Location: Myriad Realms, Yellow Plains, Freedom Fighter's headquarters.
Just as Luna prepared to put an end to whatever Baylor was scheming, a low vibration rippled through the room, almost like a warning. The air seemed to hum, and in an instant, two humanoid figures materialized at the empty top end of the round table.
"What the heck is going on here?" Henricks barked, his voice laced with alarm. His wide-eyed gaze locked on Luna, who was seconds away from striking Baylor, while the rest sat frozen, silently watching the standoff.
The sound of his voice snapped Luna out of her of her rage. She jolted, blinking rapidly as her eyes returned to their normal hue. The strange, almost suffocating presence that had been clouding the demigods' minds dissipated like smoke, and their sense of time returned to normal.
The room was heavy with silence as everyone, including Luna, struggled to process what was happening. Baylor—his beloved disciple—had betrayed him. But as their eyes fell on Wyatt, standing casually beside Henricks, a flicker of realization rippled through the group. Maybe Henricks had achieved what he had set out to achieve.
Luna's gaze hardened as it flicked over Wyatt, cold and sharp. It wasn't surprising—she still held a grudge after their last encounter. Baylor, on the other hand, remained indifferently calm, even as his eyes landed on Ellen's son.
Henricks exhaled deeply, running a hand over his face before speaking. "Everyone, take your seats," he said, his tone more tired than commanding.
Luna hesitated for a split second, her jaw tight, but she eventually returned to her chair. Baylor followed though the cloaked figure he had brought with him stayed standing, looming behind him like a shadowy sentinel.
Henricks' frown deepened as he glanced at the stranger. Something about the figure felt... off. It was easy to assume they were the source of the tension between his captains, but Henricks pushed the thought aside. There were more pressing matters to handle. The teleportation array formation for the migration needed to be arranged first—then he could deal with the rest.
Straightening, Henricks stepped behind the head chair and cast one last glance at the room, making sure he had everyone's attention.
"Our deal with the Southern Princess is off," he announced, his voice steady and resolute. "Since she betrayed our trust, we'll be keeping the dungeon relocation apparatus as compensation."
There was a ripple of approval around the table as the others nodded in agreement. The betrayal of the Southern Princess deeply hurt, under normal circumstances, they would never have reached out to her in the first place but they had no other choice.
Baylor leaned back in his chair, seemingly pleased with the decision. Still, he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Then how are we going to migrate now? Or are we finally going to make a stand against them? Like we should've done from the start?"
His words hung in the air, charged and expectant. Everyone shifted uncomfortably, waiting to see how Henricks would respond. But his words surprised everyone, "Who the fuck are you and where is Baylor?"
Wyatt smirked, leaning back slightly as if enjoying a private joke. At least Henricks wasn't as clueless as the other demigods in the room. Wyatt couldn't fathom how they had all failed to realize that the Baylor sitting before them was an impostor.
From the moment Wyatt stepped into the room, he had instinctively activated his soul pupils, scanning the soul pathways of everyone present. It was a habit now—a necessary precaution, given how many of his enemies relied on sneaky abilities. The scan made it glaringly obvious: the Baylor in front of them was a fraud. And the cloaked figure beside him? Their body was only a few weeks old—with a demigod soul, yes, but barely formed.
"Henricks, what are you talking about? He's using Baylor's grimoire, so he has to be Baylor," Demigod Jax interjected, his tone dripping with disbelief. He shook his head, his brows furrowed. The very idea of Henricks suspecting Baylor was absurd to him. There are plenty of ways to impersonate someone, sure, but one can't fake their grimoire. Baylor called this meeting through his grimoires—no imposter could pull that off.
Wyatt raised an eyebrow, his grin widening just slightly as Jax spoke. The naivety was almost painful to watch.
Henricks, however, was undeterred. His jaw tightened as his sharp gaze lingered on the so-called Baylor. "That confirms it," he said, his voice low but firm. "You're behind Ned's disappearance. Baylor must've gotten too close during his investigation, didn't he?"
Henricks' accusation hung in the air, heavy with tension. A murmur rippled through the room, the other demigods exchanging uneasy glances.
Wyatt's smirk turned into a full grin, watching Henricks piece it together. The latter knew his disciple very well, real Baylor would never have advocated for the Freedom Fighters to go to war with the World Leaders unless it was an absolute last resort. That wasn't just out of character—it was a glaring red flag.
Henricks took a slow, measured breath and added, his tone as cold as steel, "I know my disciple too well to fall for this act. He wouldn't resort to force unless there was no other choice. Whoever you are, you're not Baylor."
The room grew deathly quiet as Henricks' words settled over them like a heavy fog. The revelation that Luna wasn't behind Ned's disappearance brought an undeniable wave of relief, evident in the way a few shoulders subtly relaxed. But that relief was fleeting, replaced just as quickly by a gnawing worry—for both Ned and the real Baylor.
Wyatt eyes were sharp as he observed the imposter and the robed figure behind him. His expression was unreadable, but his mind was working overtime, dissecting the situation. He'd hoped to see the imposter reveal their agenda, but Henricks had called them out too soon, throwing the conversation off track. The air in the room felt heavy, each person on edge, eyeing the imposter and his guest.