Apocalypto Şilť stepped away from the dying flames of the pyre. No spectres had answered his call. The docks stretched empty and silent around him. He pulled the wooden stake from between the posts and tucked it back into his coat. The chest was still out there, somewhere in Coven Hive's twisted streets and shadowed alleys. His yellow eyes swept across the dark water. He would find it without the spectres' help. He would claim the doubloon chest, and when he did, an army of the dead would bow to him alone. His bone-thin legs carried him off the docks and into the city proper. The Pyre of Veiled Apparitions had failed him tonight, but it was just one tool among many. He knew the chest existed. Rumors spoke of a cursed hoard of doubloons that bound spectres to whoever possessed them. Every contact he'd made in Coven Hive whispered the same thing—the chest was real, and it was somewhere in this rotten city. He just had to find it first. His skeletal fingers tapped against the hidden stake in his coat. Tomorrow he would try again in a different part of the Hive. The spectres would answer eventually. They had to. He stopped beneath a broken streetlight and reached into his other pocket. The map crinkled as he pulled it out. Dark runes covered its surface, marking places he couldn't yet read. He lifted the eyeglass to his yellow eyes. The red-tinted lens showed nothing new. Both items required blood to work—his blood, spilled willingly. A price he'd pay when the time came. For now, he studied the map's edges and waited. Somewhere in Coven Hive, the cursed chest waited too. When he found it, the spectres would have no choice. They would serve him, and his power would grow beyond anything this city had seen. He folded the map and walked deeper into the shadows. Through the cracked windows of abandoned buildings, he spotted it in the distance. A massive structure rose from the desert beyond the city's edge. The corroded hull of a nuclear bomb formed its walls, twisted metal gleaming under the moon. Lights flickered inside. A casino, built from death itself. The Chaotic Jackpot. His flames flickered brighter around his skull. That place would serve him well. Once he claimed the chest, he would take it there. The bomb's cursed shell would amplify his control over the spectres. From that throne of rust and radiation, he would command an army no one could stop. He turned his yellow eyes back to the map and started walking toward the edge of town.