In the quiet solitude of his makeshift camp, Amukelo carefully unsheathed the dagger with the tracking artifact, his fingers tracing over the metal with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. As he held the weapon before him, the air seemed to thrum with a subtle energy, and a faint line appeared, glowing softly against the morning light. The line stretched out in the direction of Llyn, ending in a pulsating dot that marked Neclord's location. Amukelo stared at it, the realization sinking in that he was now able to track his location whenever he wished to.
Though the artifact provided a continuous link to Neclord, Amukelo understood the tactical disadvantage of venturing back into Llyn under current circumstances. The group that had last confronted him was undoubtedly still with Neclord, and returning would only put him at a greater risk without any guarantee of a successful confrontation. Besides, the novelty of his disappearance gave him a strategic edge he was reluctant to squander.
With this in mind, Amukelo shifted his focus to a more personal mission—delivering the belongings of his fallen friends to their families. It was a task he owed to their memory, a way to honor their lives beyond the scope of vengeance. He retrieved the small book of letters from Bral's effects, the pages worn and the edges softened from handling. Each letter was a window into Bral's world, filled with mundane details and deep affection for those he had left behind.
Amukelo's eyes scanned the pages meticulously, searching for any clue that might lead him to Bral's family. His fingers paused on a passage tucked away at the bottom of one of the letters, a brief mention of a city named Gathe—a place he was not familiar with. He pulled out his map, spreading it across the forest floor, its edges fluttering slightly in the morning breeze. The map was detailed, with many cities and notable landmarks clearly marked, but Gathe was conspicuously absent.
Frustrated but not deterred, Amukelo considered his options. The city wasn't on his map, suggesting it was located beyond the regions on the map. He resolved to gather more information about Gathe once he could access a larger, more comprehensive map or speak to someone knowledgeable about the wider range of Elandria.
For now, Amukelo packed up his belongings, safely securing the dagger. With each step away from Llyn, the weight of his unresolved vengeance and the duty to his friends pressed heavily upon him, a dual burden he carried into the unknown.
As Amukelo set out toward the second closest town to Llyn, he carefully planned his route to avoid any potential encounters with the Nameless Dynasty. The path he chose was less traveled, winding through dense forests and over rugged terrain that would offer him the solitude he craved and the safety he needed.
The journey to the town was estimated to take about a month, considering his current pace and the need to avoid major roads where the Nameless Dynasty might travel. This prolonged isolation gave Amukelo a lot of time to reflect on the enormity of his quest for vengeance. Despite the daunting road ahead, his resolve never wavered. The memories of his friends, vivid and painful, were a constant companion that drove him forward.
During the day, Amukelo pushed himself hard, walking from sunrise until dusk. He found it difficult to rest or even pause for long, as stopping brought the crushing weight of his thoughts and the unrelenting replay of his last days with his friends. Sleep came only when he was utterly spent, his body too tired to sustain wakefulness any longer. Yet even then, his rest was often interrupted by nightmares—a vivid reliving of the attack, the deaths of his friends, and the mocking laughter of Neclord.
Throughout his journey, Amukelo encountered various monsters typical of the region. While most were not a significant challenge to him, there were moments of difficulty, especially with creatures that were more cunning or unusually powerful. However, he managed these encounters with a calculated precision, ensuring that none posed a real threat to his progress.
Physically, Amukelo felt his strength fully returning as the days passed. The initial pain and weariness from his wounds and the fight in Llyn gradually diminished, allowing him to cover more ground each day. He traveled mostly through dense forested areas, which provided ample cover and resources. Occasionally, the forest would open up to small fields and clearings, offering brief moments of respite and a chance to forage for food.
One particular day, his path led him into the foothills of a rugged mountain range marked with danger. According to the map he carried—a worn, detailed parchment—he was entering a territory frequented by Landwyrms. These creatures were rare, solitary hunters, known to venture into these mountains solely for prey. The thought alone was enough to tighten the grip on his sword, his palms sweating slightly as he recalled the horrors these beasts had inflicted upon his friends.
The terrain grew increasingly treacherous, with sharp rocks and loose stones underfoot. Amukelo moved with heightened caution, his senses acutely tuned to his surroundings. Every rustle of the wind through the sparse mountain brush, every distant bird's call seemed amplified in the heavy silence that enveloped him.
Suddenly, a gut-wrenching howl shattered the quiet. His heart leaped to his throat, a mixture of fear and adrenaline flooding his system. The howl, likely from a boar or similar creature caught in the jaws of death, echoed eerily through the mountain. The memories surged like a wave, drowning him in grief and fueling a fiery anger within his chest.
As he cautiously approached the source of the noise, Amukelo spotted the beast. A Landwyrm, its serpentine body coiled around its prey, was engrossed in its meal. It was smaller than the ones he remembered, but every bit as deadly, its scales shimmering with a metallic sheen in the light.
Amukelo's breath quickened, his hands trembling not just with fear but with an overwhelming urge to kill this beast. He remembered Pao's last moments vividly—the way the Landwyrm had cleaved her in two, her final message cut short as her body was. Rage overtook his senses, eclipsing the terror. With a resolute exhale, he stepped out from his cover, his presence yet unnoticed by the feeding wyrm.
He charged forward, the ground crunching beneath his boots, his sword raised high. As he closed the distance, the Landwyrm remained oblivious to his approach, its attention fixed on its prey. Amukelo brought down his blade with all his might upon the creature's neck, aiming for the gap between its thick scales. The sword struck true, but the scales did their work well, preventing a fatal blow. The blade sliced into the creature, a spurt of dark blood staining the earth, yet the wound was shallow, far from deadly.
The Landwyrm reared in pain, a piercing howl ripping from its throat as it twisted to face its attacker. Amukelo, having recoiled a few steps from the force of his strike, landed agilely on his feet. His eyes, sharp and focused, locked with those of the beast. The Landwyrm's gaze was filled with primal fury and pain, its large eyes narrowing as it sized up this new threat.