At the center of the chamber, within a groove carved deep into stone and filled dark with blood, an old man floated in the glow of a protective barrier. His body was thin, scarred, and failing, but his presence filled the cavern.

  A tattered cape hung from his shoulders, shifting in the unnatural wind of the ritual. His voice carried both authority and a strange gentleness.

  “Zero… what is happening above? Why has the fuel stopped flowing?”

  The cavern itself was a cathedral of nightmares. At its heart roared a bonfire unlike any flame of this world.

  It rose like a pillar, hundreds of feet high, not of fire but of writhing spectral light. Within its blaze swam faces, half-seen, screaming endlessly, these were the souls of the sacrificed.

  Around the edges, robed acolytes moved with mechanical purpose. They dragged the living, men and women still struggling weakly, to the brink of the abyss. There, without pause, they cast them in.

  The victims did not burn they dissolved, their bodies unraveling into streams of light that fed the pillar, their final agonized cries swallowed by the roaring chorus, and with everybody thrown in, the fire screamed louder.

  Above it, the smoke rose heavy and black, thick enough to suffocate breath. It spread out into the plains, rolling outward until it blanketed everything beyond. That smoke was the mist—the endless shroud that covered Jasvitus plains.

  On a stone dais overlooking the ritual, Zero stood. A sudden, violent jolt ran through him. His eyes snapped open wide. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

  “My liege,” Zero said, his voice tight. “We have lost control of the undead. Someone removed the failsafe. They are now attacking anything they see. Mercilessly.” He paused. “The undead raised by the ritual are limited by nature. This level of chaos is not a natural failure.”

  A shaman floated down from an incline near the bonfire. He wore a green-patterned black cloak over a hooded blue shirt and baggy pants. His gaze was sharp, assessing.

  “And I warned them this would happen,” the shaman said, his tone dry. “Yet they failed so completely. If only they had heeded me.”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. “What warnings? What else has occurred while I mediated?”

  “Oh, quite a lot,” the shaman replied. “First, those ‘heroes’ arrived. They have interfered with our schedule and the ritual itself.”

  “Why is that a problem? They were anticipated. Were they not accounted for? Where are they now?”

  “Alive,” Zero answered flatly.

  “Then kill them,” the old man said, his voice cold. “If they are causing significant disruption, eliminate them. That was the agreement with the nobles for their cooperation.”

  The shaman let out a short, humorless laugh. “That would be simple, if they were the only issue. Unfortunately, they are not. I do not know who or what has come, but they have destroyed all our surveillance nodes. Our own movements are blind. And if I am not mistaken, many of your fighters are already dead. It is unclear who remains.”

  “You truly reek of the Church when you speak like that,” the old man observed. “I assume Douglas has lost his grip on you.”

  The shaman laughed again. “That fat fool was not a bishop when I was in that filthy place. You believe I would take orders from a joke like him? The only master I acknowledge is my own.”

  Zero’s head snapped up. “Mind your tongue, boy. Our need for you does not mean we will tolerate every impertinence.”

  The old man raised a hand. “Leave him. Zero, report the situation as you last saw it.”

  “It was manageable. I dispatched six teams to search for the intruders. Then, Tyrant, White, and I left the tower. Shortly after, the failsafe was removed, triggering this chaos. From what I can ascertain, we have lost at least five of our top members.”

  “Who remains?”

  “Myself. Beast King. Tyrant. White. Flower, as her binding spells on the sacrifices are still active. Of the six I sent, we can hope at least three are still…”

  A powerful, unseen force struck Zero, sending him skidding backward across the stone. He grunted, having sensed the attack but choosing to endure it.

  The old man’s expression did not change. “You are guessing. You are playing a game of probabilities right now. How pathetic.” He turned his head slowly to the shaman. “If I am correct, we are close to success. Are we not?”

  “Yes, though it can easily be turned into a failure as well if structure and rules are not followed” the shaman confirmed.

  “Shaman, initiate the preparation for the final process now, we did what we could, but I will not wait any longer. And Zero, Go back up. Find the those prime sacrifices ritual require. Do not bother with anything else. Bring them to me. Is that clear?”

  Zero bowed low. “Understood.” In an instant, he vanished.

  The shaman looked at the old man. “You sure are an exploiter.”

  “How so?”

  “You are about to ask me to finish this swiftly, before more troubles awaken. But understand I do not walk the path of endless toil, especially not for someone else’s gain. And another thing I despise… is failure”

  The old man let out a low, rasping laugh. “You are clever. That is why I like you.” He relaxed his bruised features. “Tell me. You are loyal to your master. Do you think my followers see me in the same light? As their leader? Their master?”

  “I cannot speak for others. But I feel that they sure have certain… respect for you.”

  “Respect?” The old man mused. “You see, all of them are monsters in every sense. During the First Invasion, I was ordered to form a squad. But no one would join me. More specifically, my brother would not allow anyone to join me. He wanted me dead on that battlefield so he could claim the crown for himself.”

  The shaman’s hood shifted. “Wait. Crown?”

  “Just listen. I was left alone on that field. Yet, by some grace, I survived. Not entirely intact. I knew if I returned, my brother would have me killed. So I ran. I lived under a hidden identity, using my wits. I recruited the most hostile criminals I could find, formed the first true assassins' guild.

  We were the best of the best. Feared. Efficient. Silent. Unlike the new guilds that operate so openly. I prefer the shadows. Unheard. Like a true phantom.” He coughed weakly. “I built my influence here over time. Even the current king’s great-grandfather had ties to me. A shame, he was murdered by his own son. As years passed, I found I was not the only one who had fled that demonic empire.

  Out of a twisted kindness, or perhaps merely to place them in my debt, I harbored them. Used them as tools. But watching them made me realize my own weakness. I am stronger than most humans, yes. But these runaways… they grated on me. They reminded me that anyone who could escape that hell was either impossibly lucky or immensely talented. I was the former. Most of them were the latter. I did not care for that difference.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The shaman processed this. “You are the brother of the former Demon King. A tragic tale.”

  “I am the brother of the monster who shook the continent. We share the same blood, the same genes. And yet, I find myself jealous of these normal rodents. They must laugh behind my back. ‘How can our leader be so weak? Is he even a real demon?’ Could it be that he is only half—” His voice tightened with anger.

  The shaman quickly changed the subject. “Are these soldiers of yours the same demons from your story?”

  The old man glanced at the dark artifacts surrounding him, the spell circles that gave him control of this land. “No. Not at all. They are dead. I stopped using demons long ago, fearing spies. The demons in my service now are their children. Zero is one. There are a few others. I invested heavily to keep my upper ranks filled with powerhouses. I even sent them for advanced training and enhancement to an organization called the Lotus.

  You may have heard—their facility in the Stellar Mountains was recently destroyed by something. They are a… disturbing organization. They created and trained many of my soldiers. I owe them a great deal. Most of these artifacts came from them in the old days. Our connection has faded, but even so, human strength cannot compete with demon blood.

  They still dominate the upper ranks, though Flower, Talon, and Wolf are exceptions. Beast King is a hired blade, not a true member. His background is unknown, but he is a monster. I dislike how openly he disrespects me, reminding me of my powerlessness against this band of freaks I am stuck with.”

  The shaman offered a thin smile. “They gave you all this for free? How generous. Some good friends you had. Could you introduce me? And these demons… they have long lifespans. Like you, ancient yet alive. How did the others die?”

  The old man’s eyes grew cold. “I ate them.”

  The shaman went still. “What?”

  “The Lotus, in the old days, proposed a method to awaken my latent power. To make me strong. It involved absorbing other demons, consuming their power. I accepted. In return, I handed over all the weaker demons I had to them. I spared their children, thinking they would be useful tools. That is all.”

  A look of understanding dawned on the shaman’s face. “I see. So the awakening failed. That is why you are trying a different method now.”

  “No,” the old man corrected, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It was a success. I became stronger. I held their power. But my original potency never awakened. I knew the strength was not inherently mine, but the result was acceptable. For a time, I was not afraid. I was not jealous. I used the children. But with time and fate, they caught up. They nearly equaled me. I considered consuming them as well. But then… something unexpected happened.”

  The shaman leaned forward, his patience thinning. “What happened? Finish this story. Quickly.”

  The old man’s face contorted, not with pain, but with the memory of it. “I suffered a miserable defeat. During the late emperor’s era, I was sent to capture a duo of serial killers causing widespread terror. I led my entire force to finish them.” He let out a ragged breath. “But one of those freaks defeated me. It was more than a defeat. I do not know what he did, but he sucked the vitality from me, leaving me like this—old, ugly.

  The other gave me a wound that never healed.” His voice grew bitter. “I was fighting for my life alongside those mutts who looked at me as if to say, ‘Why are you even here, you weakling?’ And then he arrived. He took advantage of the situation, captured the killers, took all the glory and influence. He used my failure as a stepping stone to build his own guild.”

  The shaman’s eyes glinted with recognition. “You are talking about the rise of the Skull Knight guild. Many people were… displeased when that happened. It seems you were one of them.”

  “I was more than unhappy,” the old man hissed. “But it made me realize something. I need to awaken. I need to become stronger. I need to be better. I will not be mocked any longer. I will punish those two freaks rotting in their prison, and I will never be humiliated again. I will get back what is rightfully mine” His gaze fixed on the shaman, burning with a cold intensity. “And you are going to help me achieve it.”

  He turned and moved toward the roaring bonfire. “The final step is for me to bathe in this unholy fire, correct?”

  The shaman nodded. “Yes. As you do, I must chant the final spell and perform sacrifices.”

  The old man clapped his hands once, a sharp, dry sound. “Proceed using them for the time being.”

  From the shadows, a group of individuals emerged sixty in total, ages ranging from seven to forty. They moved in a trance, their eyes blank, held under Flower’s hypnotic spell. They lined up silently at the edge of the fiery abyss.

  “You know the drill,” the old man said, his voice flat.

  The shaman began to float upward, his robes swirling. “Why tell me all of this? These were your deepest secrets.”

  “They were,” the old man agreed, not looking back as he stepped to the very brink of the flames. The heat distorted the surrounding air.

  “But I am about to be reborn. I do not wish to carry any of this into my new life. I am leaving it all here with you. ‘Noburu’ is dead. Something new will be born.”

  Without another word, he dove forward into the pillar of screaming souls. As he disappeared into the conflagration, the shaman’s chanting rose to a crescendo, and the first of the entranced sacrifices was pushed silently into the fire after him.

  “Just keep moving,” she whispered to herself, her voice a small, fragile thing in the immense quiet. “They have to be here somewhere. A hero doesn’t give up. A hero keeps hoping.”

  She tightened her grip on her sword, trying to ignore the cold dread seeping into her bones. “Please… just let them be okay.”

  The mist was a suffocating gray blanket, stretching on without end. Lena had been wandering for hours, her legs trembling with a deep weariness, the weight of her sword an anchor dragging at her side.

  Every shadowy corner she turned toward, every faint flicker of movement she chased, yielded nothing. No familiar faces, no sign of the captives they had come to save. Only the silent, shambling undead and the endless, draining gray.

  Until she heard a familiar voice

  “Lena!”

  Her head snapped up, heart leaping into her throat. Out of the oppressive haze, two shapes broke through. Maeve, her spear held ready, and the familiar, towering silhouette of Tobias just behind her.

  A sob of relief caught in Lena’s chest. She stumbled forward, the last of her strength failing all at once, and threw herself toward them.

  Her arms wrapped around Maeve first, holding tight, then she reached for Tobias, clinging to them both as if they were the only solid things in a fading world. Her voice cracked, heavy with exhaustion and emotion.

  “I’ve been looking for you… for so long… I thought—I thought I lost you both in this place.”

  Tobias let out a rough, weary breath, his large hand settling briefly on her shoulder. “I was out there too. Searching till my head spun. Finding anyone in this damned fog… it’s a fool’s job.”

  Maeve offered a faint smile, though her eyes were dim with shared fatigue. “That’s why, when Rowan pushed us out, I set a trace spell on both of you. It was weak, but just enough to guide me here.”

  At the mention of Rowan’s name, the air grew heavy. The three of them fell into a shared silence. A fresh wave of grief pulled tight at their chests. For a long moment, the only sound was the eerie whisper of the mist curling around their feet.

  Maeve was the one to break the silence, her voice steadier than her heart likely felt. “Listen. Rowan’s not gone. Not yet. We’ll get him back. We’ll save him.”

  Lena and Tobias gave a sharp, determined nod.

  The three of them moved together through the mist. No path, no destination, just the need to keep walking. Their boots scraped softly against the damp earth, every step swallowed by the fog.

  Maeve slowed her steps to a halt, her boot sinking silently into the damp earth. Her eyes narrowed, and the shaft of her spear tilted a precise few degrees forward, a hunter sighting prey.

  “… Someone’s here. Off to the right.”

  Tobias’s hands clenched into granite fists. “Undead?” he grunted, his voice low and rough.

  Maeve’s gaze remained fixed on the shifting gray. “Could be. Or maybe not. Hard to tell in this soup.”

  Lena adjusted her grip on her sword. “What do we do?”

  Maeve’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Calm down for now. It doesn’t feel like it’s moving toward us. Let’s withdraw. Slowly. Back the way we came.”

  Quiet as shadows, they began to retreat, each step measured and silent. Tobias, moving backward, kept his eyes locked on Maeve. His shoulder blades tensed as his back pressed against something firm yet yielding. Something that was definitely not rock.

  “Lena?” he whispered, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. “That you?”

  From his left, Lena’s voice came, sharp with confusion. “What? I’m ahead of you!”

  With a shared jolt of panic, Tobias and Maeve spun away from the unknown presence behind them, while Lena scrambled backward toward them.

  For a heart-stopping second, they were a tangle of disorientation, completely surrounded by the blind fog.

  He turned, already walking toward them

  Then the mist directly in front of them parted, not blown by wind, but as if it were a curtain and someone important was about to enter.

  The man standing there was like a painting of a saint that had wandered into a sewer. Tall, elegant, with clothes that probably cost more than Tobias’s entire village.

  He looked utterly unbothered, as if he’d been waiting for them to stop fumbling.

  Lena gasped, fumbling with her sword. “An… angel?”

  Ultimare offered a smile that was all polished condescension.