On a road skirting the edge of a thick wilderness forest, a blue-haired teen rode swiftly atop a sleek black steed, twin swords strapped to his back. Boy and horse had been at full gallop all day without showing signs of wear.
Glancing at the dimming sky and the surrounding terrain, the boy patted the horse's head. "Onyx, let's find some water up ahead and set up camp."
The horse snorted in resignation. Onyx was the name the boy had given him, and while he hated it, it beat getting poked by those terrifying silver needles again.
Spotting a streamside clearing, the boy dismounted, rubbing his sore thighs. He gave Onyx a pat, letting him graze and drink freely—no worries about him bolting with the control collar on.
Aldric ventured into the brush, hoping to snag some game for dinner. He'd become a seasoned hunter after months of roughing it.
After wandering without spotting any tracks, he was about to push deeper when his ears perked up. He scrambled up a nearby tree, drawing a short blade with one hand while hugging the trunk with the other, concealing himself in the leaves and slowing his breath.
Soon, rustling echoed through the undergrowth. A group of figures in black robes emerged, their hoods pulled low, faces hidden in shadow.
The leader stopped just ahead of Aldric's perch, peering down at the road below. In a raspy voice, he said, "This is their only path. Set up the Ghost Chain Formation here. Tomorrow, follow my lead—don't let a single one escape!"
The others chorused, "As you command, emissary!"
They fanned out across the road, forming a ten-yard circle. From their fluid movements, they were all skilled fighters. Some dug pits and buried items, others carved runes.
From his vantage, Aldric could see every detail. He didn't know the array, but he'd read about formations in his grandpa's odd books. They required prep: runes, energy cores. The eye was the weak spot, key to breaking it.
After about fifteen minutes, the leader surveyed the work and nodded approval. He stepped right eight paces, back nine, then planted a small black flag behind a tree.
The instant it hit the ground, eerie wails erupted from the circle, fading to silence.
The leader cackled wickedly, waved his hand, and the group melted into the woods.
Aldric had first thought they were Nightshade Clan hunters after him, but clearly not. He sensed danger from them, though.
Stuck now, he figured they were lurking nearby. Any move might expose him, sparking trouble he didn't need.
Worst fear: that dumb horse wandering over if he took too long. With his Warrior second-stage skills, escape seemed unlikely. He prayed silently for luck...
He clung to the tree all night, tense as hell.
Onyx stayed put, thankfully. The exhaustion from the vigil was brutal.
He just wanted out of this mess, not delayed from Sanctara Academy.
The forest remained dead quiet—no bugs, no birds. Wherever those robed creeps hid...
By midday, Aldric was nodding off when hoofbeats rumbled in the distance. He snapped alert, scanning ahead.
A caravan appeared at the road's end.
As it neared, he realized it was dwarves! Ten wagons loaded with goods, escorted by about twenty stout warriors.
Short but burly, they wore leather armor, all sporting thick beards and wielding matching battle-axes.
The leader's axe was nearly as tall as him, his knotted muscles screaming power. He scanned the surroundings with a faint frown but kept advancing.
Aldric had never seen dwarves before, having never left Rivermark. Everything out here was fresh and exciting.
From Grandpa's stories, dwarves were hot-tempered but good-hearted, masters of forging and lovers of ale.
They weren't too fond of humans, though—hard to earn their trust.
He guessed the robed group's target was these dwarves, given the leader's "shorties" jab last night.
Instinct told him the robes were bad news. He hated seeing the dwarves walk into a trap but couldn't risk moving. All he could do was fret silently.
As the caravan entered the ten-yard zone, the draft horses froze, spooked.
The dwarf leader sensed trouble, signaling a halt.
Axes raised, the dwarves formed a defensive ring, eyes darting warily.
"You shorties finally showed up. Been waiting ages!" The raspy voice rang out as black-robed figures emerged from the trees, encircling the group.
The dwarves showed no fear, only battle lust.
Their leader slammed his axe into the dirt, bellowing, "Who the hell are you? You the bastards who raided our hold? Ready to face dwarven wrath?"
His roar shook leaves from the branches...
The robed leader sneered. "Doesn't matter who we are. Call me master from now on. Come quietly back with us to hammer steel—you stubs are useful for that!"
Before he finished, the dwarf chief charged with his massive axe, fury blazing. Dwarves weren't big on talk; rage and sharp edges did the speaking.
But he barely advanced before crimson chains burst from the ground, wrapping around every dwarf.
The chief hacked wildly, but the chains flowed like water, reforming instantly. The dwarves slowed, movements sluggish.
The leader cackled. "In my Ghost Chain Formation, you're sheep for slaughter. Give up, shorties—be good slaves and forge for me!"
The dwarves ignored him, struggling against the weird red bindings.
The leader's face darkened. "Ungrateful pests. Fine, cull a few disobedient ones!"
He waved, and the encircling robes drew weapons, rushing in.
Bound as they were, dwarves soon took wounds.
The chief held off four attackers effortlessly.
The leader snorted, pulling a black dagger and lunging at the dwarf chief...