Panic was already rippling through the halls like someone had dumped cold water into a hornet's nest. A few assistants came rushing in with their best "calm down, folks" faces, assuring everyone that things were under control. Just a few wraiths, no biggie. The guards on duty were all yellow cores—they'd handle it.

But funny thing about reassurance? Sometimes it backfires. The more information people got, the more their anxiety did somersaults. Sure, the crowd settled a bit, like foam on shaken ale, but the dread still hung around like an unwelcome guest who didn't get the hint. These were wraiths after all—nasty, well-known threats, and their ghost-story factor certainly didn't help the atmosphere. Especially not when they were basically knocking on the alchemy tower's front door.

I was deeper inside, tucked away in the healing wards of the tower—an architectural behemoth where my Air Sense might as well have been a paper fan in a hurricane. Twenty meters of range wasn't going to tell me squat if the action was happening on the other side of several stone walls and wards.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a ghostly sideshow. Nothing in this city was ever simple. Lower district had been the site of the Vorakh attack. The upper district was prepping for some platinum core summoning nonsense.

So... what about the middle district?

In a city packed with millions, you don't not plan something in the center. Maybe the wraiths were a side effect—something went boom, and they came crawling out. Or maybe they were the cause. Either way, I needed intel. And that meant I needed to get the hell out of this medical jail cell.

Quick glance at my stat screen: full mana, full stamina. Rested and ready to misbehave. I peeled myself off the bed and unhooked the wires of the contraption monitoring my dimensional resonance. Out of courtesy, of course.

"Miss Jade! Please wait, the test isn't complete yet!" the assistant Petrov had left behind screeched in that panicked, paperwork-loving tone.

And just like that, I felt eyes swivel toward me. More attention than I liked.

I dropped into a mousy crouch, clutching my stomach with a pained grimace. Threw in a few strategically released droplets—one of the many perks of having absurd control over this body.

"I... can't hold it," I said, keeping my regal composure through the fabricated bathroom emergency.

The room went quiet. Pensive faces all around. Sympathy. Understanding. A sacred, shared recognition of the tyranny of a full bladder.

And just like that, I sprinted.

It's funny, really. How humans can weaponize their own bodily functions. Something I never had to deal with back in my dragon form. Nothing ever went to waste in that body—everything I consumed got alchemized into power or morphogen. No pee breaks, no shame. Efficiency incarnate.

Weird, when I thought about it. But then again, everything about humanoids seemed weird from my perspective. My system was clearly superior to these leaky meat-sacks.

Humanoid biology: 0/10, would not recommend.

Once I ducked into the lavatory, I shed the charade—and my clothes. Muscles surged, bones cracked, scales bloomed across my skin. My head stretched, shifting into its true shape. My throat bulged as the fire gland reformed, and I stood tall—eight feet of gleaming, white-scaled power. Tentacles twitched awake, fingers sharpened into bone-white talons, and brilliant wings unfurled behind me like a war banner. My half dragon form.

Now this was freedom. Every organ online. Every weapon primed.

I stuffed my clothes into my maw for safekeeping, then stepped into the Shadow Dimension with a shimmer.

Time to find out what was really going on.

…

It was absolute mayhem out here.

No sound made it through the Shadow Dimension, but I didn't need my ears to know trouble was in the air. I could see them—wraiths—circling the Alchemy Tower like carrion birds with mastery in dread. Black-robed figures drifting through the haze, their movement oddly graceful, disturbingly synchronized. Wherever I looked, more of them hovered, eerily visible through the grey fog overlay of the waking world.

And just like that, my blood iced over.

This wasn't natural.

Wraiths didn't play well with others. They were solitary predators—creepy lone wolves with a grudge against warmth and light. I'd never once seen more than one in another's vicinity, let alone... this. This was a whole flock. A murder of wraiths. A deliberate congregation.

Someone had herded them here. To the middle district.

I couldn't see the far edges of the city from where I was—Shadow Dimension wasn't known for its panoramic clarity—but I was willing to bet my left wing this wasn't isolated. This was a district-wide infestation.

Shit.

At least the Alchemy Tower's barrier still held—a glowing blue dome keeping the nasties out. For whatever reason, the wraiths weren't breaching it. Not even trying to. Just circling like cursed moths outside a mystical bug zapper.

Strangely enough, I could phase right through it without so much as a flicker of resistance. Just did it a while back too. Guess it wasn't attuned to stop me. It was not Light-element based after all—Light was effective against incorporeals, sure, but it made for a terrible barrier element otherwise. Fragile stuff. Easily shattered. Pretty, but not practical.

No, this was something different. A rune matrix maybe? Something custom-built to repel wraiths specifically. Whatever it was, it wasn't my problem. It didn't stop me. And that worked out just fine.

Less containment for me. More containment for them.

I stretched my wings and kicked off, slicing through the air in smooth, silent glides, Flight doing most of the heavy lifting. Destination: my dorm room.

When I'd first dragged my bruised carcass to the Tower's front step, I hadn't exactly packed for a return trip. I'd left everything behind—tools, gear, potions. And I needed those now. Especially the potions.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Even in this form, where swatting a wraith was barely more than a casual stretch, these things were annoyingly persistent. I needed something faster. Something more decisive.

A few wingbeats later, I landed neatly outside my room, slipped back into the waking world, and promptly spat my clothes out of my mouth like a polite dragon-shaped laundry chute. Classy, I know.

I flung open the drawer.

Ah yes. My lovely little stash.

Rows of glass bottles shimmered inside—deadly colors, volatile scents, and far too many skull symbols for any sane person. The poisons, of course. For testing. Not... not because I liked the kick. Nope. Definitely not.

Nestled beside them were the real stars: my potions.

High-grade mana brews, thick enough to coat your soul. Healing concoctions that could knit bones in seconds. Regen boosters for both health and mana. Potency enhancers. All of my savings—and most of Gwen's guilt money—had gone into these.

These... and the poison collection. Not that I had a problem or anything. Just... a strong commitment to self-research. No sane dragon developed a taste for mortal venoms. Hmph!

If I hadn't been so, ahem, "enthusiastic" about field-testing the toxins, I might've had more than a couple doses of each potion left.

Ugh.

Time to make it count.

I grabbed four vials. One mana recovery, one healing. The other two? Special.

I uncorked the first: a Light Mana potion.

I didn't have Light affinity. Never had. But this wasn't about affinity—it was about overload. High-grade, volatile, dangerous. It force-fed your system Light-aspected mana, granting you temporary affinity in the most brute-force way imaginable.

Not exactly the popular choice.

There was a reason for that. These things could rip your mana veins apart if you weren't careful. Spiritual mana veins couldn't handle the strain. Healing them? Next to impossible unless you had divine help or a decade of meditation.

But me?

My mana veins were physical. Dense, dragon-forged, and more importantly—regenerative.

A single bite of a wraith, and I'd be good as new.

I'd abused that fact more times than I could count in the dungeon. No reason to stop now.

Without hesitation, I threw back the potion.

It burned.

A golden inferno bubbled beneath my skin, flowing through muscle, bone, and scale. Every cell along my tentacles pulsed with heat and brightness. The mana rebelled at first—fighting against my control like a wild animal—but my Willpower crushed it underfoot before it could start a mutiny.

Tamed.

I funneled it into my core, watching as it bloomed into radiance. A golden light, hot and tangible, made my core glow bright enough to see through my chest. Radiant. Hungry.

Next vial.

This one didn't change affinity. It concentrated output—compressing mana into tighter, hotter bursts. Dangerous again. Risk of vein blowout. Not that I cared.

With a grin, I gulped it down.

Another wave hit me, and my core surged. The light mana compressed itself tighter, gleaming like a dying star. I was practically glowing now—no, blazing.

I shoved an anti-divination charm into my mouth, stashed the remaining vials in my inner cheek (a charming little storage solution), and shifted into full dragon form.

Fire gland offline. No worries. Who needs fire when you're made of light itself?

I phased into the Shadow Dimension again.

And there they were. The wraiths.

Floating, circling, screeching.

I grinned wide enough to give something nightmares.

Time to start the feast.

One of them spotted me immediately. Its head snapped around with a screech that made the air tremble. It slammed itself against the barrier like a rabid dog wanting a taste.

It would get one.

Light mana—not lightning—poured into my arms. Runes glowed. Six mana gone in a blink.

The wraith's screech turned to a warble of panic as a blade of solid light launched toward it at breakneck speed.

It never stood a chance.

The impact was silent in this place, but I felt it—deep, final. The wraith hit the barrier mid-turn and slid down, twitching, fading.

Another screech rang out behind me.

Another target. Perfect.

I had thirty minutes before the effects wore off. Plenty of time.

My grin widened, too many teeth and not nearly enough concern.

Thank you, mysterious supplier of wraiths.

I was wondering where I'd get more morphogen.

And today? Today was a feast day.

***

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

Doltharion inhaled sharply—only to cough, hard, as the putrid sewer air filled his lungs. Gods, this city. This filthy, festering den of beastkin.

He couldn't believe he was standing in their literal shit again.

Worse—no word from the upper district.

He tried once more to establish a psychic link through the artifact. Static. Buzz silence. Just like before. Every contact in the upper district had gone dark. His comrades, their leaders—his leader—vanished.

Dead air.

He clenched his jaw.

As second-in-command, it fell to him now. And for the first time in years, Doltharion felt… out of depth.

The artifact in his hand buzzed—finally. A familiar voice poured through, half-panicked, half-breathless. One of his old team, now reporting directly to him.

"Doltharion, something's wrong near the Alchemy Tower. I'm losing wraiths. Fast. Like—ripped apart fast."

His gut twisted.

The middle district. That was supposed to be their step. The next phase in a perfectly timed plan. The razing. The signal. The chaos. Everything hinged on it.

But now?

He didn't even know if the previous steps had succeeded. No eyes. No ears. No updates.

He was leading blind. Guessing.

And something—someone—was butchering their forces like weeds.

Only one explanation fit. Someone had discovered the artifact. Or worse—intercepted the mana signals.

His voice was cold as he responded. Calculated.

"Possibly a family head. Or a red core Light mage. That'd explain the speed you're losing control. The records had a few of them. Most of the dangerous ones were off-records."

"So… rogue element?"

"Manageable."

A lie. But one they needed.

"Send more wraiths. Force a push toward the tower. Hell, send an abomination if you have to."

"The abominations? I thought those were our last cards—for the distraction during the final escape?"

Doltharion bit down on his tongue hard enough to taste blood.

What final cards? What final step?

The plan was dust. Every piece unraveling. Every tactic exposed. And now even their weapons—the wraiths—were being culled. Systematically.

No, there was no more subtlety here. Anyone with a functional brain and two working eyes would notice. That many wraiths? Concentrated in a single district?

It screamed unnatural.

And worse—organized.

Doltharion looked toward the darkened tunnel ahead, where the escape portal shimmered, barely stable. His one exit. His only chance.

But even that now seemed too far away.

He didn't command his horde directly—more like issuing broad commands, shaping intent with mana and trust in the necromantic bindings.

Twelve wraiths were under his current domain, locked in battle with the Tower Guards outside the Alchemy Hall. His mission was simple: abduct more alchemists amid the chaos.

At least, that had been the mission. Everything was falling apart by the minute.

The psychic link buzzed again, shrill and panicked.

"IT DIED!"

"Speak clearly!" Doltharion snapped.

"The abomination, Doltharion! The Wraith Abomination I sent—it died! Instantly! I barely even saw what hit it!"

Doltharion's stomach dropped.

That thing had the strength of a middle red core. Near unstoppable under normal conditions.

"Fuck," he whispered.

That all but confirmed it. Either a high-ranking Light Mage had entered the field… or one of the damn House Heads was already moving.

He ground his teeth and forced his voice calm. "Do you have any visual confirmation? What's your position?"

"Top floor of the silver smelter, third building past the tower. I had eyes on it until—nothing. Just—gone. It went intangible and then… no response."

Dead silence.

Nothing made sense anymore. All their assumptions were unraveling.

Doltharion's gaze fell to the locked charm hanging around his neck. He hesitated. Then clenched a fist and poured his mana into it.

The artifact pulsed, and before him, a ghostly form began to materialize—tall, half-corporeal, shrouded in cursed bindings and dark mist.

His lips curled into a bitter grin.

If this mission was already a failure, then he might as well burn the rest of it down on his way out.

Let the enemy scramble. Let them panic. Let them taste the kind of chaos that bites back.

As for the pawns left topside? Collateral damage. Fungible assets. Their names would adorn whatever pyre he escaped to build.

If.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.