low, his spear raised in a defensive stance. Think. If it's not showing itself, then it doesn't want to be seen. But if it's talking to me, then it wants something.

Catalyst.

He didn't know what it meant, but something about it felt important. Like it was a word he'd heard before but never understood. He glanced at his hands, half-expecting them to look different somehow. But they were just hands. Dirty, cold, and scarred from a lifetime of fighting.

Catalyst.

"Yeah, well, I'm not your catalyst," he muttered. His eyes darted to the rift one more time. He didn't know if it was connected to the whispers, but it felt like it was. Everything is tied to that thing. He'd felt it since the moment it opened.

He started walking, slowly at first, each step careful, deliberate. His eyes never stopped moving. Every flicker of movement, every shift of fog, every sound—he saw it all. Heard it all. His heartbeat had slowed, his body settling into survival mode. Don't react. Don't panic. Just move.

The fog was still rising. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. It was already above his chest now, swirling in slow, lazy circles. It's not normal. It's never been normal. He'd seen fog like this before, but only near the edges of rift zones. Places where Zhorul spawned.

But this wasn't a Zhorul. It wasn't like them at all.

"Show yourself," Victor said again, his voice low but firm. No more panic. No more fear. He'd faced too many monsters to be afraid of fog.

This time, something answered.

Not with words.

With eyes.

Two glowing white eyes opened in the fog just ahead of him. No face. No body. Just the eyes, staring right at him. His whole body went cold. His muscles locked, his breath hitched.

They didn't blink. They didn't move. They just watched.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Victor's mind went blank. His body refused to listen to him. Run, run, run, MOVE! his mind screamed, but his legs wouldn't obey.

The eyes tilted slightly, as if curious. Then, without warning, the fog surged forward like a wave. It hit him hard, throwing him backward, his body slamming against stone. He gasped, pain shooting up his spine, but he couldn't move.

The fog crawled over him like before, but this time, it wasn't cold. It was burning hot.

The eyes hovered above him, inches from his face.

"Catalyst," the voice said one final time, louder than ever, booming like thunder in his ears.

Then, everything went black.