Chapter 11 — The Last Day of the Mission

The first light of morning touched the Circle of Voices, filtering through the ancient branches. The mist lifted like a veil, slowly dissipating to reveal a patch of forest where time seemed to stop for breath.

Grumak woke with his body tense, the echo of his dream still vibrating beneath his skin. Malias was already awake, sitting beside the Maeliri, which now looked different—sheathed in a woven leather cloth, as if it had become a sacred artifact. Tibrok yawned loudly, his fur standing on end, his ears flattened with sleep.

"I think I overslept..." he murmured. "Not even the nightmares found me. This circle is a delicate thing."

— It was. It's time to move on — said Malias, chewing on the last Frulambra .

Grumak silently watched the five stones in their place. The circle seemed still, but there was an expectancy in the air. As if everything was waiting for the next step.

"Grumak," Tibrok called, pointing to the stones, "you activated them… so only you can deactivate them. These beauties have been bonded to your energy."

He knelt down and placed his hand on the first stone.

The instant it touched, it glowed. A faint sound, like energy being sucked away—and it was gone.

Absorbed by the glove.

Grumak frowned.

— This wasn't supposed to happen...

— What? — Malias stepped closer, alert.

— The glove... pulled the stone. All by itself.

Tibrok turned pale.

— Try another one. Just to… confirm.

Grumak pulled into second.

Same shine. Same sound. And another stone is gone.

One by one, the five were absorbed.

Finally, a brief projection appeared before Grumak's eyes—symbols, combat patterns, runics he couldn't understand but felt. As if the glove spoke to him, showing him something... beyond.

And then it all fell apart, like a vision shattered by the wind.

— I saw... abilities. New techniques. It was like... my mind understood everything for a second.

Tibrok took two steps back, trembling.

"That's REALLY bad. The stones connect the physical world to the spiritual! We needed them to activate Tuntor's circle! If your glove absorbed the energy…"

“Maybe I’ve integrated it,” Grumak said, opening his palm. “Permanently.”

— There, Nok'vai, protect me... we're going to die crushed by an ancient beast dressed in cursed lunar jewels!

Malias put his hand on his shoulder.

— Breathe. One problem at a time.

Grumak clenched his fist, the glove now pulsing with smooth, precise energy.

— If Tuntor shows up... I'll face it.

Tibrok let out a shaky breath.

— I just hope he's not well rested.

The walk to Tuntor's Cradle was silent. Tension grew with every step. The ancient trail ended at a rise of thick roots. Tibrok pushed aside the branches and stopped, his eyes wide.

— We're here.

Down below, the valley.

Hidden within moss-covered stone walls, the place was a living vault. In the center was a large circle of bare earth, marked by furrows as if roots had passed through.

Blue-violet flowers bloomed between the rocks. The air was sweet… and restless.

"This is the Cradle of Tuntor," Tibrok whispered. "Where the first jewel fell. When he fused with the crystal."

Malias stared at the gigantic tree in the center of the clearing. Its branches looked like the arms of a sleeping god.

Grumak knelt down. From his backpack, he took out the items they had received from Venlar:

Five vials with viscous green liquid — to dissolve impure crystals.

A black silver shovel.

A talisman carved from living wood.

A blue cloth with golden threads.

And an emergency stone — unstable, unique.

Malias crouched down beside it.

— This is a ritual. Not a common mission.

“Maybe it’s both,” Grumak muttered.

“Let’s stay on the edges,” Tibrok said. “When the moon touches the highest branch… he will come.”

The afternoon melted into silence.

And then… night came.

The moment the last golden ray disappeared behind the trees, the ground shook. Not like an earthquake, but as if something gigantic had shifted beneath the earth. An ancient, deep sigh.

The wind didn't blow—it swirled. A slow, silent whirlwind that swept across the valley in a single spiral, as if the air itself had circled the world.

And then, the world reacted.

The surrounding trees began to recede. They didn't walk, they didn't move—but the space between them and the center of the valley stretched, distorted, revealing something hidden beneath the skin of time.

What was once a clearing became a sacred plain. A vast, open field where the real and the mythical fused.

To the left, the living earth—golden flowers blooming beneath their feet, leaves whispering secrets in the wind, the breeze carrying the scent of forgotten herbs. To the right, dry, cracked soil, scattered ash, black stones spewed by the world's own pain.

A perfect line cut everything in half. Light and darkness. Life and ruin.

“What… is that?” Malias murmured, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his hand unconsciously resting on the Maeliri at his belt, which pulsed with amber light.

Tibrok froze. His entire body froze.

— Look... there.

On the dark side, a rocky outcrop began to appear, where before there had been only mist. And upon it… a throne. Colossal. Carved from black stone, covered in crystalline roots that emitted a cold, bluish light, as if time itself breathed there.

It wasn't a throne for kings. It was something earlier. A seat of judgment.

All around, stone columns sprouted from the ground like thorns, and ancient symbols pulsed at their base—like the beating of a heart buried beneath eons of silence.

Grumak clenched his fists, his gaze narrowed.

— This is more than a field… This is an altar.

Tibrok swallowed hard.

— It's an arena. Divided. Sacred. And in the center... the point of balance.

Malias's Maeliri shone brightly. He recognized that ground. And perhaps, somehow, Malias did too.

The trio looked at each other. No words were spoken. But they all felt it: there, something awake. Something watching them.

Then came the tremor. The whisper of the ground. The sound of ancient chains breaking.

And Tuntor appeared.

It didn't appear — it was.

Sitting atop the throne, as if he'd been a part of it since the valley's creation. Giant. His thick, silvery fur glistened like snow on stone. His horns spiraled, golden and vivid, pointing to a sky where the stars had ceased.

His eyes remained closed.

But his presence was absolute.

The voice did not come through the mouth.

Came through the soul.

— This is the cycle. The eternal return. Where light and darkness don't fight for territory ... but for hearts.

Tibrok fell to his knees. Malias said nothing, but his body was tense, the bow a whisper away.

The Tuntor raised his arm—and pointed into the darkness.

— Come, Zarku... servant of the corrupted roots.

The cracked ground opened up.

And from it… emerged a familiar figure.

Zarku. A Nok'vai. Or what was left of one.

Gray skin, burned ears, red, dull eyes. Clothes made of dry bones and dead leaves. A twisted staff in his hand.

Tibrok let out a choked breath.

— He… he was from my village. He disappeared a long time ago…

Zarku didn't say much. He bowed to Tuntor and pointed behind him.

From the cracks, specters emerged.

Walking shadows with orange eyes. Some trembled. Others floated like hungry smoke.

And then, in the center, came something different.

A Bloody Eco.

Dark. Dense. His body made of floating stone and living mist. Two black blades orbited him like silent moons. His eyes burned white.

Tibrok was trembling.

— This isn't just a leader. It's an ancient fragment. A catalyst. A nightmare.

Malias pulled out the summoning shard, but it didn't activate. Grumak clenched his fists, the gauntlet vibrating with icy energy.

The Tuntor opened his eyes.

Golden. Immense. Eternal.

His voice was now sound:

—And where are the chosen ones of light? Let them prove the worth of their hearts… in the face of the fall.

The silence was broken by a sob.

Tibrok.

He approached Grumak, eyes on the ground, his voice cracking.

—I… didn't know it would be like this. I didn't know this mission was… the Night of the Counseling of Forces.

Grumak frowned.

- What the hell is that?

—A Nok'vai legend. Every age, the forest chooses. A representative of the light. One of the shadow. It's not just battle. It's judgment. A cycle that weighs the soul of the world.

He took a deep breath. And from around his neck, he took a necklace.

On the chain, an ancient coin — marked with an unknown but vibrant symbol.

He placed it in Grumak's hand.

— If you fall... at least you carry the name of my tribe with you.

Grumak held on tight. And nodded.

But before he could respond, a white light enveloped Tibrok. He rose from the ground, suspended by particles of energy.

His body disappeared.

And it reappeared, floating above Tuntor's left hand.

"I bring my champion of light," the giant said. "A heart guided by the bond."

Tibrok was deposited in a space below the throne, on a living platform, surrounded by roots and mist.

Malias was next pulled forward, enveloped in a silver glow. Her form moved like smoke until she appeared before the throne, seated on a chair formed of golden leaves and white stone. The throne of intuition. Of judgment.

On the opposite side, Zarku was already watching everything with half-closed eyes, sitting on a similar structure — but made of ash.

The arena was left for two.

Grumak and the Echo-Blood.

Grumak looked around. The ground pulsed. The spirits of light rose like directionless soldiers.

And Tuntor's voice came clear and resounding within Grumak's consciousness:

— Warrior of the ancient blood… have you decided? The field awaits you.

Grumak closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.

— Before that… tell me what this is all about.
Why are we really here?

— This is the Judgment of the Roots.
In each era, light and darkness clash, seeking balance. The forest—alive, ancient—belongs to neither. It belongs to the Cycle .
But for centuries, the light has not won… and so the beasts of life have no home. They wander. They wither. They forget. Darkness dominates. And with it… comes corruption.
Today… that can change.

Grumak slowly opened his eyes.
He saw Malias, sitting on the throne, serious as ever.
He saw Tibrok, firm despite his fear.
And he saw the forest beings… waiting for someone .

Waiting for him.

Then… it moved.

With a crackle in the air and a flash of blue, Grumak appeared in the center of the field of light .
Surrounded by the spirits of beasts, elementals, and creatures of nature.

The chaos receded.
The creatures lined up. Their eyes turned to him.

And something— everything —lined up.

The champion had revealed himself.

A strong wind cut through the valley.

From the shadow side, the Bloodecho raised one of the floating blades.
A dense, pulsing black aura began to erupt from his body. The ground around him cracked and rotted , as if the earth itself rejected him.

His eyes—two white embers— locked on Grumak.

Malias, on the edge of the throne, watched intently.

“It seems we have our showdown,” she said gravely.

Grumak did not respond.

He simply clenched his fists.
The elemental glove glowed an icy blue.

The air around him... began to cool.

Tibrok took a step back, eyes wide.

— Grumak…
If you fall, the forest will be dark. And we… will have nowhere to belong.

Grumak nodded. His eyes never left the enemy.

— I won't fall.

And then…

The silence exploded.

The field had been set.

The sacred battle was about to begin.