Stephan and Olath reappeared in a land that was a far cry from Magodilin. The air here was dry, heavy, and carried the copper tang of blood. Around them stretched a barren wasteland where skeletal trees stood lifeless, their twisted branches clawing upward like hands frozen in desperation.
Cutting through the desolation ran a river, its waters thick, sluggish, and red as spilled blood.
Stephan whistled low. "Well, Emo kid, where the hell have you dragged us now?"
Olath’s pale eyes swept the bleak horizon. His voice came quiet, almost reverent.
"This place is called the Blood River."
"You’ve been here before?" Stephan asked, suspicion lacing his tone.
The boy shook his head.
Stephan narrowed his eyes. "So let me get this straight, you’ve never set foot here, but somehow you know where you’re going?"
Olath stopped for a moment, looking up at him. "We’re heading to the Soul, aren’t we?" For more chapters visit ⓝovelFire.net
"That’s right." Stephan smirked. "So how do you know this place if you’ve never been here?"
Olath tapped his temple. "I’ve studied the maps. This is no man’s land, nothing lives here. But Orcs... they sometimes roam. Which means we keep our guard high."
He turned sharply and began following the river downstream. Stephan chuckled under his breath, then strode after him.
"This river," Olath explained as they walked, "bends far away from our direct path to the Soul Desert. It winds endlessly, even cutting through Elf territory."
Stephan raised an eyebrow. "So we’re sightseeing before we get where we need to go?"
"Not exactly." Olath lifted a hand and pointed. In the far distance, a black mountain jutted against the horizon, its jagged peak stabbing the sky like a fang. Shadows clung to it unnaturally, as though the light itself feared to touch it.
"There," he said. "That’s the edge of the Soul Desert. That’s where we’re going."
Stephan’s smirk faded into a thin line. The mountain seemed to radiate dread, as though daring them to approach.
"Lovely," he muttered. "Every step of this trip just keeps getting better."
They hadn’t gone far when a foul stench crawled into their nostrils,thick, rancid, suffocating. Stephan’s nose wrinkled immediately. It was the same rot he had smelled back in the tunnels, only here it was stronger... fresher.
"Something’s dead," Stephan muttered, pulling his cloak over his face.
Olath froze, his pale skin paling further. "It’s Orcs... it has to be Orcs. Maybe we should go back?" His voice trembled, betraying his panic.
Stephan shook his head. "No. We can’t go back. Whatever it is,whatever’s ahead, it’s already dead." Without waiting for a reply, he pressed forward, boots crunching over the brittle ground.
Olath hesitated, fists clenched at his sides, then forced himself to follow.
The smell grew unbearable. When they rounded a bend, the source revealed itself.
Dozens of Orc corpses littered the banks of the Blood River. Some had been cleaved clean in half, their torsos and legs lying meters apart. Others had no heads, only ragged stumps where thick necks used to be. A few were nothing but shredded pieces of flesh strewn like discarded meat. The heat made the rot worse, maggots already writhed in the wounds.
Olath gagged and grabbed Stephan’s sleeve. Stephan turned, only to find the boy’s trembling finger pointing deeper into the pile of corpses.
"There," Olath whispered.
Stephan’s eyes narrowed. Beneath the bulk of fallen Orcs, half-buried in blood-soaked dirt, lay something different.
A body. Not green-skinned, not tusked.
Olath’s voice cracked as he spoke the truth aloud.
"That one... that’s one of your kind."
"That’s definitely a human," Stephan muttered as he stepped over a severed Orc arm and crouched beside the corpse. "What the hell happened here?"
His eyes swept across the carnage, lips pressed in a hard line. The man had the look of a player, lean build, battle gear torn but still distinct from the crude hides of Orcs. But what killed him? And where was his crew?
Whatever had done this... it wasn’t Orcs. Their weapons were brutal but crude; these cuts were too clean, too precise. Stephan’s gaze narrowed.
"This wasn’t Orc work," he said flatly.
Olath hovered a few paces back, silent, his knuckles white as he clutched the hem of his tunic.
"No... this was the work of a human," Stephan added, his voice low, almost to himself.
A player. And not just any player. The kind of slaughter surrounding them spoke of someone dangerous, A-rank, maybe worse. Yet the picture didn’t add up.
"Why’s he here among Orcs?" Stephan whispered, frowning deeper. "He must’ve fought them... but then what? His team isn’t here. Did they abandon him? Or..." He glanced once more at the corpse, unease flickering in his eyes. "...did they betray him?"
He exhaled sharply and stood, brushing dirt from his hands. Dead or not, the man was no concern now. The Soul Desert awaited, and they couldn’t linger here.
"Come on, Olath. We move."
The boy nodded quickly, grateful to leave the blood-soaked riverbank behind. Together they turned away from the carnage, and froze.
A cough rasped through the still air. Weak, ragged, but unmistakably human.
From the pile of Orc corpses.
They both froze as the mound of corpses shifted. A faint rustle, then a weak cough broke the silence.
Stephan stepped forward, boots squelching in the blood-soaked earth. He shoved aside an Orc’s headless torso, then another. Beneath the pile, not crushed but concealed, was a man.
The human’s gaunt frame trembled as the bodies were dragged off him. His face was pale, eyes sunken, lips cracked from thirst. He hadn’t been trapped at all, he’d hidden himself under the carcasses.
"Are you going to... help him out?" Olath’s voice wavered, suspicion sharp in his tone.
Stephan ignored him and yanked away the last corpse, exposing the man fully.
The stranger blinked against the light, voice rasping, "...Help me... water. Please..."
Stephan snapped his fingers at Olath. "Water. Now."
The boy stiffened, clutching his satchel. "He’s human, yes... but isn’t he your enemy, young Sir?"
Stephan’s eyes flicked to him, cold and commanding. "Just bring the goddamn water."
Reluctantly, Olath fished out a flask and handed it over. Stephan crouched and pressed it to the stranger’s lips. The man drank greedily, in small trembling gulps, each swallow sounding like gravel in his throat.
"Thank you..." the man croaked after a long drink. His eyes lingered on Stephan, sharp despite the weakness in his body. "You’re... you’re a player too, aren’t you?"
Stephan gave a short nod. "What happened here?"
At the question, the man’s lips curled with a bitter snarl. "Belanor... that murderous piece of shit!" His voice cracked, half-roar, half-groan, as though the name itself burned his throat.
The survivor straightened slightly, trying to muster dignity. "Since you were kind enough to give me water, I’ll tell you. My name’s Mathaven. I was teamed with Vince and Belanor." He jabbed a trembling finger toward a decapitated corpse. "That’s Vince, over there. Dead because of him."
Stephan’s brow furrowed.
"When we left the Void Mansion, this is where we landed. Orcs came swarming us almost immediately. Vince and I fought like hell, blades out, backs to each other. And Belanor?" Mathaven spat blood to the side. "He just... sat up in the sky. Watching."
Stephan narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, sat in the sky?"
Mathaven shivered, recalling the sight. "He’s got this power....threads. Invisible, razor-thin. He uses them to suspend himself, to walk on air like some goddamn spider hanging over us. He refused to lift a finger. Then when he did decide to help, he slaughtered the Orcs... and Vince... in the same swing. His threads cut everything. Friend or foe. Didn’t matter."
Olath’s face drained of color.
Mathaven looked back at Stephan, voice dropping to a bitter rasp. "I tried to stand against him. To make him pay. But he broke me... like I was nothing. Didn’t even sweat."
Stephan recalled what the unbound death god, Noctis, had warned them back in the Void Mansion, alliances were fragile things. There was no rule binding them. Partners could be chosen, forced, betrayed, or even killed by one another. Trust was just another weapon.
He looked around at the field of corpses, at the massacre carved into the land. If one man had done this alone...
"This Belanor you speak of," Stephan asked quietly, "what rank is he?"
Mathaven’s cracked lips curled in resignation. "He’s an S-rank."
The confirmation landed heavy. Noctis had been right. There were indeed S-ranks among the players still alive.
Stephan rose slowly, his shadow falling across Mathaven. "How did you survive the threads?"
Mathaven gave a bitter smile. "My specialty is blood. I can harden it, turn it into armor beneath my skin. Belanor’s slash tore me open, but the hardened blood slowed the thread just enough that it didn’t cut me in two. Still... it drained me. Took everything I had to stop myself from bleeding out. I lay here under the corpses for a full day, forcing my blood to clot, forcing my body to knit back together. If he’d bothered to check properly, I’d be dead."
Silence hung between them as Stephan and Olath exchanged a glance.
Mathaven’s eyes narrowed. "So... are you going to kill me then?"
"Huh?" Stephan tilted his head.
"We’re enemies, aren’t we? You gave me water, and I’m grateful. But we’re rivals in this tournament all the same. So, tell me... are you going to finish me here?"
Stephan’s lips curled into a smile. "I don’t kill half-dead men who’ve already been broken by someone else. If I’m going to kill you, I’ll do it when you’re at full strength. When it actually means something." He turned, cloak shifting with his movement. "So recover. Next time we meet, I’ll cut you down when you’re whole."
Mathaven’s eyes widened, then softened with a faint grin. "Fair enough... But I won’t lose again. This was the last time. Since you helped me, I’ll give you something in return, a warning." His voice darkened. "If you ever run into a white-haired man with a foul smile... don’t fight him. Run."
Stephan chuckled over his shoulder. "Thanks for the advice. But if I meet this Belanor of yours... I’ll kill him. S-rank or not."
He motioned to Olath, who reluctantly handed Mathaven a hunk of bread. Then they turned to leave.
"Till we meet again, cool guy," Mathaven called out with a weak chuckle, watching Stephan disappear down the river’s edge.