Part 1: The Ash-Rain and the Blinding Sludge
Daker stared with hollow, completely paralyzed eyes at the apocalyptic cataclysm unfolding before him—a looming cosmic nightmare that promised to rain absolute damnation upon his fragile existence. Wyerald had completely shed his mortal shell, mutating into a towering, chitinous Eldritch nightmare. The interior of his bifurcated jaw glowed with a sickening, venomous green hue, and his corrosive saliva hissed violently the moment it struck the dirt, melting the solid stone like boiling acid through winter ice.
Summoning the absolute last remnants of his fading strength, Daker hoisted a heavy battleaxe. Yet, within the suffocating vacuum of his own mind, a single, devastating realization repeated like a death knell. He began to coil in panic within his frantic thoughts:
"It's... it's no use. No matter how brutally I struggle... I cannot slaughter this demon in this primordial, god-level form."
Before the thought could crystallize, Wyerald lunged. His alacrity was ferocious, far surpassing any supernatural speed he had displayed before. With a sickening crunch of his segmented joints, he spat a thick, volcanic torrent of hyper-corrosive, emerald acid directly at the boy. Daker threw his battered body sideways, narrowly evading the burning deluge by a fraction of an inch as the ground behind him dissolved into a smoking crater of slag.
In that terrifying, fleet heartbeat, Daker knew that launching a direct assault on this mountain of chitin and malice was nothing short of suicidal. Above him, the monster's skull twitched erratically, dozens of bulbous, multi-sized spider eyes blinking in a frantic, maddening rhythm.
Suddenly, Wyerald ceased his acid attacks. Opening his split jaw wide, he unleashed a torrential spray of thick, pale arachnid silk, coating the grand coliseum in a suffocating web. The sticky, suffocating fibers spread exponentially, transforming the arena floor into a dense, fog-like labyrinth of white cocoons. It was clear this apex predator intended to entomb his prey before draining him dry. The web grew so immensely thick and towering that it created an impenetrable canopy; the bloodthirsty spectators sitting high above in the tiers could no longer see the butcher's dance below.
Clutching his razor-sharp battleaxe, Daker was instantly swallowed by the pale, misty labyrinth of silk.
Up in the royal stands, Commander Seraphina's knuckles turned white against the stone railing, her endurance shattering.
Hidden completely within the white fog, Wyerald began his invisible slaughter. He struck from the shadows of the silk, his razor-sharp legs tearing through the mist.
SLASH!
Daker's flesh was ripped open.
GASH!
Hot blood sprayed onto the white webs. Battered, bleeding, and driven to the brink of madness, Daker began to flee frantically through the labyrinth like a rabid animal. It was a pathetic, primordial spectacle of survival—a helpless rodent fleeing from an apex feline, while Wyerald toyed with his broken body, deliberately prolonging the agony.
Sprinting blindly through the suffocating fog, Daker rushed toward the towering iron gates of the arena. The web canopy was so dense that the deafening roars of the crowd above could no longer pierce the depths. High above, thousands were screaming in a frenzy; below, in the pit, there reigned only a dead, macabre silence—the absolute stillness of a sprawling graveyard.
Suddenly, Master Khyber appeared like a ghost near the shadow of the iron gate. Hearing Daker's ragged breathing, Khyber called out through the bars, thrusting a blazing, roaring torch into the boy's trembling hand.
"Daker!" Khyber's voice cut through the deathly quiet like a silver blade. "Use that creature's own web against him! Burn him alive and turn his sanctuary into his own tomb!"
Without wasting a single microsecond, Daker thrust the roaring flame into the thick, volatile fibers of the web.
BOOM!
The arachnid silk ignited with catastrophic fury. Giant, apocalyptic waves of fire erupted through the labyrinth, spreading with the terrifying speed of a wildfire sweeping through a dead, withered forest. The white fog vanished, replaced by a roaring ocean of orange and crimson flames as the entire network of webs turned to ash.
But as the inferno raced forward, the burning silk underwent a sickening transformation. The colossal webs began to melt, raining down upon the earth in huge, scalding droplets of molten, white-hot fluid. It was a grotesque spectacle—resembling a mountain of rendering tallow cast into a forge, violently weeping a downpour of boiling, liquefied fire onto the stone floor.
Wyerald, who had been perched atop his silken canopy like a conquering emperor on a throne of web, felt the sudden, searing agony of the rising inferno. As the melting, boiling wax-like substance began to rain down, a massive, scalding droplet of the liquefied web plunged directly into the monster's cluster of eyes.
The demon let out a horrific, unnatural shriek. Completely bewildered and driven mad by the blinding, molten fluid searing through his vision, Wyerald began to thrash and run erratically across the flaming arena floor.
Instantly, the burning shroud cleared, revealing Daker's broken form to Commander Seraphina and the entire stadium. High in the royal box, King Argus watched the unfolding chaos, a slow, sinister smile creeping across his cruel face.
Part 2: The Tyrant's Smirk and the Code of the Arena
Down in the soot-stained dirt, Wyerald was driven into a psychotic, single-minded rage by the agonizing blindness in his eyes. Moving with the blinding, erratic speed of a lightning strike, he lunged forward, his massive claws locking tightly around the steel collar of Daker's armor.
With horrific, mechanical brutality, Wyerald began repeatedly hoisting Daker into the air and slamming his body into the monolithic stone walls of the arena.
CRACK! CRACK!
The impact shattered Daker's helmet, fracturing his skull as a hot torrent of blood washed over his face, blinding him completely. Coughing up a thick, visceral spray of crimson gore, Daker's vision began to spin into absolute darkness. Roaring in triumph, Wyerald slithered toward a massive, jagged boulder resting in the corner—a colossal chunk of stone that weighed tons. Lifting it high above his head with his upper limbs, he advanced upon the boy like a literal god of execution.
In utter, defenseless agony, Daker extended a single, blood-drenched trembling hand toward the beast, his voice a broken whisper: "Stop..."
But the demon possessed no mercy. Wyerald raised the monumental stone higher, his split face twisting into a grotesque, deathly grin as his six arms flexed for the killing blow.
Up in the stands, General Valerius's hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword, his blade sliding out an inch. But before he could draw, Commander Seraphina, her face a mask of absolute defiance, drew her silver sword and leaped over the stone railing, plunging directly into the blood-soaked arena below!
Seeing her reckless descent, King Argus's sinister smile only widened, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.
General Valerius felt his breath hitch in his throat, his heart seizing with sudden terror as he watched his beloved wife—the woman he cherished above his own life—leap into the jaws of that Eldritch meat grinder. In that terrifying, frozen second, a chaotic tempest of memories flashed through Valerius's mind: every tender moment they had shared, the sacred vows he had whispered to the dying Queen Isabella to protect Daker at all costs, and his fierce, lifelong loyalty to the crown. He remembered the bygone eras when he and King Argus were not master and servant, but the closest of brothers.
But suddenly, the cold wind brought back a harsh, metallic memory—the absolute, unyielding laws of the Diar Darge Tournament.
The ancient code dictated two absolute decrees. The most severe of all stated: If any outside force interferes in a duel to aid a combatant, the tournament must be terminated instantly. The one who interfered shall be condemned to the absolute darkness of the subterranean dungeons, and the warrior they attempted to save shall be banished eternally to the unforgiving, desolate wastes of No Man's Land.
Valerius hesitated, his soul tearing in half. He realized that even if he stopped the massacre by invoking the law, he would lose both of the people he loved to dungeon and exile.
As his mind fractured under the weight of the choice, Master Khyber stepped out of the shadows, placing a heavy, grounding hand upon the General's trembling shoulder. Looking toward the pit with his blind, scarred eyes, Khyber gave a solemn, decisive nod.
"Do it, General," Khyber whispered, his voice tight with ancient resolve. "If this is the only path to preserve their breath, save them now. We will face whatever damnation follows later."
Stepping to the absolute edge of the royal tier, without requesting permission from King Argus, General Valerius unleashed a booming, authoritative roar that echoed through the entire coliseum:
"By the ancient laws of the realm, this slaughter is ended! The Diar Darge Tournament is hereby halted!"
Part 3: The Falling Stone and the Heavy Chains
Down in the pit, Wyerald was in the exact microsecond of bringing the monumental boulder down to crush Daker's skull into dust. But before the stone could descend, Commander Seraphina sprinted across the dirt, vaulted into the air, and drove her razor-sharp sword deep into the cluster of Wyerald's bulbous spider eyes!
"AAAHHHH!"
The unexpected, blinding agony caused the monster to stagger backward, losing his balance. His grip failed, and the colossal boulder slipped from his grasp, crashing heavily onto his own midsection and pinning him to the ground.
Without wasting a heartbeat, Seraphina dropped to her knees beside Daker, sliding her arms beneath his battered shoulders and pulling his fractured, blood-slicked head into her lap, shielding him from the beast.
On the other side of the dirt, Wyerald let out a furious snarl, violently heaving the massive boulder off his torso and rolling it away. As he rose to his full, terrifying height, his remaining eyes burning with murderous intent, Seraphina raised her blade, her voice echoing with absolute authority:
"Hold your strike, monster! Look around you! You have won. The Diar Darge has been officially terminated!"
King Argus slowly turned his head, his eyes burning with a silent, volcanic fury as he stared directly at General Valerius. But before the tyrant could speak or unleash his wrath, Master Khyber stepped forward, his imposing, scarred frame physically blocking the King's line of sight, shielding the General. Argus's jaw clenched in bitter disappointment; his grand, sick spectacle had been thwarted, and he had been robbed of the pleasure of watching his own blood, Daker, be pulverized into meat.
Breaking the stunned silence, an elite royal knight stepped onto the sands, lifting his spear to declare the official verdict: "The tournament is finished! Behold the victor... Wyerald!"
King Argus rose from his throne, his voice dripping with venomous authority as he looked down at the arena floor. "Guards! Arrest the traitor Seraphina for her blasphemous violation of the sacred tournament laws! And hear this... as of this very second, her rank as Commander of the Royal Vanguard is stripped away forever!"
Hearing the decree, General Valerius felt a tempest of grief and absolute wrath tear through his chest, threatening to drive him into madness. He looked down at his wife. Seraphina looked back up at the royal box, locking eyes with her husband, and slowly shook her head from side to side—a silent, stoic plea telling him, 'Do not break, my love. Do not fight them. Everything will be fine.'
An elite squad of heavy knights marched onto the field, brutally stepping over the corpses. One of them stepped up to Seraphina, ruthlessly ripping the golden commander's crest from her reinforced armor, tossing it into the bloody mud. In the next instant, they brought down massive, cold iron shackles, locking her wrists and ankles in heavy, echoing chains. Thousands of spectators watched in stunned, horrified silence as their celebrated hero was reduced to a captive.
Suddenly, Daki came bursting through the arena gates, sprinting past the guards and throwing herself into the dirt beside Daker's unconscious body, weeping as she tried to wipe the blood from his pale face.
Part 4: The Maddened Queen and the Victor's Spoils
Deep within the silent, suffocating walls of the royal palace, a panicked maiden rushed into the chambers of the ailing Queen Isabella. With a trembling voice, the servant recounted every horrific detail of the arena—Daker's brutal mauling, Seraphina's arrest, and the absolute chaos of the pit.
Hearing the devastating fate of her son, Queen Isabella's already fragile mind fractured completely. A torrent of bitter tears streamed down her sunken cheeks as she let out a piercing, agonized shriek. She began thrashing frantically upon her bed, tearing at her clothes and hair in a state of absolute, manic hysteria. Hearing the chaotic screams, several more handmaidens rushed into the chambers, desperately trying to restrain the broken Queen as she wept for her boy.
Back in the blood-drenched arena, the grand reward was bestowed upon the beast. By the decree of the crown, Wyerald was officially granted the high title of Commander of the Royal Vanguard. From this day forth, he would answer only to General Valerius and King Argus himself, commanding the supreme military force of the empire. Furthermore, in accordance with the traditions of the ten-round victory, vast chests of glittering gold and captive women were brought forward to satisfy his monstrous greed.
By this time, Wyerald had reverted back to his primary, eight-limbed humanoid form. A deep, rumble of satisfaction vibrated in his throat as he knelt before the royal box, pressing his hand to his chest. "I swear my absolute allegiance to you, King Argus. My strength is your shield, and my wrath shall be your weapon."
The gates of the coliseum were thrown wide, and the mourning common folk rushed onto the bloody dirt. A chaotic, heartbreaking wail rose into the sky as mothers, fathers, brothers, and wives began frantically gathering the severed, mutilated pieces of their slaughtered loved ones from the mud.
Amidst the mass mourning, Daker's broken, unconscious form was harshly bound in iron chains by the royal guard, prepared for his immediate, forced deportation to the barren, lawless wasteland of No Man's Land.
Nearby, the guards began clearing the rest of the arena's horrors. The bodies of the captured women hung from the security grates were pulled down, and high upon the stone wall, the crushed, mutilated corpse of the giant bald gladiator—the very first victim of Wyerald's awakening—was finally pried from the iron spikes.
Part 5: The Sacred Vow of a Childless Mother
As evening approached, the heavens grew heavy with swollen, midnight-black clouds. They rumbled with a manic, vengeful fury, as if chanting a cosmic curse upon the defiled kingdom. The wind roared in a violent, synchronized rhythm with the thunder, and following a colossal, blinding bolt of lightning, a torrential downpour unleashed its wrath upon the city.
The streets were entirely deserted. A few stray black cats dashed frantically through the rain, seeking refuge from the freezing, sweeping waters.
On the threshold of his silent, cavernous estate, General Valerius stood motionless against the storm. He was staring blindly into the rain, waiting for someone who would never cross that doorway again. His eyes were heavily clouded with tears, his mind drowning in a devastating vortex of ancient memories, bitter regret, and absolute agony.
Out of the suffocating, deathly silence behind him, a low, gravelly voice cut through the dark.
"Why? What was it about that boy that compelled you to destroy everything you built just to preserve his breath? You could have commanded your wife to stand down. You could have saved yourself."
The voice belonged to Master Khyber.
General Valerius did not turn around. Instead, he unburdened his soul, speaking aloud a sacred truth he had hidden from the world for over a decade.
"If you truly wish to know the genesis of this damnation, Khyber, then listen," Valerius spoke, his voice trembling with unspeakable grief. "Years ago, when King Argus and Queen Isabella rescued Daker from the jaws of fate, Seraphina and I were standing right beside them. Argus had newly ascended the obsidian throne after his father's demise. In those days, the King and I were not master and servant—we were truer than brothers. I had just wed Seraphina.
We both begged the gods for sons, Khyber. Argus slaughtered rams, burned sacred oils, and filled the obsidian throne with the chants of high priests, yet the Queen's womb remained as cold and barren as winter flint. And the same quiet rot ate at my own hearth. Seraphina and I walked through halls that echoed only with our own heavy breathing. We were lords of a house with no tomorrow.
Then came that fateful day of blood. Through a horrific misunderstanding, King Argus slaughtered an innocent woman. She was heavily pregnant. In a desperate, frantic bid, Queen Isabella and Seraphina performed a crude, emergency caesarean section on her corpse, successfully pulling a living baby boy from the dead flesh.
When Isabella looked into the eyes of that orphaned child, seeing her own empty lap, she resolved to claim him as her own prince. She named him Daker. But in that exact heartbeat, a desperate, burning desire had awoken within Seraphina's chest as well. Because she had no child of her own, her soul wept to cry out to Isabella, to beg to keep Daker as her own son. Yet, she could never muster the audacity to speak those words aloud to the crown.
Instead, both Isabella and Seraphina poured the entirety of their souls into nurturing that single boy. Daker's vibrant, ringing laughter conquered both of their hearts. But Seraphina was perpetually haunted by a silent, crushing sorrow—she knew Daker would never look upon her as his true mother. Yet, her heart held nothing less than a mother's fierce, boundless devotion for him. Daker never called her 'Mother,' but to Seraphina, he was her firstborn son.
On the day he took his first steps, Seraphina swore a blood oath to herself: If a day ever dawned where Daker's life hung in the balance of death, Mortis would have to claim her body first. That is the absolute truth, Khyber. That is why she shattered her rank, her safety, and our entire existence without a single thought of self-preservation. She was simply saving her son."
Khyber stood silent for a long moment, the rain spraying against his blind, scarred face. "If that is the depth of their bond... then why is Argus so pathologically obsessed with orchestrating Daker's execution?"
"I do not know," Valerius confessed bitterly. "Once, during a private council, I pressed the King on this madness. He looked at me with eyes devoid of humanity and whispered that Daker is the sole catalyst for the rot spreading through this empire and the incurable ailment destroying Queen Isabella. He claimed that while rescuing Daker years ago, he clashed with a primordial, apex demon. They slew the beast, but with its dying breath, the demon manifested a catastrophic curse, prophesying that a sovereign entity known only as 'The Grand Majesty' (Mahamahim) would arrive to utterly annihilate this entire realm because of the boy's survival."
Khyber's lips twitched, filtering the words into a low whisper. "The Grand Majesty..." He narrowed his eyes. "And did this entity ever descend?"
"No," Valerius scoffed, a hollow laugh escaping his lips. "There is no Grand Majesty. It is nothing more than the King's own localized paranoia and deteriorating sanity. Even if such a terrifying entity exists, I doubt there will be anything left for him to destroy by the time he arrives. Our own tyrannical King will reduce this empire to ash long before then."
"No, this is a tapestry of deception," Khyber growled, his voice hardened by sudden realization. "King Argus is harboring a dark, monumental secret that we have failed to perceive. This curse, this entity—it is a fabricated shield. I shall unearth the absolute truth. From this sunset forward, I will become Argus's shadow. I will monitor every breath he takes, every crumb he consumes, every clandestine meeting he holds, and every decree he executes.
And more importantly, I will discover the true origin of that monster, Wyerald. The Well of Justice is garrisoned by the formidable, absolute order of the Blind Crow Knights. Without their explicit sanction, not a single withered leaf can rustle within those depths. I suspect that Wyerald did not wander into our realm from the outside; he has been deliberately hidden deep within the uncharted, forgotten abysses of the Well of Justice for years, where no mortal dares to tread."
Valerius turned his exhausted gaze toward the old master. "How do you intend to infiltrate such madness, Khyber?"
"Leave the logistics of retribution to me," Khyber muttered coldly. Without another word, he melted back into the shadows of the pouring rain, vanishing like a phantom.
Part 6: The Labyrinth of Mud and the Iron Border
Across the eastern district of the capital, the local cemetery had transformed into a horrific landscape of mourning. Under the relentless, freezing downpour, teams of gaunt men were furiously digging trenches into the earth. They were soaked to the bone, their limbs caked in thick, suffocating mud, yet their shovels did not cease their rhythmic, metallic scraping against the stones.
Through the rusted iron gates of the graveyard, choked with withered, thorny vines, a massive procession of weeping citizens emerged. Clad in heavy black cloaks, they carried dozens of wooden coffins upon their strained shoulders. These were the shattered remnants of families who had lost their fathers, sons, and brothers to Wyerald's insatiable butchery.
As the gates groaned open with a piercing, metallic screech, a collective, agonizing wail erupted from the crowd. The tragedy was compounded by a sickening reality—none of these families truly knew if the severed limbs sealed inside their respective coffins belonged to their actual kin. When the common folk had rushed onto the blood-slicked dirt of the pit to harvest the remains, the butcher's dance had been so savage that the flesh, bones, and torsos of the dead had been completely pulverized and mangled together. It was impossible to distinguish one man's remains from another.
Among the dead arriving at the cemetery were the mutilated bodies of those unfortunate, white-clad women who had been struck down and perished upon the arena barricades. Their rain-drenched, stain-ridden garments now clung to their cold corpses like agonizing shrouds, and as the earth began to envelop them, the terror of their final moments remained vividly etched upon their pale faces.
Nearby, a group of powerful men struggled heavily under the sheer weight of a colossal, monumental casket. Amidst the weeping crowd, a low murmur rippled through the dark, and the people began repeating a single name with profound sorrow and reverence: Gabriel.
Those gathered wept bitterly over his tragic fate, whispering of how Gabriel, despite his terrifying and massive frame, possessed a remarkably pure and noble soul. He may have appeared intimidating and hardened on the outside, but his heart was entirely spotless, free of any malice; indeed, his disposition was so gentle that young children adored him. Because of a minor dispute and friction within his family, he had been forcibly taken captive. Driven solely by a selfless desire to see his fracturing family happy once more and to earn a better life for them, he had stepped into the bloody quagmire of the Diar Darge. And today, those very family members stood weeping as they buried his titanic body in the mud. In the end, his extraordinary strength, his towering physique, and his innate goodness... stood entirely powerless against the savage talons of Wyerald.
The sea of mourners was so immense that the ritual of interment consumed the entirety of the night.
When the morning sun finally broke through the gray shroud, an uncanny, suffocating silence gripped the entire kingdom. The alleys and cobblestone streets where young children used to play and laugh were completely desolate. Every child now harbored the silent, crushing realization that their fathers and older brothers would never walk through those doors again. Under the weight of that monumental grief, another agonizing day withered away.
Two full days had crawled past since the day of the grand slaughter.
Deep within the subterranean holding cells beneath the arena, Daker finally stirred. He was hovering on the precipice of consciousness, his body battered into a broken shell. Heavy, freezing iron shackles were clamped tightly around his wrists and ankles, and a thick, blood-stained linen bandage was wrapped tightly around his fractured skull.
As his eyes flickered open, registering the cold stone ceiling, a profound shadow of absolute failure and devastation settled over his face. Spotting his movement, a sentry knight immediately signaled the guard detail. The armored men ruthlessly hauled Daker to his feet, forcing his broken legs to march. He managed a few agonizing paces before his core strength shattered from the sheer trauma, his body slumping back into unconsciousness.
The guards immediately summoned their new superior, Commander Wyerald.
Arriving with a mechanical clanking of joints, Wyerald hoisted Daker's limp body with one hand, tossing him like a piece of dead livestock into the back of an open, roofless wooden wagon.
"We waste no more precious time on this broken rat," Wyerald commanded, his voice vibrating with cruel authority. "We shall transport him to the edge in this exact state. If he expires along the path, let the crows have him."
A massive detachment of a hundred heavily armed royal knights mobilized instantly. At the vanguard of the column rode Wyerald, mounted upon a colossal black stallion. Following his promotion to the supreme rank of Commander, he now wore a terrifying, custom-forged suit of heavy armor, adorned with jagged chitinous ridges that mirrored his demonic true form.
As the iron-shod hooves of the cavalry clattered through the stone streets of the kingdom, the fearful populace cautiously peeled open their wooden window shutters. They stared with absolute hatred and terror at the demon who had incinerated their peaceful lives. Yet, as the open wagon rolled past, and the citizens witnessed the unconscious, heavily bandaged form of young Daker, a low, reverent whisper rippled through the shadows. Despite his tender age, the boy had possessed the sheer fortitude to stand toe-to-toe against a primordial nightmare.
The column soon passed the perimeter of General Valerius's estate. From his terrace, the General watched the massive military deployment escorting a single, dying boy. Beside him stood Daki, her eyes burning with an intense, calculated focus.
"The King is taking no vulnerabilities into account," Daki whispered coldly to the General. "During his brief training, Daker pushed that monster to the absolute brink of his physical endurance. King Argus knows the latent power residing within that boy's blood. He is terrified of what Daker might become if he survives, which is why he is deploying an army to ensure his exile."
The column broke through the massive outer stone ramparts of Avergard, leaving the civilized boundaries of the city behind as they entered the vast, untamed expanse of wild forests and barren fields. They marched relentlessly, and by the time the moon reached its zenith, Wyerald brought the military escort to a halt before the monumental, towering monolith known as the Gate of Justice, the final barrier separating the empire from the abyss of the Well of Justice.
Wyerald looked up at the colossal, sky-piercing stone walls, a flicker of ancient memory crossing his dark eyes. "These black walls... they did not exist when I was first dragged into the dark depths of this prison," he muttered to himself.
His thoughts were cut short as his horse began to violently rear back, snorting in absolute terror. The horses of the entire hundred-man detachment began to whinny and panic frantically, sensing an overwhelming, predatory aura bleeding from the battlements. Wyerald looked up and saw them—the Blind Crow Knights, stationed like motionless, stone gargoyles along the ridges of the wall, their blank, wrapped visages radiating a supernatural, suffocating dread.
Wyerald barked a harsh command to his men: "Open the Gate of Justice! Execute the deportation!"
"Hold your tongue, demon," a cold, mocking voice echoed from the shadows of the gatehouse. Master Khyber stepped into the moonlight, his arms crossed over his chest. "The jurisdiction of the Blind Crow Knights does not bow to the whims of a newly crowned monster. Until an official royal parchment bearing the explicit signet of King Argus or General Valerius is delivered, these gates remain sealed to eternity."
Before Wyerald could unleash his venomous fury, the frantic pounding of hooves echoed from the rear trail. A lone royal messenger arrived, panting heavily as he unrolled a formal parchment, thrusting it forward. The document bore the unmistakable, burning crimson wax seal of King Argus himself, commanding the immediate opening of the border.
Khyber inspected the imperial seal, his jaw tightening. Seeing the absolute authority of the crown, he reluctantly stepped aside and signaled the mechanism.
With a deafening, earth-shattering CRACK, the monumental iron-reinforced gates began to grind open. The massive doors parted, revealing the absolute, pitch-black abyss of No Man's Land—a lawless, cursed desert where light went to die. The gap was so vast that an entire legion could have marched through it abreast.
Khyber turned his blind gaze toward Wyerald, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Deposit the boy's body right here at the threshold, Commander. Let whatever scavenger or roaming demon inhabits the outer wastes consume him. Do not dare to lead your cavalry an inch further into No Man's Land. If you leave these massive gates open for a fraction too long, the ancient horrors breeding in the deep dark will breach our world."
Wyerald glared at the old master, his fingers twitching against his blade. He desperately desired to ride further into the wastes to ensure Daker's demise, but as he looked up at the thousands of Blind Crow Knights shifting silently along the high walls, ready to descend like a plague of crows, he calculated the odds.
"Unload the trash," Wyerald hissed to his subordinates. "We return to the citadel."
Two heavy knights dismounted from their steeds, ruthlessly dragging Daker's half-dead, chained body out of the wooden cart. They callously dumped his broken form onto the freezing, jagged dirt just beyond the threshold of the gate, directly into the territory of No Man's Land. Turning on their heels, they remounted their horses.
Wyerald raised his gauntlet, signaling the retreat, and the hundred-man cavalry turned back, sprinting their horses furiously toward the safety of Avergard Castle, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.
The moment the military vanished into the tree line, the colossal gears of the Gate of Justice began to grind shut, their massive iron frames moving to lock out the dark. But just as the two monumental doors were about to slam together, sealing the border completely...
CLANG!
The gates abruptly stopped. Something had jammed the ancient mechanism freezing the monumental doors right before they could lock.
[Chapter 17 END]