The impact of my heel against the packed dirt sends a ripple through Tarek's stance, forcing him to stumble back. Dust puffs around his boots as he recovers, his grip tightening on the polished wood of his staff.
"Man, you just keep getting stronger," he grunts, circling me warily. "What are you, secretly a bear in disguise?"
I shrug, feeling the new strength gifted by the System settling into my muscles. It isn't a dramatic change, but it's noticeable. My movements feel smoother, more fluid. Less… hesitant. "Just improving."
I reset my grip on the steel hilt of my sword, the familiar weight grounding me. The afternoon sun beats down on the training grounds, turning the dust motes dancing in the air into glittering gold. We've been at it for hours, pushing each other to our limits. Tarek's a relentless opponent, favoring raw power and brute force. I rely on speed and precision. It's a good match.
I angle my blade, feinting low, then swing upwards, aiming for his staff. He deflects it with ease, the impact reverberating through my arm. We trade blows, a whirlwind of steel and wood, sweat stinging my eyes.
Just as I prepare to launch another attack, a shadow falls over the training grounds. A hush descends, silencing even the birdsong.
I look up.
And then everyone stops fighting.
It's… a ship.
Not a ship like I've ever seen. Definitely not anything from this world. It hangs in the air, a sleek, black behemoth shaped like a flattened disc. It's massive, easily dwarfing the tallest towers of Ashwood Haven. Red trim accents the black hull, giving it a menacing, predatory look. It's clearly mechanical, constructed from metal and glowing with an internal energy. It looks… like a spaceship. Almost exactly like the ones from the anime I used to binge-watch back on Earth.
"What… what is that?" Nessa whispers, her voice barely audible.
"A hover carrier?" Lyra breathes, her eyes wide with disbelief.
The ship descends slowly, gracefully, until it settles onto the training grounds with a soft thud. The ground trembles beneath our feet. It's like nothing I've ever imagined, let alone seen. Even the veteran Hunters seem stunned into silence.
Before anyone can react, Lieutenant Varos and the other lieutenants are sprinting towards the ship, their faces grim. They move with a purpose, their hands instinctively reaching for the weapons at their sides.
A ramp hisses open from the side of the carrier, and three figures emerge into the sunlight. Two are clad in flowing robes of black and deep crimson. They're tall and gaunt, their faces hidden by deep cowls. But it's the figure in the center that commands attention.
They wear a tailored suit of crimson, the fabric shimmering with an almost otherworldly sheen. And a stark white mask covers their entire face, smooth and expressionless. It's unsettling, devoid of any human warmth. They move with a measured grace, radiating an aura of power and authority.
Varos and the other lieutenants stop a few feet from the trio, their posture rigid with respect… and perhaps a little
The air crackles with tension. I stay rooted to the spot, blending into the crowd of Hunters, doing my best to appear nonchalant. It's a hard act to keep up, though. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. A spaceship. Seriously? This world just keeps throwing curveballs.
Varos snaps to attention, his posture ramrod straight. "Lieutenant Varos, at your service. We weren't made aware of a scheduled visit." He keeps his tone clipped, professional, but I catch the slight tightening around his jaw. He's clearly not thrilled to be caught off guard.
A beat of silence hangs heavy, broken only by the rustling of the wind. Then, the figure in the crimson suit speaks. The voice is smooth, devoid of inflection, amplified just enough to carry across the training grounds.
"Indeed. A surprise visit. The Council wished to assess the return on their investment."
Investment? Council? What the hell is going on?
The masked figure pauses, tilting their head ever so slightly. "Where is the Head Enforcer?"
Varos's expression doesn't change, but his hand instinctively moves to the hilt of his sword. "I will escort you to him."
He gestures to the other lieutenants, and they fall into formation, flanking the visitors with a watchful intensity. It's a show of force, a subtle warning. But it feels… futile. These people radiate power. The kind that makes my skin prickle.
They move with a silent, unsettling grace. Varos leads the way, his steps precise and measured. The lieutenants follow close behind, their faces grim. The figures in robes offer no resistance, gliding along as if weightless.
I watch as they pass, analyzing every detail. The quality of the crimson suit is beyond anything I've ever seen, the fabric flowing as if it were liquid. The masks… they're unnerving. Completely blank, concealing any hint of emotion. It adds to the mystery.
The procession turns and heads towards the West Tower, the same tower I snuck into not long ago. My gut twists. What's in that tower that warrants a visit from… them? What investment is the 'Council' referring to? And who is the council? And the council of what?
I resist the urge to follow, knowing it would be stupid. I'm a novice Hunter. I'd only get in the way. Besides, I have a feeling this is something far above my paygrade.
Standing here, watching Varos and the others lead them away, a dozen questions swarm in my mind. Who are these people? What do they want?
* * *
Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of light slicing through the gloom of the office. Silas Thorne swiveled in his high-backed chair, the worn leather creaking a mournful song. Parchment littered his mahogany desk—maps of the Dark Forest stained with alchemical symbols, lists of orphanage residents flagged with varying degrees of potential, and correspondence from…unwelcome sources. He rubbed a hand across his grizzled beard, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. The artifact. It gnawed at him. The Shadow Cult's patience thinned with each passing day.
He hadn't even found a promising lead, just whispers and rumours within the orphanage walls. Complete waste of time and resources.
A sharp rap at the door shattered his concentration. A curse formed on his lips. Couldn't a man have a moment's peace?
"Come in." he barked, attempting a gruffness that masked his irritation.
The door swung inward, revealing not one, but three figures accompanying Lieutenants Varos and the other subordinates. Silas's gut twisted. Their crisp, black uniforms weren't recognizable. No local mercenary company sported that particular cut. Guests. And not the sort one entertained willingly.
Silas's eyes locked onto the central figure—a man clad in a blood-red suit, a porcelain white mask obscuring his features. The other two flanking him were shrouded in obsidian robes, their faces hidden in shadow. Representatives. From the council.
A cold sweat slicked his palms. This was… unexpected. And decidedly unwelcome.
He forced a smile, attempting an air of relaxed hospitality. "Well, this is… a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He kept his tone polite, acutely aware of the power radiating from the masked man. Offending them wasn't an option. Not when the shadow cult could crush him like a bug.
The man in red tilted his head, the mask lending him an unnerving stillness. "The council has dispatched me to inquire regarding your progress in locating the chamber. The one containing the artifact of the Warlock."
Silas swallowed hard. So, the pleasantries were over. They weren't here for small talk. "Ah, yes. The artifact." He stalled, searching for a soothing fabrication. "We're… making progress. We've already scoured two quadrants of the Dark Forest. A thorough search. We're preparing an expedition soon to begin work on the third quadrant. Don't worry. We will find it."
A chilling sound, like ice fracturing on a frozen lake, emanated from the masked man. It wasn't a laugh, not exactly. More of a…condescension. Then, the air itself seemed to thicken—a pressure building against Silas's skin, stealing the breath from his lungs.
A wave of raw mana slammed into him, forcing him to his knees. The mahogany desk groaned under the strain of a subtle tremor. His lungs burned, screaming for air he couldn't pull in.
Varos reacted instantly, his hand moving toward the hilt of his cutlass. But before he could fully draw it, a black-robed figure moved with impossible speed, a single hand raised in warning.
"Do not interfere," the figure rasped, voice like grinding stone. "One more step, and you'll join your master."
Varos froze, his jaw tight, the metallic scent of fear blooming in the air. He could feel the palpable threat rolling off the robed man. A killing intent so potent it stole the strength from his legs. He gripped his sword tighter. He would die trying.
The pressure receded as quickly as it had descended, leaving Silas gasping, his limbs trembling. He braced himself against the edge of the desk, knuckles white, and slowly pushed himself upright. Every breath felt like shards of glass scraping against his lungs. He risked a glance at the masked man, who remained impassive, a statue carved from crimson and bone.
"The council," the man finally spoke, his voice devoid of inflection, yet carrying the weight of a thousand storms, "expects results. We have…indulged your prolonged search with patience. That patience is nearing its end."
Silas forced himself to meet the masked man's gaze, though he felt like a cornered rat. "We are doing everything we can," he rasped, his voice rough.
"'Everything' appears to be insufficient." The masked man's head tilted again, and Silas felt a renewed surge of dread. "You have one week. Seven days. To locate the chamber and secure the artifact. Fail to do so, and the council will…re-evaluate its investment in this…establishment."
The implication hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Re-evaluate. Silas knew exactly what that meant. The Shadow Cult didn't simply withdraw funding – they excised problems. Eradicated liabilities. Ashwood Haven, and everyone within its walls, would be wiped from existence. A cold calculation ran through Silas's mind. The orphans… the hunters… Varos… all casualties of his inadequacy.
The masked man didn't wait for a response. He simply offered one final, chilling pronouncement: "One week."
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he turned and swept out of the office, the two obsidian-robed figures flanking him moving like shadows. The air seemed lighter with their departure, but the oppressive weight of the ultimatum settled over Silas like a tombstone.
He leaned heavily against the desk, his legs refusing to fully support him. One week. It was an impossible task. The Dark Forest was vast, treacherous, and the Warlock's chamber was rumored to be hidden behind layers of ancient magic and deadly traps.
"Head Enforcer!" Varos was instantly at his side, steadying him with a surprisingly strong grip. Concern etched lines into his stoic face. "Are you alright? They… they were rather imposing."
Silas waved off the concern, forcing a semblance of composure. He couldn't afford to display weakness, not even to Varos. "I'm fine," he said, his voice regaining a measure of its authority. "Just… a momentary lapse. We have work to do." He pushed himself away from the desk, pacing the room.
"Varos," he commanded, his voice sharp, "announce to the hunter captains. Another hunt will commence in two days. A full-scale search of the western sector. I want every inch of that forest combed. Every cave, every ruin, every hidden crevice."
Varos's brow furrowed in confusion. "So soon, sir? The previous hunt barely concluded."
Silas stopped pacing, his eyes burning into Varos's. "This is not a request, Varos. This is an order." He lowered his voice, making it a gravelly whisper. "And make sure they understand this: failure is not an option. The future of Ashwood Haven… and everyone in it… depends on them finding that artifact."
He watched Varos nod, his expression grim. He could feel the lieutenant's practicality warring with a sense of unease. Varos wasn't a fool. He could sense the desperation clinging to Silas like a shroud.
"See to it," Silas said, dismissing him with a curt wave of his hand.
As Varos turned to leave, Silas added, barely above a whisper, "And Varos... remind the hunters to be thorough. The council… they don't take kindly to incompetence."
The lieutenant paused, a flicker of something—fear, perhaps?—crossing his face before he gave a sharp nod and disappeared out the door.
Silas sank back into his chair, the weight of his predicament crushing him. One week. He had one week to find a lost relic, appease the Shadow Cult, and save everyone under his charge. It felt like an impossible task. A death sentence wrapped in a veneer of authority. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. He hadn't felt this helpless since he was a boy.
* * *
The polished obsidian floor reflected the crimson of the masked man's suit as he strode through the shadowed halls of Ashwood Haven. His two companions, draped in black robes that swallowed them whole, moved with an unsettling silence, their footsteps barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the faint light. They reached the courtyard, where their vessel – a sleek, angular craft of dark metal – awaited, humming with contained power.
Just before entering, the man halted, reaching inside his blazer. His fingers brushed against cool metal before extracting a small, intricately carved device, no larger than his palm. It glowed with a soft, internal luminescence. He brought it to his ear, a barely perceptible gesture, and the device sprang to life with a quiet chime.
A voice, smooth as oiled silk, answered on the other end. It carried a weight of authority that resonated even through the magical communication.
"Report," the voice commanded, lacking any preamble.
The masked man's voice, though still controlled, held a thread of impatience. "Silas Thorne has yet to locate the Warlock's artifact. He claims to be organizing another expedition, a full-scale search of the western sector."
A silence descended, thick and expectant. The masked man could practically feel the scrutinizing gaze assessing his words, even from miles away.
Finally, the voice on the other end responded, each syllable carefully measured. "Irrelevant. Whether the artifact is located or not, initiate Protocol Nullification. Destroy the orphanage. Leave no traces."
The masked man's posture didn't change, but a subtle tightening around his eyes betrayed his reaction. "But the potential within the orphans, the possible awakeners…"
"Sentimentality is a weakness," the voice cut him off sharply. "The Heroic Corps have begun to ask questions. This…operation, while minor in the grand scheme, has attracted unwanted attention. We cannot afford loose ends. The risk outweighs any potential reward."
Another pause, shorter this time.
"Understood," the masked man replied, his voice now devoid of any emotion.
The line went dead. The device cooled in his hand, the soft glow fading.
A slow, sinister smirk stretched beneath the crimson mask. It didn't reach his eyes, which remained cold and calculating. He turned toward his vessel, the obsidian reflecting the unsettling curve of his lips. The hunt for the artifact was over. A different kind of directive had taken its place.
"Prepare for departure," he instructed the robed figures, his voice a low murmur. "It appears we have a cleansing to perform."
To be continued….