The night unfurled infinitely, a vast void of obscurity. Cold. Silent. Unforgiving. Veythor remained motionless at the epicenter of it all, his crimson red eyes resembling dying embers within the abyss. Surrounding him, the world had melted into an unsettling blackness, dense shadows encroaching, suffocating, unyielding. Only two figures lingered in view—Karban Ozistre, the self-proclaimed chief of the Yamika tribe and Erika, the woman who had long forsaken truth for the allure of deception.
The silence between them was stifling, thick with unspoken words and intent more lethal than any weapon. Finally, Karban broke the stillness, his voice smooth, however laced with barely contained emotion.
"You must have forgotten me, young man. Let me introduce—"
Veythor interrupted, his tone saturated with false amusement, his smirk unyielding yet hollow.
"Ah, no. I haven't forgotten you, nor the tragedy I so graciously inflicted upon you, Karban Ozistre, chief of the Yamika tribe. Although you don the mask of a righteous elder, deep down… you're merely a pitiful old man grasping at his past."
Karban's expression changed subtly—almost undetectable—yet Veythor noticed it: the tightening of his jaw, the brief flicker in his gaze. A wound, still unhealed, festered beneath the surface. Slowly, Karban raised his wooden staff and struck the ground three times. This was a signal. From the shadows, warriors emerged—silent and deliberate in their movements. Their presence spread like a rising tide, encircling Veythor. Their eyes gleamed with the promise of bloodshed. Veythor, however, remained unmoved, unimpressed. His mind sharpened, focused on the unfolding chaos.
One… two… five… ten.
Seven men: three women. Their posture, their hold on their weapons—amateurs. Fresh blood. Weak. A low chuckle escaped Veythor's throat, mocking (and) dismissive. "Oh? And here I thought the great Karban Ozistre would bring warriors worthy of my time. However, these?" His smirk deepened, eyes cold and piercing. "Are these fresh corpses? Or are they merely here to amuse me before their inevitable deaths?" Although he spoke with disdain, there was an undeniable thrill in the air, because this was the moment he had been waiting for.
Karban's voice turned sharp.
"There exists no necessity for 'worthy' warriors. You find yourself injured, drained and barely managing to hold yourself together. However, even these 'lowly' warriors possess what it takes to pull you into the grave."
Veythor's smirk didn't falter.
"I see. You've forgotten what transpired three years ago."
He advanced, the shadows undulating around him like whispering phantoms.
"Shall I refresh your memory?
" A flicker of irritation crossed Karban's face. His patience—something he took pride in—was wearing thin. The past. That past. The one even he hesitated to dwell on for too long. Without uttering another word, he raised his staff and swung it through the air. The wooden surface shimmered, twisted—no, transformed. In its stead, a katana materialized, its blade a dull gray beneath the moonlight, yet sharper than a thousand lies. Karban chuckled, however, it was an ugly, grating sound, warped by years of hatred.
"The arrogance. That damned arrogance. But don't fret… we'll bury both you and your arrogance here tonight.
Veythor's smirk broadened, but his eyes… they were lifeless. "Arrogance?" His voice was smooth, soft, yet tinged with ice. "No, Karban. I speak only the truth. And as for killing me…" He raised his hand, slowly, deliberately, as if commanding the inevitable. "Even if the four mighty tribes of the Eternal Forest of Darkness combined their entire strength, not a single one of you would be able to so much as graze me."
Karban laughed, deep and guttural.
"Hahaha… Hahahaha… Hahahahaha…!"
The sound clawed at the atmosphere, unsettling and wrong. Beside him, Erika—no, the woman who referred to herself as Elena—advanced, her gaze aflame with an emotion that lay somewhere between disgust and amusement. "You truly are more repulsive than the whispers suggest," she remarked, her tone laced with venom. "However, don't fret—your demise is imminent."
She raised her hand.
Another signal.
More figures materialized from the shadows—silent, calculating; their presence felt far more oppressive than that of Karban's warriors. Soldiers. Actual ones. Seven foot soldiers stood poised. Six cavalrymen loomed nearby. Hardened. Trained. Experienced. Veythor's gaze swept across them and his smirk remained steadfast. Trash.Yet more trash. (This was not a challenge, however, it was a minor inconvenience.)
Except one.
Ralf Zanglof.
That man.
Veythor's gaze lingered for a mere moment; this one was different. No fool, he was loyal, efficient, obedient. He had served Miral Krules—the greatest rebel leader Narzan had ever known. Miral: a name that once sent tremors through the empire. A man who was undefeated… until Veythor had ended him two years ago. Miral wasn't merely a rebel; he was the rebel. The king of the insurgents, a figure so beloved that the people of Narzan whispered his name with reverence, praying he would one day ascend the throne. However, that dream had died—just as Miral had perished, by Veythor's hands. And now, standing here, surrounded by Miral's daughter and her allies, Veythor could only chuckle inwardly. Because of this, the weight of his actions pressed upon him, yet he felt strangely unburdened.
They think they've cornered me.
How amusing.
Let's see how much they can actually do.
Certainly, it wasn't simply arrogance: Veythor was acutely aware of his limitations. At this moment, he found himself gravely injured, devoid of mana and without an army. The odds were decidedly against him; however, he still felt a flicker of determination. Although the circumstances were dire, he understood the need to strategize. This was not the end, because he had faced challenges before.
But a man like him?
A man like him never fights fair.
His true plan had yet to unfold.
And when it did, the real game would begin.