Chapter 111: Here Be Dragons

  The sun had barely begun to rise when Vealeth slipped from the shadows, his boots crunching softly against the damp forest underbrush. His breath was steady, his mind sharper than ever, tuned to every fluctuation in the air, every movement in the unseen world of Psycha. He had been trailing these cultists for days, tracking their whispers, unraveling their schemes, dismantling their influence where he could. The "Followers of the Black"—a name spoken only in the darkest corners, feared even among those who dealt in forbidden knowledge.

  He had been one of them once.

  That past clung to him like a stain, a remnant of his own blind pursuit of power. They had granted him strength, molded him into something formidable, but when he failed to prove himself in the "Trial of Copper Fang" tournament—no—against Marcus, he learned that power was not merely granted; it was earned. He wanted to believe in their promise of strength but was forced to face reality, his fight with Marcus had reignited his dragon blood, and he had made a vow to gain power by his own means. His decision to leave them was an easy one. He had torn himself away from their clutches, burning every bridge, spilling their blood to carve his path forward. Now, he was both predator and prey. They hunted him, just as he hunted them.

  Vealeth’s Psycha surged as he approached a clearing. His mind reached out, twisting his visage, making his presence fade into the edges of perception. If there were sentries, they would miss him. If there were traps, they would falter just enough for him to evade them. He had spent days tracking this lead—one whispered in hushed voices, hinting at something more than just another scheme for power. A word that spiked his curiosity and his own lust for power.

  "Seal."

  Seals were spoken of in fragmented myths, in the hushed stories of warlocks and madmen. The implications were clear, but the reality was something Vealeth had yet to face firsthand.

  He crept forward, coming upon an ancient, weathered site. The ground was lined with runestones, their markings unfamiliar yet humming with an energy he could almost taste. He traced his hand along an engraved orcish numeral four, pondering its meaning. He had explored dungeons before, challenged their trials, survived their depths, but this… this was different. Dungeons were meant to be entered, conquered, their treasures claimed and their threats contained. But this—felt as if it wanted to release...something.

  His stomach twisted as he felt the shift in the air, the pressure warping around him like the slow inhale of something ancient waking from slumber. The runestones pulsed, responding to his presence, or perhaps to the culmination of fate itself. The very fabric of reality seemed to strain.

  Then, the stones ignited.

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  A soundless explosion of energy cracked the air, and Vealeth stumbled back, his Psycha instinctively fortifying his mind against the overwhelming force. The ground beneath him split as the stones rearranged themselves, their inscriptions bleeding golden light before shattering into dust.

  A form rose from the center of the seal’s remains.

  Tall, impossibly graceful, and wreathed in an aura of something Vealeth could not comprehend. It was neither celestial nor mortal, neither ghost nor flesh. It bore the shape of a warrior—a four-winged entity draped in ethereal armor, its metallic surface shifting as though caught between states of existence. Yet, something about it felt... ancient, as though it had stood on battlefields far beyond this world. Its eyes burned with a light not of this realm, and in its grasp, a blade unlike any Vealeth had ever seen, humming with a magic that defied everything he understood.

  It studied him.

  Vealeth moved first. He had to. Something from within him screamed to fell whatever this—thing was. The moment stretched impossibly long as he lunged, his sword slicing forward, his Psycha latching onto the entity’s presence. He activated Balanced Scales, attempting to weigh their strengths, to redistribute the difference—his Psycha flickered and recoiled as it collided with something incomprehensible.

  His tether to the entity faltered, snapped like a mere thread against something infinitely more complex. His system, his very understanding of balance, was rendered meaningless before this being.

  It smiled.

  The moment of realization cost him dearly.

  The entity moved in a way Vealeth couldn’t anticipate, nor comprehend. The blade it wielded was neither steel nor arcane—it was something else, something that unmade rather than cut.

  His instincts screamed for him to move, but his body—his very will—lagged behind. And then the blade fell.

  It struck him before he could react, before his Psycha could twist fate in his favor.

  The impact was beyond agony—his nerves burned, his bones vibrated with an alien force, and for a moment, his vision went white, as if his very existence was being rewritten.

  He crashed into the dirt, gasping, his vision blurring. His shield—his new shield, a prized possession—lay in shattered fragments beside him. His armor, forged for battle, was little more than a ruined husk. His sword trembled in his grip, as though sensing the futility of this fight.

  The entity loomed over him, tilting its head as though considering its next move. It could kill him. It should kill him.

  But it didn’t.

  Instead, it spoke.

  The language was unknown to him, but its meaning seared into his mind, bypassing understanding and imprinting itself onto his very being.

  It has begun.

  Then, as effortlessly as it had emerged, the entity dissipated. Not into mist, nor into shadow, but into the very air, dispersing like a concept returning to the fabric of reality itself.

  Vealeth lay there, breathing raggedly, feeling the earth settle around him as the remnants of the seal faded into nothingness. He did not know what he had just unleashed. He did not know what fate had just played its hand. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty.

  Something had been freed.

  And the world would never be the same.

  Vealeth staggered to his feet, bloodied, battered, but alive. He turned his gaze skyward, where the clouds had begun to churn unnaturally, a dark omen stretching across the heavens.

  Then, in the distance, the faintest sound—a distant echo of chaos erupting, of something monstrous finding its way into the world.

  Nireen.

  Vealeth forced his body into motion, his vision swimming, his very soul rattled.

  If this was fate, then he had no choice but to meet it head-on.