"You are right."
The admission was so unexpected that Rachid nearly flinched.
Bakar leaned forward, his tone shifting slightly—still absolute, but no longer entirely dismissive. "You are weak in body. But you are not weak in mind."
He tapped the side of his head. "You are smart, Rachid. Clever. Calculating. That much, you inherited from me."
Rachid's breath caught.
"And so," Bakar continued, "I am granting you permission to walk the Scholar Route."
The words landed like a thunderclap.
Rachid's eyes widened. "Father, I—"
"Do not disappoint me," Bakar said, his voice dropping into something cold and final. "You will be initiated. You will advance. And you will prove yourself useful to me."
He leaned back in his throne, his gaze like iron. "Because you, Rachid, are going to play a vital part in my plans. In my conquest of Nubia."
Rachid's heart pounded in his chest. "I will not fail you, Father."
"See that you don't."
Bakar waved a hand dismissively. "Go. Begin your preparations. I will arrange for a Master Scholar to initiate you."
Rachid bowed deeply, his voice trembling with something between fear and gratitude. "Thank you, Father."
He turned and left the throne room, his footsteps echoing against the stone.
---
And then, Bakar was alone.
The doors closed with a heavy thud.
The torches flickered.
And the air in the room began to change.
Bakar remained seated, his massive frame unmoving. But his expression shifted—darkening, hardening, as though a mask had slipped away.
He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the suddenly cold air.
"I am a Second Grade Master Warrior," he murmured to himself, his voice low and edged with frustration. "And yet, I cannot fully pierce the Primordial Vein."
His hands tightened on the arms of the throne.
He had walked the Dark Path of the Warrior Route further than most. He had bound entities. He had sacrificed. He had carved his name into the astral realms with blood and will.
But the Primordial Vein—the deepest layer of the astral planes, where the most ancient and powerful entities dwelled—remained just beyond his reach.
He could touch its edges. He could sense the immense power that pulsed within. But he could not fully enter. Not yet.
And that frustrated him.
Because his plans—his conquest of Nubia—required the backing of forces older than kingdoms. Entities that could twist fate itself. Beings that could reshape cycles.
He needed certainty. He needed overwhelming power.
And he could never be too sure.
The temperature in the room dropped.
The torches guttered and dimmed, their flames shrinking to faint embers.
And then, the atmosphere itself began to shift.
The air grew heavy. Oppressive. It pressed down on the room like the weight of a thousand unseen corpses. The scent of blood—thick, coppery, ancient—filled Bakar's nostrils.
The walls seemed to darken, as though the stone itself was bleeding shadows.
And then, slowly, something began to materialize.
It did not enter through the doors. It did not descend from the ceiling.
It simply became.
A presence.
A shape.
A thing that existed between the physical and the astral, half-solid, half-smoke.
The entity stood at the edge of Bakar's vision—tall, twisted, its form flickering like a flame caught in a windstorm. Its body was vaguely humanoid, but wrong. Distorted. Its limbs were too long, its joints bent at unnatural angles.
Its face—gods, its face—was a nightmare given form.
The visage was deformed, cracked like shattered pottery. Blood dripped from a gaping wound across its neck, pooling in the air and evaporating into crimson mist. Its eyes—empty, hollow sockets—wept rivers of dark, coagulated blood that streamed down its cheeks and dripped onto the floor without making a sound.
In each of its skeletal hands, it gripped a machete. The blades were rusted, chipped, stained with old blood that seemed to shimmer and pulse with malevolent life.
The entity stood there, silent and motionless, radiating an aura of pure, suffocating dread.
Bakar did not flinch.
He had seen this being before.
The djinn's voice came—not from its mouth, but from everywhere at once. It echoed through the room, through Bakar's bones, through the very fabric of reality itself.
"You struggle, mortal."
The words were soft. Almost gentle.
But they carried the weight of a thousand deaths.
Bakar's expression remained stone. "I do not struggle. I adapt."
The djinn's hollow eyes turned toward him, blood still streaming from the empty sockets.
"You seek the Primordial Vein. You seek power beyond your current grasp."
"I seek certainty," Bakar corrected coldly.
The djinn's head tilted—too far, unnaturally far, as though its neck was broken.
"Then seek the Enlightened Seers of your kingdom."
Bakar's eyes narrowed.
"They walk the higher cycles. They pierce the veil as easily as breathing. They can open the gate for you."
The djinn's form flickered, its voice growing softer, more distant.
"Through them, you will reach my Master. The one who dwells in the deepest vein. The one who can grant you what you desire."
The entity's blood-streaked face leaned closer, its empty eyes staring into Bakar's soul.
"But remember, King of Mura... every gift has a price."
And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the entity vanished.
The oppressive weight lifted.
The temperature returned to normal.
The torches flared back to life.
And the room was silent once more, as though nothing had happened.
Bakar sat perfectly still for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he stood.
His massive frame cast a long shadow across the throne room, and his eyes burned with cold determination.
"The Enlightened Seers," he murmured to himself.
He knew where to find them.
He would contact them.
they would open the gate.
And he would seize the power he needed to conquer Nubia.
No matter the cost.