The capital felt heavier this time. It was still alive — noisy, sprawling, full of smoke and trade — but underneath the color there was fear. The streets felt full of tension, in everyone's eyes there was a hint anguish.
The banners of the Thirteen Factions still hung above the avenues, though only seven truly mattered now. The others had been burned, their insignias covered in black paint. It wasn't hard to see who was still standing.
Everywhere they walked, rumors followed them. Street vendors spoke in whispers, drunks shouted about princes, and guards patrolled like they were expecting war. The scent of hot iron and incense filled the air — the smell of a city sharpening its blades.
Texan stopped in the middle of the street and whistled low. "Feels like we're standing on a powder keg."
Himmel nodded. "We are. One month from now, it explodes."
Recon adjusted his hood, eyes scanning the passing crowd. "Well shit, time to pick a side, right."
They spent the morning chasing gossip through markets and taverns. Every drink bought earned another rumor. By midday, they pieced together the truth.
The Orc King had delayed the treaty — the one meant to bind all races under mutual protection. He refused to choose a signing date. Instead, he declared that his heir would decide it after ascending the throne. Of course the other kings and queens looked down on him for it, but he didn't care. Not one single bit.
Now the problem lies with the faction. At first all 13 were in the succession battle. But now, half are dead and 7 remain.
To decide who would rule, the King had devised a cruel game — a contest of survival disguised as tradition. Each faction would send troops to the Wild Lands for one month. These Wild Lands were meant to weed out the weak. Each faction were to only bring their best, so the factions would send their weaker troops so they could have a chance for explosive improvement.
When that month ended, the remaining heirs would meet in the Battle for Succession. The war wouldn't end until only one prince or princess remained alive. The group instantly began searching for more information on each of the factions. Of course they didn't plan on joining any random faction.
By nightfall, Himmel had written their findings on parchment.
1. First Prince — Wealthiest faction. Most backing from noble families. Soldiers serve for coin, not loyalty.
2. Second Princess — Shaman. Personally slew five faction leaders. Terrifying power, little family support.
3. Third Prince — Commanding the largest army, but weak bonds. Charismatic but hollow.
4. Fourth Prince — Fewest resources but strongest personally. Beloved by his followers.
5. Fifth Prince — Second-strongest military. Known for spies and perfect intelligence networks.
6. Sixth Princess — Humble shaman. Loved by commoners. High backing from temples and artisans.
7. Seventh Princess — Wealthy but wounded. Her forces are defensive, still recovering from recent attacks.
Recon leaned back, hands behind his head. "So that's the mess we're walking into. They really set the picking order. They just killed the youngest first."
Texan gave a half-smile. "We just have to pick the right side. Honestly I wanna choose that second Princess. Shit she killed five already."
"Or make one, sure we could join her but she has her right hand man already. We need someone who we can infiltrate the best." Himmel said softly.
They met outside the city walls the next morning.
"If we're going to do this," Himmel said, "we'll need money — real money."
Texan nodded. "What about that one dunegon with the pearls. You did kinda blow it by talking to that one guy though."
Recon frowned. "What pearls?"
Texan smirked. "You were there though. Whatever, there was a dungeon with a room full of cerulean pearl. If its in the same condition we could probably make enough money to be a high rank in any of the factions."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Recon said.
They left before dawn, moving fast through the lower valleys. Gumbo, now fully grown, trotted alongside them like a living fortress, his tail slicing through snow and stone.
For five days they trekked across the countryside until the terrain grew familiar — the jagged cliffs, the smell of iron in the air, the faint hum of magic in the ground.
The entrance still lay where they left it: a narrow stone arch, half-covered by vines and moss. The dungeon below had once been the foundation of an ancient city, its sewers and catacombs long since forgotten.
Recon wrinkled his nose as they descended. "Smells like dead history."
"Nah, that smells like gold," Texan said, grinning.
Himmel said nothing. He moved with purpose, his hand brushing the wall as they passed. He walked through the entire dungeon. He saw the pool where the beast once lived, the rooms of nothing. All seemed untouched.
He then moved a bit of rubble around where the entrance to the room was. When they reached the old passage, Himmel felt the air grow colder. "This is it." They squeezed through and entered the small chamber beyond — a room that had once shimmered with light.
Now it was empty. The pearls were gone. Only dust and broken glass remained, the faint residue of magic drifting like smoke.
Texan's fists clenched. "No. No, this can't be right."
Recon stepped closer. "Someone beat us here. Long ass time ago too, moss is growing over."
Himmel stared at the floor. He felt a small shoulder of pain in his heart. It was his fault.
Texan turned to him. "What?"
"The mistake was mine," Himmel said quietly. "When I tried to sell the pearls, I gave away too much. I told the wrong merchant where they came from. That information must've spread."
Texan punched the wall, his frustration echoing through the chamber. The impact sent a small shower of stones tumbling down — and then the wall glowed.
"Tex—" Himmel began, but it was too late.
The wall rippled like liquid, and a pulse of blue light swallowed them whole.
They fell hard. The air was different — still, heavy, wrong. The room they landed in was vast and circular, walls lined with unfamiliar symbols. In the center sat a massive stone table carved into a checkered pattern — black and white squares arranged in perfect symmetry.
Upon it stood pieces shaped like soldiers, towers, knights, and kings — each made of shimmering crystal, faintly glowing.
Texan rubbed his head. "Where… are we?"
"A battlefield maybe, but the structures what are they" Himmel said, walking toward the table. "The hell are we supposed to do."
There were none written anywhere. All there is a pattern of black and white and stone structures.
A voice whispered through the chamber — genderless, cold.
Play. Win. Or be unmade.
Before they could speak, the pieces moved on their own — sliding smoothly across the board like guided by invisible hands. One crystal piece shattered into dust, and a spark of energy lashed toward Himmel, grazing his arm.
He hissed. "It's real."
Recon drew his bow instinctively. "What the hell kind of game is this?"
Texan gritted his teeth. "Doesn't matter. We fight it like anything else!"
They tried — each time they touched the board, it responded with a new configuration. They moved pieces at what seemed random, trying to counter the shifting tide. Some pieces attacked, others defended, some teleported across the board entirely.
But no matter what they did. It was all hopeless. With each failure, the light around them dimmed.
Then the voice spoke again:
You do not understand the game. Leave.
And just like that, the floor vanished.
They fell through darkness, weightless, until the cold stone of the sewer chamber greeted them once more. The wall that had taken them there was solid again.
Texan sat up, groaning. "That was… awful."
Recon wiped dust from his face. "What the hell was that?"
Himmel looked back at the wall. "A test. For who, or for what, I don't know. But we failed."
Texan punched the floor weakly. "I hate dungeons and I hate puzzles."
By the time they made it back to the surface, night had fallen. The air was crisp, the sky cloudless. They set camp near the ruins, their fire burning low.
Texan poked the flames with a stick. "So, ten days wasted. No pearls, no prize, and a weird ghost game that hates us."
Recon chuckled bitterly. "At least we didn't die. The dungeon was harmless."
Himmel leaned against a rock, eyes reflecting the firelight. "We learned something."
Texan groaned. "Please don't say that's a lesson about humility."
"No," Himmel said. "It's about timing. We were too late for the pearls, too early for the game. The world will keep on spinning. I really thought everything would just go well for us."
Recon yawned. "Don't hit yourself too much, it's alright to be stuck in our own world."
Himmel smiled faintly. "We start tomorrow. We find work, gather gold, and when the Wild Lands open, we'll be ready."
Texan nodded. "Then that's it. But, still what faction should we join?"
He looked toward Gumbo, who was already asleep, his massive frame radiating heat. "We've got some tough ass decisions to make."
"Right," Recon murmured.
The night grew quiet again, the mountains whispering in the wind.
Himmel sat awake the longest, staring at the stars through the canopy. Somewhere out there, far beyond the horizon, the Wild Lands waited — a battlefield for kings and fools alike.
And when the time came, they would walk into it not as wanderers, but as contenders.