Days had passed since many different factions set out. Athelei had no way of knowing their movements and thus, he was able to stay focused on his current task:
Collecting Stains of Existence and absorbing the residual consciousness supplied by the war.
Hilvar and his High Orc army had annihilated another Greater Goblin kingdom-city. It was a smaller fight compared to the earlier three sieges. The kingdom-city itself did not have much in terms of resources and treasures.
Interestingly, however, the yield from its Stain of Existence was equal to that of the earlier kingdom-cities. It made Athelei think about the mechanics of how the universe seemed to create these Stains.
'Impact on history? The length of its time alive? Or perhaps the significance brought about by its presence and downfall?'
More guesses filled his mind, but with no definite answer in sight. What helped soothe Athelei's curiosity was the growth of his wings. He had been able to regrow the lost wingspan from plucking out his feathers plus a little more.
[]-[]-[]-[]-[]-[]
=} Endbringer's Wings {=
Governance over History (First Pair): Fully Grown (5.7m Wingspan)
Governance over ??? (Second Pair): Infancy (1.0m Wingspan) -> (1.27m Wingspan)
[]-[]-[]-[]-[]-[]
Other than that, Athelei didn't find another room filled with ancient records. He yearned to return to that room hidden beneath the kingdom-city of Arabi, but his feather had yet to finish recharging.
Athelei had to practice the virtue of patience over the days of trailing the High Orc army.
Today, however, was going to be quite an event. Hilvar had one last kingdom-city to conquer. The Orc King's request was almost complete.
"Sir!"
A High Orc scout returned right at this moment, emerging from the thick darkness of the Baneful Shroud. It caused many to turn their gazes in his direction.
Hilvar heard the voice loud and clear. He felt the turmoil in his subordinate's voice, as well as the gurgling of blood in their throat.
'Something happened,' Hilvar thought.
"What is it?" He swiftly met with the lonely scout. His eyes scanned the many unfamiliar wounds on the scout's body. "And where is the rest of your troop?"
"Sir," The High Orc caught his breath, "They're gone, Sir! There were Ogre Magi inside our target! All the Greater Goblins have been enslaved!"
Hilvar's pupils shrank when he heard this, as a small spark of anxiety welled from within him. Suppressing his thoughts, he analysed the situation at hand.
"Are you sure?" Hilvar signalled his subordinates to support the wounded scout as he spoke, "How many were there?"
Hilvar suddenly recalled the Emerald Tree he had come across some days before.
'Could there have been another one somewhere else?' His brows scrunched in worry.
The reason he had joined the fight for the Emerald-Essence Peaches was so that he and his army could grow strong enough to rival those Orges in a one-on-one situation. That would've been a huge achievement, and at the same time, they could at least see if any Ogres had been eyeing the fruit as well.
An Ogre Magus was a frightening existence here in the [First Kingdom], and Hilvar had once suffered under them a long time ago.
Memories flashed rapidly through his mind as he waited for the scout before him to answer.
"There... There were two." The scout answered and Hilvar sucked in a sharp breath.
In Hilvar's mind appeared a burning kingdom-city. Orcs aplenty were feverishly rushing forward, wishing to fight for their home. The brave roars of those who were still in the midst of a rabid charge were a stark contrast to the tortured screams coming from within the smoke and flames.
Walls were crumbling down as Hilvar was pulled by his arm. An Orc woman was dragging him over the debris-filled roads.
It was a memory buried deep in Hilvar's mind. The hum of the Mystic Energy used that day had been imprinted in his bones.
"Inferno," Hilvar inadvertently muttered the name of that Ogre Magus' Mystic Pattern Circle as his own subordinates cast him nervous glances.
This was the very first time they witnessed their great leader pause in such a manner. But they could empathise.
They all had bad memories of an Ogre Magus. It was as if being an Orc required one to be traumatised by them at least once in their lives.
It was akin to a baptism of sorts— but one of carnage and destruction.
Hilvar recollected himself in a split second and opened his mouth. He was going to ask about more details when a faint flicker of light appeared on the High Orc scout's forehead.
"Save him!" Hilvar commanded in haste as he himself reached out.
The High Orcs that were supporting the scout had also reacted to the sudden light. They tried grabbing at the scout's forehead or shaking the scout himself, worsening his wounds.
But those were all desperate actions. Fruitless, even.
The High Orcs were reminded of why Ogre Magi were feared by all— even by their own fellow Ogres.
The Mystical world was something they couldn't touch.
Pop!
The High Orc scout's head exploded in a shower of grey matter and blood, stunning all who witnessed it.
Hilvar roared in frustration, as hidden emotions erupted from his heart.
The frustration of being stopped just a few steps away from his goal.
The rage he felt when his hometown was destroyed.
The loss of a comrade before his very eyes.
And the helplessness before the world of the Mystical.
"CURSED EVIL MAGI!"
And while he did, a faint wisp of grey floated out of the scout's body, unseen and silent. It was devoured within a second, by a restless fog that loomed within the ranks of High Orcs.
Athelei had seen all of this occur, and he couldn't help but think,
'There is still so much history I am unaware of. To think there are Ogre Magi currently active... I should meet them.'
He glanced at the trauma-filled expressions of the High Orc army as a mischievous light flashed across his black irises. He was truly entertaining the idea of creating more Ogre Magi with the Emerald-Essence Peaches he had in stock.
'If I can absorb the Stains of Existence and the residual consciousness of a few more kingdom-cities, my second pair of wings would be fully grown! On top of that, it seems like my feathers are fuelled by those two resources as well... Having an abundant supply would be delightful...'
.
.
.
At the centre of the spacious [First Kingdom], a volcanic region lay, active and blossoming with fire-attributed life. It was home to a few powerful earthen beasts of whom had been inflicted with a grand set of mutations, making them a cut above the rest.
They were now more like beasts of magma and flames.
Bioluminescence was no longer a trait in these parts, as the light of high temperatures was this zone's own sun. It was like a layer of light, spanning a thousand metres in height, and burning the Baneful Shroud whenever it got close.
In fact, the unique and fiery Mystical Energy in this volcanic region was actively fighting the energies present in the Baneful Shroud. Thus, a very active and dangerous area is present where the two are at war with each other, making passage extremely difficult.
It was a natural barrier made of destruction.
Thus, the volcanic region was more or less isolated from the world for no foreign beings dare brave the ever-present natural calamity to invade. And the magma beasts simply didn't want to leave.
To the magma beasts, the outside world was a desert— one void of energy.
Why would they bother?
Thus, there was peace. For many, many years.
But now, in a secretive zone within the volcanic region, a regal altar suddenly trembled.
Crack! Crack, crack!
Like a snake shedding its skin, the altar was blasting out the stones that had hardened on itself over the years. Obsidian and igneous rock was flying out in all directions, heading into pools and rivers of magma to once again return to their phase-changing cycles.
Boom!
With an explosion of debris, the altar had fully rid itself of any foreign material. Without the layer of black, burned stones, it was now a beautiful and pristine white.
The altar was crafted out of polished quartz and embezzled with opals and diamonds. It was circular when viewed from above, and at its centre lay a pillar that one may suspect to be owned by an Artist.
Complex Mystic Patterns were pulsating with life as if the pillar itself was breathing.
And with every breath, the altar that surrounded it grew more and more resplendent.
It had been like this for a few days already.
And tonight, when the flow of magma moves into a lull to create a feeling of nighttime here underground, was when the altar reached its brightest. While the Endbringer Athelei was busy with his Stains of Existence, something that would excite him to no end was occurring right under his nose.
Whoooooooong!
A steady and somehow dignified hum rang throughout the area. Ripples of a wondrous and mystical technique spread out.
Like coming out of a mirage, four humanoid beings seemed to be materialising out of the blinding light of the altar.
These beings had varying colours to their skin, from blue, to purple, to red. They were dressed in colourful military fatigues, that changed and shifted before any onlooker's very eyes—as if they wore the skin of chameleons.
Most importantly, however, were the horns on their head.
"We have safely arrived at the warp point. Contact HQ and set up camp. Reds are responsible for scouting, Purples shall deal with the beasts around, and Blues shall guarantee the altar's performance."
The voice of one of the humanoid beings sounded out, with a tone expected of a leader— confident and dignified.
"Yes sir!"
Then came the practised reply of the soldiers.
The Oxhorian Spawn have returned.