Bakar leaned back slightly, his massive frame relaxing by degrees. He understood now. The Enlightened Seers were offering to act as intermediaries—to bridge the gap between his current tier and the Primordial Vein's inhabitants.
It was not direct access. But it was a pathway.
"What you seek is domination," the mystics whispered. "Not over land. Not over armies. Over Nubia."
Their voices echoed unnaturally, as if vibrating inside Bakar's bones.
"You desire a legacy carved into eternity."
"You desire to stand above kings, gods, histories."
"You desire not power…"
"But supremacy."
Bakar did not deny it.
His eyes burned with hunger, ambition, and a terrifying certainty.
"I will rule all of Nubia," he said slowly. "Not because I am destined to—but because I will take it."
The mystics' mouths curved into wider smiles.
"Then we will speak to the ancient ones on your behalf."
"We will descend into the Primordial Vein and carry your ambition to those who dwell there."
"We will negotiate the terms of your pact."
"But know this, Bakar," they said in unison, their voices dropping to a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once. "The entities of the Primordial Vein do not grant power lightly. They are born from faith, from terror, from blood itself. They twist fate. They reshape cycles."
Their red eyes glowed brighter.
"And understand," one mystic added, his voice cold as the grave, "that these ancient ones do not give freely. They feed."
"They feed," another continued, "on the energy generated by the actions their power enables."
"Every kingdom you conquer," whispered the third, "every family you destroy, every child left orphaned, every home burned to ash—all of it becomes sustenance."
"The blood you shed," the fourth intoned, "the terror you spread, the grief you sow—these are the frequencies upon which they feast. Your violence becomes their nourishment. Your ambition becomes their harvest."
The first mystic leaned closer. "Are you prepared for that, King of Mura? Are you prepared to become the instrument through which ancient hunger is satisfied? To know that every life you take feeds something far older and darker than yourself?"
"And their price is always steep."
Bakar did not hesitate.
"I am prepared to sacrifice anything."
The hut erupted.
Flames shot sideways. The air turned icy. The wooden walls groaned as if pressed upon by invisible hands. Strange circles of light appeared on the floor—glowing, spinning, collapsing into one another like collapsing stars. A low hum reverberated through the room, vibrating the very air.
Shadows rose and twisted like serpents. The candles extinguished—plunging the room into blackness.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence and void.
And then, slowly, the candles re-ignited.
The four mystics sat perfectly still, their blood-red eyes now closed. Their bodies swayed slightly, as though they were no longer entirely present. Their souls, Bakar knew, had left the hut. They had descended into the astral planes. Through the Dream Cycle. Through the Ethereal Drift. Down, down, down into the Primordial Vein.
To speak on his behalf.
To negotiate with forces older than the first sunrise.
Bakar waited.
Minutes passed. Or perhaps hours. Time felt strange in this place, as though the room existed outside its normal flow.
And then, the mystics opened their eyes.
"It is done," they intoned.
Their voices were layered now, as if something else spoke through them.
"The ancient ones have heard your ambition."
"They have tasted your hunger."
"They have weighed your soul."
The first mystic leaned forward. "They will grant you what you seek."
The second continued. "They will reshape the cycles. They will twist fate in your favor. They will ensure your conquest of Nubia."
The third added, "But the price…"
The fourth finished, "…will be revealed at its appointed time."
Bakar's eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"
The mystics smiled—cold, knowing, inhuman.
"It means," they said together, "that you will not know what you have sacrificed until the moment arrives."
Their voices grew soft, almost tender.
"It means that the ancient ones have chosen something you hold dear. Something precious. Something you cannot afford to lose—but will lose nonetheless."
The candles flickered.
"And when the time comes, you will have no choice but to give it."
Bakar sat in silence, absorbing the words.
Then, slowly, he stood.
His massive frame cast a long shadow across the room, and his eyes burned with cold, unshakable resolve.
"So be it," he said.
The mystics inclined their heads. "Go, King of Mura. Your path is set. The cycles have been altered. Nubia will bend to your will."
Bakar turned toward the door, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.
"But remember," the mystics whispered behind him, their voices fading like smoke. "Every gift has a price. And the ancient ones always collect."
Bakar did not look back.
He walked out into the night, swallowed by darkness—but carrying with him the promise of a destiny he was willing to bleed worlds dry to attain.
Even if it meant sacrificing something he could not yet name.