Bang!
A resounding crash echoed through the cavern as a massive stone wall crumbled, dust and debris cascading to the ground. George, muscles taut and sweat glistening on his forehead, emerged from the wreckage, carrying Henry on his back. Another fighter staggered out behind him, their breaths labored. The dim light filtering through cracks in the stone illuminated the room ahead.
George squinted, his eyes adjusting to the new environment. "Is this it?" he asked, his voice hoarse but edged with anticipation.
Henry shifted slightly, his pale face lifting enough to survey their surroundings. Despite his weak frame, his eyes gleamed with fervor, a glimmer of obsession lighting them up. "If the directions were accurate… yes," he murmured. "This should be the core."
As George set Henry down carefully, the scholar's gaze fixed on the ruins before them. His breath caught in his throat. "What a beautiful place," he whispered, awe dripping from every word.
The cavern they had entered was vast, its walls stretching high and wide. Intricate carvings adorned every surface, depicting ancient battles, rituals, and cryptic symbols. The stone was surprisingly intact, each etching sharp and deliberate, as though frozen in time. Among the relics scattered across the floor were ornate weapons, shattered shields, and other items unmistakably tied to the legacy of fighters.
George's eyes widened as he took it all in. "This… this is incredible," he muttered, his voice tinged with excitement. His gaze lingered on a pair of rusted gauntlets that radiated an aura of history, imagining the battles they must have seen.
Henry, hobbling slightly, moved to inspect a nearby pillar covered in ancient text. He ran his fingers over the characters, reverence etched into his expression. "This place is pristine," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Better preserved than any ruin I've ever encountered. It's extraordinary. A treasure trove of ancient knowledge."
He turned to George, his scholarly demeanor replaced with rare excitement. "Do you realize what this means? The techniques, the knowledge buried here… it surpasses anything we've ever known. These carvings alone could rival the most advanced training methods in use today."
George's heart raced. "Training methods?" His voice was sharp, filled with hope. He leaned forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over Henry. "What kind of training methods?"
Henry squinted at the text, his fingers tracing the ancient script. "These are royal court characters," he explained. "Only the ancient royal families used them. What's recorded here… I believe it's a set of elite training methods designed for their most powerful fighters. It could easily surpass the techniques of your Red Bird Martial Arts School."
George's breath hitched. The idea of a superior training system, something that could elevate him beyond his current limits, sent a surge of excitement through his veins. For years, he'd sought the lost techniques of ancient fighters, hoping they would provide the breakthrough he desperately needed. Now, he was standing in the very heart of that dream.
But George wasn't one to lose sight of the bigger picture. "What about the ceremony?" he asked, his voice firm. "Wasn't there supposed to be a ritual tied to this place?"
Henry frowned, his earlier excitement giving way to confusion. "The texts do mention a ceremony, but…" He gestured to the chamber. "This is the heart of the ruins. It should be here, yet I see no sign of it."
The scholar's brow furrowed as he scanned the room, his mind racing. "Unless…"
"Of course, the ceremony is here," a cold, detached voice interrupted. "You simply haven't found it yet."
The words sent a chill through the room. George and Henry froze, their eyes snapping toward the source. From the shadows at the far end of the chamber, a figure emerged; a girl, her expression blank and unyielding. Her presence was haunting, a stark contrast to the awe of the ruins.
But she wasn't alone.
Behind her, a line of figures stepped forward, each clad in black robes and masks that concealed their faces. They moved in eerie unison, muskets clutched in their hands. The metallic click of their weapons being readied echoed ominously in the stillness.
George's body tensed, his mind racing. "The Black Council…" he whispered, his voice barely audible. He glanced at Henry, who was equally stunned.
"How did they find us?" Henry muttered, his tone a mixture of disbelief and dread. "We took a complex route. There's no way they could have tracked us unless…"
George's eyes darkened as the realization hit him. "Unless someone gave them a shortcut," he said, his voice heavy with anger.
The girl stepped forward, her blank expression betraying no emotion. "Did you really think you could escape us?" she asked, her tone icy and precise. "The relics, the rituals; they belong to us."
George clenched his fists, his mind whirring. Their earlier detour, the attacks, the separation, it had all been orchestrated. The Black Council hadn't just stumbled upon them; they had been hunting them from the start.
Henry's face turned pale as he began piecing it together. "The girl…" he whispered, his voice trembling. "She's… one of them."
"Very perceptive," the girl said, her lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. Behind her, the armed figures raised their muskets in unison, aiming directly at George and Henry.
George's breath quickened. In an open field, he could have taken them on, ripped through their ranks with brute strength. But in this confined space, with Henry injured and the odds stacked against them, even he had no clear path forward.
"Now," the girl said, her voice steady and commanding, "you will hand over the scholar and step aside. Or you'll die here, buried alongside these relics."
George's jaw tightened as he stepped protectively in front of Henry. His grip on his weapon was firm, but his mind churned with doubt. For the first time in years, he felt cornered.
The room was deathly silent, every second dragging like an eternity. The girl's eyes bore into him, daring him to make a move.
"It's you!"
Mr. Henry spun around, his heart hammering in his chest as he stared in disbelief at the figure standing just behind him. It was his former guard, the one he had trusted implicitly, someone who had once been his shadow in both dangerous missions and mundane travels.
Before entering the ancient ruins, Henry had brought two loyal guards. One had tragically fallen in an ambush outside the ruins, leaving only this one; this man who now stood before him, blade drawn, the gleaming tip of the knife aimed directly at Henry's heart. The air between them crackled with tension.
Betrayal.
Henry's throat went dry. His mind whirled as he tried to grasp the implications. It had to have been him. The attack outside, the compromised location, it all pointed to this moment. His trusted guard had leaked their position to the enemy. But why? What could drive such treachery?
The words stuck in his throat as his mind reeled. Before he could say anything, the guard moved. Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and removed the mask covering his face. Henry froze.
The face beneath the mask wasn't the one he knew.
Gone was the familiar countenance of his loyal companion. In its place was a stranger's face: a cold, unfamiliar visage that seemed to sneer at Henry's stunned expression.
It hit him like a blow to the chest. This wasn't his guard at all. His trusted ally had been replaced, an imposter slipping into the role without his notice. How long had he been deceived? Days? Weeks? Months?
Henry stumbled backward, his mind racing. This discovery left him rooted in place, paralyzed by the enormity of the betrayal.
Meanwhile, George, Henry's remaining companion, understood the severity of the situation with terrifying clarity. His seasoned instincts told him that they were surrounded by enemies. The odds were insurmountable. Escape was impossible. George gritted his teeth as cold sweat trickled down his spine.
Henry's fame as a skilled scholar of ancient texts and relics might spare his life, for now. His knowledge would be valuable to the merciless enemies hunting them. But George? He was a soldier, a fighter. The moment he was captured, his fate would be sealed: death. Brutal, merciless, and immediate.
"Mr. Henry," George said quietly, his voice steady despite the rising panic clawing at his chest. "Stay close. We have to stay calm."
Before Henry could respond, a voice rang out. Soft, melodic, and chilling.
"Mr. Henry," said a young woman, stepping into the flickering light with a faint smile playing on her lips. Her expression was too composed, too confident. "I think we can still be useful to each other here. Cooperation, after all, can make even the darkest situations more... tolerable."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. Henry forced a shaky smile in return, his lips trembling with unspoken words. But before he could utter a response, the sound of footsteps echoed through the narrow corridor.
The footsteps were erratic and uneven, a hurried, stumbling rhythm that sent a ripple of unease through the room. The mercenaries around them, members of the ominous Black Council, immediately raised their weapons. Rifles swung into position, aiming toward the source of the noise. The air grew taut, every person waiting for a target to emerge.
And then the figure came into view.
A man staggered into the light, his silhouette unmistakable. He was clad in heavy animal pelts, his longbow slung across his back. Blood trickled from multiple wounds, staining the furred layers of his clothing. He moved as if every step was a struggle, yet his determination drove him forward.
The girl's eyes widened in shock. "Brother!"
Her voice cracked with disbelief and raw emotion. She instinctively stepped forward, her hand outstretched, but something stopped her mid-step.
A flash of silver.
'Whoosh.'
From the shadows, a long sword struck, the blade slicing through the man's body with brutal efficiency. The force pinned him to the ground, his lifeless form crumpling in silence. His eyes barely had time to register the betrayal before they dimmed forever. The hunter collapsed with a muffled groan, his body limp, a pool of blood spreading beneath him.
"No!" the girl screamed, her voice trembling with anguish. Her entire body froze, disbelief etched across her face. Her brother, her flesh and blood; lay motionless before her.
Then, as if materializing from the darkness itself, another figure stepped into view. A young man, lean and deadly, emerged from the shadows. His movements were calculated, almost lazy, as if the murder he had just committed was a trivial affair.
He smirked, his voice dripping with mockery. "Apologies," he said, his tone laced with venom. "Did I interrupt your touching reunion?"
Harry.
The name hung unspoken in the air, but its weight was suffocating. Henry's mind raced. George's grip on his weapon tightened. And the girl? She stood rooted in place, caught between rage and despair.
This was no longer a simple expedition. It was a nightmare. A trap so meticulously laid that even Henry, a man of intellect and foresight, had been caught completely unaware. And now, as enemies closed in from all sides, the only certainty was the bloodshed to come.