"Wait a second," a low voice hums behind Cora.
"Ouch! Ouch!" she hisses, feeling a sudden yank pull her back, nearly dislocating her arm. "Huh?" Her black eyes land on Ryua in utter confusion. "Ryua? What's the special occasion?" Cora's voice is laden with bafflement. 'She usually ignores me… And what's with her strength? If I'd been a second slower, my arm would've snapped.'
Ryua quickly retracts her hand, taking an awkward step back, her posture tense. "I'm… sorry. I had a breakthrough earlier, and I'm still adjusting," she mutters, a hint of embarrassment flashing across her usually stoic face.
"Congratulations," Bein says, patting her shoulder as he moves, issuing orders with swift hand signals. "Oda's mentioned your skill, Ryua. The marks you left behind… truly impressive." His attention flickers to the surroundings before he adds, "If you're wondering about the boy, I'm sorry, but it's likely he's dead. I heard from Oda you traveled a bit with him, and I—"
"He's not dead," Ryua interrupts, her voice firm, her grip tightening as she pulls Cora and Bein closer. Everyone nearby catches her tone and, recognizing the intensity in her gaze, they whistle nonchalantly, edging away.
"V is a member of that mysterious group you encountered, Bein," she whispers, her voice carrying a quiet certainty. "According to him, he has a purpose in this dungeon."
Bein raises an eyebrow. "You're saying that boy… is from that group?" He shares a skeptical look with Cora, who smirks in disbelief.
"Be realistic, Ryua. I checked his constitution myself," Cora mutters, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "His body's too weak, it's just…" She closes her eyes, as if to search for the right word. "Unrealistic."
A chill sweeps through the group as the wind picks up, carrying with it a sense of foreboding. Bein sighs, crossing his arms. "Ryua, what makes you think he's one of them?"
"Well…" Ryua taps her chin thoughtfully. "While traveling together, he absorbed a remarkable amount of mana. The kind of mana that would normally overload anyone else. In a mere 170 hours, he went from rank four to rank five. All he said was he'd 'broken a seal.'" She pauses, letting that sink in. "We made an oath. He promised not to lie, and he clearly stated he's a member. He even showed me a mask with the number 8, identical to the ones you described." She reaches into her pouch, pulling out a letter and the sword Kael had given her. "He left me this. You'll recognize the insignia."
Bein takes the sword, his eyes widening as he sees the small black sword logo etched into the handle. "It's… identical to the mark on the guns," he murmurs, struggling to comprehend. 'But why? We had an agreement. Why hide his identity from us? And if he's alive, where is he?'
"Oh, well," Cora shrugs, stretching with a lazy yawn. "If he's not our enemy, I don't care. Plus, if he's still alive, that means we're free from dealing with the academy's lawyers." A smirk slips onto her face as she glances at Bein.
Ryua, turning her gaze away, closes her eyes, extending her senses as she takes a step forward. "I still can't detect anyone…" She tosses the letter to Bein without looking back. "Do what you want with this information. He asked me to tell you, but not to share it with anyone else—including the guild master or vice guild master." Without another word, she disappears into the shadows.
"Pfft," Cora rolls her eyes, gripping her sword as she watches Ryua vanish. "Who does he think he is?" She smiles, almost begrudgingly, as her fingers run along the blade. "Well, they did give me this beauty, so I'll let them be."
As she edges closer to the tree, her gaze flickers warily to the elven prince, studying him from a distance, "Ilúvëthar, you better not. Listen to your father for once,' she grits her teeth as they meet eyes for a mere second, 'that damn jerk face,' she grips her sword, 'that-' "Fuck" she whispers clicking her tongue.
The air thickens as they press forward, each step pulling them deeper into an atmosphere both heavy and strangely charged, as though the ground itself pulses with dormant energy. The cracked stone pillars stand like ancient sentinels, squarish and worn, their tops jagged and broken to sharp points, as if split by some violent force long ago. Dark red mist hovers around the pillars, faint but noticeable, swirling as though stirred by the approach of the group. The mist hides in the shadows, whispering through the air, until it slowly builds and thickens, becoming more visible the closer they get.
The mist seeps out in delicate threads, tracing arcs around the stone, connecting the pillars in ritualistic patterns—blood circles, carved deeply and winding along the sides of the stone in incomplete sections. The inscriptions are old, and though barely discernible in some areas, the patterns seem deliberate, their meanings lost to all but the most forbidden of ancient knowledge. Each pillar carries fragments of these circles, broken yet disturbingly cohesive when taken in as a whole, like a shattered puzzle held together by the invisible threads of "Witchcraft." The twins say in unison.
The ground trembles slightly beneath their feet as they near the heart of the area. The flickering dark light—almost black but tinged with faint red—comes from the tree in the distance, illuminating the landscape in an ominous glow. Shadows shift across the broken terrain, stretching toward them, bending and moving. The mist thickens further, becoming more palpable, almost tactile, curling around their ankles and rising with each step, clinging to their clothing.
The giant tree, their destination, looms ahead, growing larger with each stride. Its bark, the deepest black they have ever seen, absorbs all light around it, and the tendrils of its twisted roots snake across the ground, connecting with the dark vines that cover the area like veins on diseased skin. Its canopy is dense, draped with long, drooping purple-black vines dotted with black leaves, their colors muted and unnatural, shifting, caught between life and death.
As Cora raises her arm, a tense silence blankets the entire group. The usual ambient noises—the distant dripping of water, the faint rustle of air—vanish, leaving an oppressive stillness that weighs heavily on their senses. Her eyes narrow as she feels the shift. "The mana is shifting... Be ready to fight!" Her voice cuts through the silence like a blade, and in an instant, every member of the group shifts, weapons drawn and stances low, bodies bracing for what's to come.
And then… the wind stops. Completely.
The mist, once swirling around their ankles and creeping through the air, hangs frozen, every tendril suspended like threads of a delicate spider web. It quivers as if caught in the clutches of some invisible hand. Ahead of them, the mana begins to spiral, a terrifying vortex of energy condensing into a single, pulsing point. The sheer intensity of it forces each of them to brace themselves, their bodies pressing downward as if an immense weight were bearing down upon them. Their muscles tremble, teeth grit, sweat beading along their brows as they fight against the invisible pressure crushing them from above.
And then, a voice. Smooth, melodic, yet echoing with something ancient and cold.
"Well, what a lively group."
The voice resonates through the cavern, its vibrations palpable, reverberating off the stone and filling every corner of the room. The air trembles with it, and then, as if summoned by the words, the vines begin to writhe violently. Thousands of dark tendrils lash out, coiling and twisting in the air before gathering, funneling toward that spiraling point of mana with terrifying speed. Each vine moves with a life of its own, writhing and clawing through the space, the sound of their friction like a hundred serpents slithering across stone. The mana spirals faster, a blinding whirlwind of energy, growing more unstable with every second.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the voice returns, colder this time, carrying an authority that sinks deep into their bones, chilling them to their cores.
"I'm here to fulfill my role. Don't interfere."
The cavern falls silent once more, the vines settling back into place as though commanded by some unseen force, retreating and curling around the black tree's roots in a twisted, pulsating embrace. And from within the swirling mana, a rift splits open, a jagged tear that crackles with an energy beyond their comprehension. The rift stabilizes, and from its depths, a figure steps forward, bathed in a radiant yet unsettling light.
Standing only five feet tall, the creature that emerges defies the hostile landscape around it, its form a contrast to the dark, oppressive surroundings. The body is cloaked in layers of green leaves that fall elegantly like a robe or gown, their texture vibrant and alive, interwoven with flowers in full bloom, their colors deep and surreal against the creature's skin. Its skin carries a slight yellow hue, casting an ethereal glow that's both warm and strangely unsettling, as if it belongs neither to life nor death.
Its hair, a brilliant cascade of golden light, floats freely, defying gravity, each strand moving with a gentle rhythm as if caught in an unseen breeze. Its wings, grand and delicate, unfurl behind it like a tapestry of shifting colors, flowing seamlessly from shade to shade—a living rainbow that radiates beauty yet tinges the air with something forbidden.
But what captivates—and terrifies—the group most is the creature's face. It is hauntingly beautiful, a visage untouched by scars or blemishes. A soft, golden-white aura emanates from its skin, illuminating the cave with a surreal glow. Its eyes, however, are what hold their breaths captive. One eye burns with a light as bright as the sun itself, an intense, almost blinding gold. The other is a stark contrast, an abyssal black threaded with dark veins that spider outward, as if infected with a corrupting darkness. Together, the eyes speak of an ancient power, of beauty laced with madness.
Mirelith's smile curves across his face, slow and calculating, as his golden-white aura intensifies, flooding the area with a brightness that feels both heavenly and apocalyptic.
"I hope you entertain me," he murmurs, his voice almost a whisper, though it fills every shadowed corner of the cavern, a promise and a threat in one.