Chapter 59: Escape and Pursuit
The false mirage of a rising sun in the murky mist barely cast its light over Whispering Haven City before chaos erupted in its streets. Dozens of cloaked figures from different factions surged forward, racing down broad marble roads toward the southern gate. The citizens looked on in curiosity, but no one interfered. The guards stationed along the path simply watched in silence. There were no orders to stop them, and most city powers didn't care much about the three human children.
The ones giving chase were no small fry.
Golden Lord Norg's men moved in a tight formation, their expressions grim. Not far behind were members of Golden Lord Eddy's faction, clad in polished battle gear. Brymia City's guards surged forward with their crest shining proudly on their armor, and Golden Lord Mistress Rudecka's (the four-armed, four-eyed woman) faction cut through the streets with unnerving efficiency. Two lesser-known groups trailed behind, clearly outmatched but still ambitious.
And at the end, moving like a shadow on the edge of the chase, Rowaniel led his faction—the Fanged Elves—under the banner of Golden Lord Aeloria. His eyes flickered with cold amusement.
Ahead of them all, three cloaked figures sprinted silently. Their movements were fluid, coordinated, and strangely familiar. The weapons they carried were veiled by cloth, but their shapes were unmistakable. The aura they exuded was eerily close to that of the trio of Elton, Ramiro, and Zoro that had caused disruption.
As the group reached the city gate, the guards stationed there did nothing to stop them. Instead, a high-pitched whistle pierced the sky—a flare fired by the Brymia guards, arcing upward in crimson light.
Golden Lord Norg's representative, a thick-jawed goblin demonkin with a booming voice, barked, "Halt! If you continue, we cannot guarantee your safety! Our Lord wishes to speak with you!"
Others echoed the same.
"You will be protected under Golden Lord Eddy!"
"Come willingly, and no harm will befall you!"
Rowaniel sneered. "Fools," he whispered.
The cloaked trio said nothing. They merely picked up speed, ducking low and weaving between magical traps and snares cast by overeager pursuers.
Suddenly, a deafening roar rang out.
Fifteen magical vehicles emblazoned with the Brymia insignia careened onto the scene, cutting off the escape route. A commanding voice thundered from a speaker atop the lead vehicle.
"By order of Brymia City, you are to halt and surrender! You are charged with crimes against the city! Resistance will be met with force!"
A crushing pressure dropped on the crowd as five Golden-tier auras burst forth from the vehicles, one towering above the rest—a peak Gold-Tier 3.
Even veteran forces from Whispering Haven hesitated.
All except Norg's men, who advanced, calling out with offers of protection. "Just come to us and we will give you protection!"
Without warning, a glowing orb of unstable energy shot from one of the Brymia guards. It screeched through the air toward the trio.
"What the hell are you bastards doing?!" Norg's representative bellowed, spinning on the guards.
They ignored him.
The orb exploded with a thunderous roar. Fire and force ripped through the earth, sending dust and magic-charged shockwaves across the field. The trio was thrown back into a smoking crater.
The factions closed in cautiously, surrounding the pit where three barely-moving bodies lay. Burned cloaks and scorched limbs hinted at grave injuries.
"Arrest them," barked the Brymia commander.
"No!" Golden Lord Norg's representatives stepped forward. "This isn't right!"
Rowaniel raised his hand from afar. "Perhaps a fairer way is in order," he said with a faint smile.
Norg's man nodded warily and approached the bodies, something gnawing at his instincts. Something was wrong. He gestured toward what he assumed was Ramiro. The figure twitched. Then the cloaks fell away.
What lay beneath were not Elton, Zoro, and Ramiro.
They were demonic slaves, their flesh etched with runes and glowing sigils. Shackles dug into their necks, shoulders, and torsos, pulsing with chaotic energy. Cracks ran across their bodies, glowing brighter by the second.
The realization dawned too late.
"Run! It's a trap!"
Rowaniel had long since ordered the faction of Aeloria to escape toward the city and already activated a leaf-shaped talisman. He muttered, "Detonate."
A second explosion far greater than the first rocked the entire area. Blinding light consumed the pit. Magic shields flared across the city's walls as a defensive measure, but the damage was already done.
Rows of men were flung like ragdolls. Structures cracked. The air shimmered with unstable energy.
When the smoke cleared, a gust of wind blew the debris aside, revealing a tall figure floating above the battlefield. A mage with pale green skin, robes aflame with residual energy. His eyes narrowed.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked coldly.
The Brymia captain, standing relatively unscathed at the front, scowled. "That's what I should be asking you."
Bodies lay everywhere. Dozens dead. More wounded. Among the worst injured was Norg's representative—a maimed mess of burned flesh, missing limbs, and a face half-destroyed.
He roared in agony. "You betrayed us! We agreed to talk to those kids! Not to kill them!"
The seeds of a major rift were planted that day.
And as the factions shouted, accused, and bled…
Far below, deep within an ancient, rune-covered dungeon, Elton, Zoro, Ramiro, Shayleaf, Joe-Pine, Luno-oak, Dino-oak, and Shirleaf advanced silently through the shadows.
The real escape had already begun.
Gnarled and bizarrely twisted trees burst from both ground and rocky ceiling. Poisonous flora and mutated fauna littered their path. The group faced various ambushes from unusual dungeon creatures, sometimes even in coordinated packs. Fortunately, their teamwork and combat skills allowed them to either kill or repel each threat.
While catching their breath, Ramiro glanced around in disbelief.
"How do you even know where you're going in this chaos?"
Joe-Pine, tapping the earth lightly, replied with a small smirk. "Our tribes left subtle markers… tree grooves, crushed roots, and traces of alchemical scent trails. Most only Elves can sense."
Ramiro grunted in acceptance, eyes narrowing at the dense mist ahead. Suddenly, a monstrous creature lunged from behind a mutated trunk.
Shirleaf shouted,
—Vine Binding, Constrict—
Her magic called forth trees nearby, weaving their limbs into living chains that crushed the monster's joints.
Elton finished it off.
—White Lightning Spear—
Three piercing bolts of Ki Essence tore through the creature's torso. It crumpled, motionless. Joe-Pine urged the group forward without pause.
––
Within one such alliance, Aeloria spoke quietly with Agustus, a demi-human with dark brown skin and a lean but powerful build.
"I'll be returning to the Upper Lands with the stationed Fanged Elves," Aeloria said, her voice calm but laced with concern. "The waters here are getting… murky. If there really is an invasion from beyond this world, those from the True Whispering Expanse will stir."
Agustus nodded slowly. "I'll also return with a detachment. It's better to regroup while we still have the initiative."
They both turned to the third member of their loose alliance—Roverleaves, a peak Gold Tier 4 powerhouse of the Hobbit race. Dressed in a robe of leaf and bark, with a circlet of twisted vine metal upon his brow, he was one of the leading geniuses of his kind.
His people shared a long, bloody history with the Fanged Elves, born from a brutal war four centuries past. Only in the last hundred years had relations begun to mend.
"I'll remain here with a few elites and our Shackled," Roverleaves said at last. "I'll keep eyes on the estates and on other factions. I'll send the rest of the Hobbit tribe back with you."
Agustus sighed. "The history between our people hasn't been great… but among the Upper Lands, at least, our region has more civility than most."
Aeloria gave a small nod. Roverleaves stared off silently, but then his expression hardened.
"I want in," he said.
Aeloria's brow furrowed while Agustus looked confused. "In on what? We're already planning for the things to come."
Roverleaves' gaze sharpened. "Don't play dumb. I suspect you, Aeloria, arranged the escape of those human children. You're one of the prior generation's Fanged Elf prodigies. And your… gifts have brought your tribe uncommon prosperity."
Agustus turned to Aeloria, eyes calculating. She sighed, her expression cracking just slightly. "I've taken risks and I've gambled. If things go wrong, I'll be labeled a traitor to the Fanged Elves."
"Then let me share the risk," Roverleaves replied. "The Hobbit elders will see my vision. I'll force them to."
Aeloria gave him a wry smile. "Very well… welcome aboard."
Her gaze shifted toward Agustus. "If you don't join us, I won't reveal any more. But I will say this—war is coming. Upper Lands, Whispering Expanse, all of it. Every corner of our world."
Agustus' eyes gleamed as he finally nodded. "Then I too… will bet on the Fanged Elves."
––
Across Whispering Haven, other factional alliances were deep in similar talks. Politics churned like storm clouds. Everyone prepared for a coming shift.
In one such meeting, Rudecka lounged with predatory elegance at the head of a large obsidian table. Her four gleaming eyes scrutinized the three other faction leaders before her. They were not her subordinates, but the weight of her power made them tremble like they were.
One of her four arms propped up her head lazily.
"You."
She gestured toward a woman, human-like but crowned with leafy hair and green-tinted brows.
"You will be watching over Aeloria's movements. She's… Priority number One."
The woman bowed silently.
Rudecka's attention turned to a demon leader across the table.
"And you. Norg is dangerous, yes—but keep your eye on Devrak. He's not just strong, he moves in the shadows while flashing brilliance in the open. A wolf among rabid dogs."
The demon leader nodded, eyes glinting.
In a cavernous hall within a luxurious building in Whispering Haven City, three dominant presences filled the air with an oppressive pressure. Each seated atop their own elevated thrones, Devrak, Norg, and Roosell—Golden Lords of the Demon Race and respective leaders of their powerful, though often hostile, factions—gazed at one another in stifled tension.
Though allied within Whispering Haven, their factions had clashed countless times in the Upper Lands. Their uneasy truce here was held together only by necessity, ambition, and threat of mutual destruction. Beneath them, two more demon leaders of nearly equal power sat silently—Gold Tier 4 elites whose prideful silence was broken only when they saw fit. Their auras crackled with restrained dominance, each strong enough to rival lesser Golden Lords in strength.
Devrak, clad in gray and crimson robes, his long crimson hair tied back, sat upright. His golden eyes were cold, and his curved black horns radiated an aura of aged menace. Roosell hunched slightly in his heavy chained armor, thick arms resting on his knees, his long nails clinking against the metal as his eyes lazily scanned the others. Norg leaned back in a thin, jagged chair, his wiry green-cloaked frame almost lost in its shadow. The goblin-like demon's sinister gaze danced with calculation and contempt.
Their discussion was marked by constant tension and flaring tempers. Midway through, Norg leaned forward, tone smug.
"We should use Brymia to go after Aeloria. I suspect she's involved in helping those humans escape."
The room fell silent. Then one of the Gold Tier 4 demons chuckled darkly.
"So that's it. You're obsessed with a few stray humans now? You don't seriously think that's all this is about, do you?"
Norg's eyes narrowed, venomous. "Watch your mouth."
Roosell waved a hand dismissively. "I don't care about those kids. I won't waste my time."
The other Gold Tier 4 demon nodded. "We have better things to do."
Norg shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Do as you like. I'll act regardless. The Hobgoblin Tribe will move. We'll invade the Fanged Elf territories in the Upper Lands. And trust me—others will join in when the scent of war rises."
Devrak gave a hollow smile, golden eyes unreadable. "Not a bad idea. I can call a few of my own acquaintances to fight alongside you."
Norg's grin returned, thin and sharp. "As expected."
After more debates, vague threats, and unwilling nods, the demons eventually parted ways, each returning to their separate domains.
Within his quarters, Norg loomed over a shackled humanoid slave woman, her body trembling under his weight. As he took her, his mind wandered—not to her, but to the demon that haunted his thoughts more than any other: Devrak.
That damned monster.
Norg had seen him many years ago as an older man already at the peak of Gold Tier 5. Then, strangely, a few years later, he'd seen what he assumed was a different demon resembling him… at Silver Tier 3. Nothing remarkable at the time.
But six years later, during a tribal war, he'd fought that same demon, Devrak who had ascended to Gold Tier 1. Norg had already at that time reached the peak of Gold Tier 2 and he barely managed to win. He'd always been proud of his strength with his ability to overwhelm foes of the same Tier. But Devrak had almost matched him… while weaker?
What unsettled him more than anything was Devrak's mocking remark during that battle:
"Ah, it's great to see you improving, Norg. Still crawling your way through Gold Tier 2? You've come far since your long stay in Gold Tier 1… but slow, isn't it?"
A shiver of rage coursed through Norg. He released himself with a final grunt into the unconscious slave, lips curling into a hateful sneer.
"I'll make Aeloria mine. Her bloodline, her power… her womb. I'll create powerful descendants."
Outside Whispering Haven, chaos brewed.
Brymia's guards gathered enforcements—mercenaries, allied forces, and scouting beasts. Their priority: Elton, Zoro, and Ramiro. Elite sentries scanned the land, wings fluttering as their sharp eyes pierced through terrain and magic alike.
Back inside of Whispering Haven city. Towering above all of the buildings a great tower loomed. At its apex, two figures bowed reverently before a seated man radiating an otherworldly calm.
"Mortal Lord Groverton," Kale and Zumboori intoned.
Groverton, the city's Mortal Shedding Realm Guardian, offered a small nod. "Rise. Report."
Kale, the light green-skinned mage, stepped forward. "Tensions are high. The factions' aggression sparked by the human children is escalating. Brymia's actions nearly triggered a city-wide war. Outside forces are stirring. Internal disputes are turning violent."
Groverton chuckled coldly. "They'll all die in the end. This prison world will consume them, same as the rest."
Zumboori's scaled arms crossed, voice dripping with disdain. "I've warned them for years. Past and present leaders. Fools, all of them."
Kale frowned. "Some have tried to prepare. Former Golden Lord Demirak was one. Though injured, his movements were careful. Then there's the deceased Lord Jax, Lord Emmaticallo, and more recently, Golden Lord Aeloria, Lord Sheamus, and perhaps Golden Lord Rudecka. There may be others."
Groverton leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Aeloria… she may be one of the potential keys. Not the only one, but certainly one to look out for. Her foresight ability is very rare. I suspect she found an opportunity. Maybe tied to those children."
Zumboori's eyes sharpened. "Then she was involved."
Kale nodded slowly. "Even if so, it may not matter. Brymia struck first. Their actions nearly collapsed order within the city."
Groverton stood, turning to the tower window.
"Let them scheme, let them plan. It won't save them. Most here will die. But… perhaps a few, just a few… might find the crack in the wall."