From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 109: The Spine

The cliff path narrowed until they had to walk single file. Jagged rock hemmed them in on one side; a sheer drop stretched endlessly on the other. Wind howled between the peaks, dragging mist across the ridge like slow-moving fingers. Somewhere far below, the sound of water echoed—a falls or a river, distant but constant.

Tomas walked ahead now, his bow slung and knife drawn. Mira followed, limping less with every step. Leon took the rear, eyes on the trail behind them. He didn’t speak. Neither did the others.

Every sound that wasn’t their breath felt suspicious.

The ridge twisted higher, narrowing again until they reached a crooked archway of stone. Beyond it, the path opened into a strange basin—natural, but sunken like an old crater. At the centre stood remnants of a tower. Or what was once one.

It was made of the same stone as the mountain, but older. Weathered. Cracked in spirals like dried clay. Vines clung to it, but none bore green. All the life here had a pallid sheen, as though the colour had been drained centuries ago.

Leon stepped into the clearing last. The wind stopped the moment he crossed the arch.

Not faded.

Stopped.

Mira turned. "Do you hear that?"

"No wind," Tomas said, notching an arrow again.

Leon crouched by a pile of broken stone. The cracks in the tower weren’t caused by time.

They were marks.

Not carving. Not runes.

Claw.

The centre of the basin held a shallow depression—almost circular, with dried sap crusting the edges. Within it, thin filaments of plant matter were arranged in a spiral.

Mira knelt beside it. "Nest?"

Leon shook his head. "Nursery."

Tomas cursed under his breath.

From behind the cracked tower, something shifted.

Not footsteps.

A scrape.

Leon drew his blade. Mira rose slowly. Tomas turned without a sound.

Another scrape.

Then a figure stepped out.

Human-sized. Thin. Shrouded in the skin of something else—stitched and dried like a coat. No eyes. Just sockets sealed with root matter. It carried no weapon, but its arms were long, and its fingers twitched with unnatural rhythm.

It didn’t attack.

It pointed.

To the far side of the basin, where a second archway waited. Beyond it, another path.

Leon didn’t lower his blade. "Why?"

The creature’s mouth opened.

What came out wasn’t a voice. It was a looped echo of Mira’s laugh.

Faint.

From weeks ago.

Then it closed its mouth and stepped back into the shadow of the broken tower.

Mira shivered. "I’ve never heard that sound outside my own head."

Tomas started toward the far archway. "We don’t follow it. We move past."

Leon didn’t argue. But as they walked, he kept glancing back.

The creature remained by the tower.

Watching.

Not moving.

The moment they crossed the next threshold, the wind returned.

Hard.

Biting.

Like something exhaled.

Leon stopped at a ridge overlooking the basin. From here, he could see deeper into the crater. Beneath the cracked soil were more spirals.

Not natural.

Not repeated.

Designed.

Dozens of them.

Tomas touched his arm. "You see it too."

Leon nodded. "We’re walking on memory."

He turned to the path ahead.

The Hollow Spire still waited.

And the mountain wasn’t done speaking.

Leon tightened his cloak against the returning wind. The air was colder now, not just in temperature—but in presence. It felt like walking into the breath of something asleep, something dreaming in deep stone. The mist clung lower to the ground, moving in slow patterns. Sometimes it drifted away from their steps, sometimes toward them. Never random.

Ahead, the path wound tightly along the cliff face, occasionally broken by narrow bridges of natural stone connecting outcroppings that jutted like broken teeth. Each bridge had the same spiraled grooves, etched subtly into the rock. Tomas was the first to speak again, voice low.

"These grooves... I saw them in the capital archives. Border etchings. Warnings. For the old roads."

Mira frowned. "What kind of warnings?"

"Not for beasts or raiders. For return."

Leon glanced over. "Return of what?"

Tomas didn’t answer immediately. He stopped at the next bridge and placed a hand on the stone, tracing the grooves lightly. "Not return to a place. Return from one."

Mira glanced at Leon. "You think they were sealing something in?"

"No," Tomas said softly. "I think they were sealing something out."

They crossed the bridge in silence, one by one. Below, the mist rippled like water disturbed from beneath.

At the midpoint of the next outcropping, the path split. One trail veered sharply downward, hugging the cliff into a steep crevice. The other curved upward, steeper, toward a narrow gap in the mountain wall. Both were marked by broken pillars—collapsed stone frames, worn down to half their height.

Mira hesitated. "Which way leads to the Spire?"

Leon crouched at the fork. He picked up a shard of stone from the ground. Spiral carvings ran across its surface—but on the left path, the symbols were warped. Melted. Distorted like something had scraped them mid-etch.

"Up," he said. "The left was used. The right was avoided."

Tomas gestured with his chin. "So that means it’s the right path."

Leon didn’t move. "No. It means they were afraid of what was above."

A pause. The wind picked up.

Mira didn’t like it. "If they were afraid, maybe we should be too."

Leon finally stood. "We are. But that doesn’t change where we have to go."

They climbed.

It was slow. The path turned into narrow stairs cut into the stone face, each one chipped and uneven, as if carved in haste. Handholds lined the wall—wooden bars, long rotted, replaced in some places by bone tied with cord.

By the time they reached the top, sweat soaked through their layers despite the cold. They emerged into another flat ledge, and beyond it—a field.

Not one of grass or soil.

A field of mirrors.

Stone slabs, upright, each one smoothed like glass. Dozens of them, some cracked, some intact. All facing inward, arranged in a wide circle around a low hill of shattered black rock.

Mira stepped closer, breath fogging the glass. Her reflection stared back, but it didn’t move the way it should. It blinked a moment too late. Shifted slightly to the left. Then tilted its head.

Tomas pulled her back sharply.

"Don’t look too long," he muttered. "They track attention."

Leon stared at his own mirror. The face that stared back was older. Scarred. Eyes sunken. His reflection lifted its hand—but Leon hadn’t moved.

Then, all the reflections turned.

Toward the hill.

A sound pulsed through the field.

Like bone striking metal.

Once.

Twice.

Then silence.

The mirrors went black.

Not shattered. Not cracked.

Just black.

Mira whispered, "We found the gate."

"No," Leon said. "We found the key."

Because at the hill’s base, buried beneath a mess of charred stone and melted symbols, was a door.

Not a sealed passage. A real door.

Wooden.

Bound in iron.

And it was already open.

Waiting.

The door’s frame groaned faintly in the wind, though it didn’t swing or shift. Just open. Wide enough to see only darkness beyond. Not shadow. Darkness like still water, thick and unmoving.

Leon approached first. His steps were slow. Careful. The ground here felt different—less like stone, more like pressure. Like stepping through air that had weight. He paused at the threshold.

The inside of the hill was hollow. A tunnel sloped down, wide enough for two people shoulder to shoulder, with walls lined in rough metal. Not ore or mined steel. Forged. Hammered into place. It looked ancient, corroded not just by time but memory.

Tomas came up beside him. "This wasn’t carved. It was built."

Mira frowned. "By who?"

Leon didn’t answer. He stepped in.

The air changed instantly. No breeze. No echo. Sound didn’t carry in here. It landed and stopped. Even the soft scrape of his boots against the ground sounded like it belonged to someone else.

They walked in silence, the tunnel descending at a gentle angle, until the light from behind faded into nothing. Mira lit a wardstone—dim and blue—and held it high. The tunnel stretched ahead for perhaps twenty more paces, and then opened into a vast chamber.

The chamber’s floor dipped slightly, forming a shallow bowl. Dozens of statues lined the inner walls. Not decorative. Not even humanoid. They were shaped like the watchers—root-faced, eyeless, fingers too long and mouths sealed with moss.

Each held something in its hands.

A face.

Sculpted. Carved. Not masks—faces. Some cracked. Some pristine. None matched.

Mira stepped closer to one and touched the carved chin. "They look real."

Leon inspected another. His fingers grazed a chip in the cheek. "They are."

Tomas stiffened. "You mean—?"

"They’re memories," Leon muttered. "Not of what they were. Of what they saw."

Behind them, the door groaned again. But it didn’t close.

Leon looked to the far side of the chamber.

A staircase. Narrow. Stone. Leading upward toward what looked like a raised platform of dark glass. The same spirals marked every step, but they were clean. Sharp. Recently etched.

"We’re close," he said.

"How do you know?" Mira asked.

"Because something’s still writing."

They climbed.

Each step rang dully, like a drum struck underwater. When they reached the platform, they saw it wasn’t glass after all. It was obsidian—smooth and etched with channels that ran from the edges to the centre, forming a large circle.

In the circle’s heart was a groove. Shallow. Crescent-shaped.

Like a cradle.

Tomas knelt beside it, brushing ash away from the stone. "This was a sealing bed."

"For what?" Mira asked.

Leon didn’t reply.

He stepped back.

He was no longer alone on the platform.

Another Leon stood across from him.

Same stance. Same sword. Same wounds.

But the eyes were wrong.

Not hostile. Not warm. Just hollow.

The clone didn’t move. It only watched.

Leon stared back.

Then the clone turned its head.

And looked at Mira.

She froze.

It tilted its head once. Then vanished.

No sound. No smoke. Just gone.

Mira looked at Leon. "What was that?"

Leon didn’t speak.

Because deep in the obsidian below their feet, something pulsed once.

A slow, quiet beat.

Like a heart.

And this time—

It wasn’t the mountain’s.

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