POV: Michael
The basement below the bar wasn't a cellar.
It was a vault.
Stone walls stretched around them, lined with old glass cases—half-shrouded in dust, glowing faintly beneath arcane runes. Scrolls. Blades. Shattered armor. Pieces of history no one should own.
But Machiavelli did.
Michael followed him down the narrow corridor. Their boots echoed against the iron grate floor. Beryl hadn't followed. Whatever this was, it wasn't for her.
Machiavelli stopped in front of a sealed black case set into the wall. A runed circle pulsed faintly across its surface—magic Michael didn't recognize.
"This," Machiavelli said, "was pulled from a ruin beneath the northern wastelands. Buried long before Sparda ever raised a blade."
He placed a gloved hand over the sigil.
The metal groaned.
The lock hissed open.
Inside sat a single scroll—half-burned, sealed with wax dark as dried blood. Beside it lay a necklace: jet-black, its chain twisted like charred wire. At its center, a smooth shard of obsidian veined with red, like a coal that refused to cool.
Michael stared, silent.
Machiavelli spoke like he was reciting a grave.
"They called him Atraxxus. The Black Flame. A warlord. A devourer of realms. Not a demon by birth—worse. Something made. Reforged in hellfire and void. Said to have torn through five dimensions before Sparda stopped him."
He tapped the glass once with a finger.
"Sparda didn't kill him. Couldn't. He sealed him—along with what was left of his army. The seal's never been found. But the cult… they think they can."
Michael didn't ask what that meant.
He already knew.
The past never stayed buried.
Machiavelli gestured toward the necklace. "This was forged from what's left of Atraxxus' flame. His essence. Suppressed, warded, bound. Made usable."
Michael narrowed his eyes. "What does it do?"
"It lets you create shadowfire. Once."
Machiavelli's voice dropped.
"A flame that devours both light and substance. It burns through matter. Through illusions. Through magic. It doesn't care what you are."
He paused.
"It's a weapon of last resort."
Michael said nothing.
"It can't be recharged," Machiavelli added. "You use it, it dies with the flame."
Michael looked down at the obsidian shard.It didn't glow.It didn't pulse.
It just waited.
Then, without a word, he reached into the case and took it.
The metal was cold.
He slipped it into his coat.
Machiavelli leaned back, arms crossed.
"There's more coming," he said quietly. "But for now… you'll need that more than you think."
Michael gave a single nod.
Then turned toward the exit.