Chapter 18 – The Enemies’ Plans

The dawn wind sliced through the tower like a living blade.
Purple flames burned in the braziers of the dark sanctuary, fueled by ancient sap and dried blood.

Kaelthar stood motionless before the black mirror—a circle of liquid obsidian that pulsed in silent waves, as if breathing time.

He felt it when it happened.

A brief, dry pain, not physical, but burning inside like a ruptured artery.

A broken link.

The seal that bound him to the Bloody Echo was ripped from the world.

No sigh. No lament.

Just the tension in his jaw, the light creaking of his fingers on the cold metal of the ritual table.

With a gentle gesture, he raised his right hand. Rune by rune, symbol by symbol, he drew a circle in the air with streaks of raw energy.

The Memory of the Fallen.

Magic, forbidden in any honest cult, pulled the thread of a dead being's memories through the traces of their remaining essence.
And the Echo had left traces… many.

The mirror's flame burst into a red ring.

Kaelthar didn't blink.

The images came without sound, but full of truth.

The destroyed field.
Ash where stone once stood. The creature's voiceless scream.

And then he saw him.

Grumak.

The body covered in blood and sweat.
The eyes—alive.

But there was something new. Something awakened.

White flames. Rays of energy that didn't belong in the ordinary world.
The warrior breathed as if channeling the elements themselves, as if the world were responding to his pain.

Kaelthar narrowed his eyes.

“The force awakens in extremes… as we expected.
But not at this rate.”

In the image, Grumak fell to his knees.

And the memory vanished like smoke in the wind.

The mirror dissolved.

Kaelthar turned away, his cloak sliding heavily.

He went to the tower balcony. The sky was clear, cruel, and cold.

— Why did you let him get away, Greg…?

The words came out in a hoarse whisper.

— It should have been extinguished before the first spark.

Silence.

Then he laughed—low. Cold.

—But that's okay. It's still early.
It's still fragile.

Kaelthar extended his hand over the ceremonial altar. A second surface shimmered. A mirrored metal framed in bone. Within it, hooded faces appeared. No eyes. No mouths. Just runes sewn into their foreheads.

— Locate him.
— The warrior of the ancient mark. — Eliminate him...

The creatures nodded silently.

The surface went black.

Kaelthar clenched his fist.

“No jewel should be wasted.
And no heir should breathe too long.”

In the Kingdom of Karmil

Torch smoke danced above the citadel's towers.

The crowd gathered in the square listened in silence. The stage was simple, but the figure in the center needed no adornment to shine.

Greg.

The polished armor. The dark red cloak. The eyes… strangely calm.

He spoke in a measured, deep, seductive voice:

—I do not ask for hatred. I ask for vigilance.
—The demihumans… live among us. Some with honor.—But… others?—Carry within them the spark of the forces that destroyed our temples.

Murmurs.

The nobles of the court, on the upper balconies, whispered among themselves.

Greg didn't use any apparent magic.

But his aura—dark, thick, invisible—leaked around the edges of the square like hot smoke.

And it touched hearts.

One of the lords whispered to his neighbor:

—He's right… there have been disappearances lately. The market is quieter.
—Those… with fangs and claws… roam as if they were free.

Another completed:

— Maybe… it's time to restrict certain permissions.

Greg smiled.

Slightly.

And behind the smile… something woke up.

Later, at the top of the emissary tower, Greg looked out at the horizon.

Someone entered the room. But he didn't turn around.

"It is done," said the voice.
"The first edicts will be proposed to the Council later this week." And the protests were contained. Without fanfare.

Greg nodded.

And then… he heard the voice.

Not coming from the room.

But inside the mind.

"In a few days, I'll need you to pick up an item.
In a village in the south. Wait for the tracking."

It was Kaelthar.

Greg didn't respond immediately.

But his eyes closed.

And the smile returned.

Kaelthar paced in circles around the lower hall of the tower.

On the wall, a map with energy traces.
In the center… Eldoria. But around it, a barrier of golden lines.

The Friendship Stone.

An ancient seal.
Planted as a symbol of pact. And now… a prison.

Kaelthar gritted his teeth.

— Damn stone…
— Damn symbol.

He ran his fingers over the enchanted surface.
And then… a snap of memory.

An old image.

Alliance soldiers—invading the dark lands of the demonic continent.
Ahead of them, orc mages… channeling a forgotten magic, a giant portal.

Kaelthar sprinted down to the lower crypt.

There, beneath layers of stone and iron, lay the belongings of Gornak —the wise orc he himself had slain centuries ago.

Among scrolls, artifacts and ancient weapons, he found what he was looking for.

A circular parchment, with vivid lines.

"The magic of Sacred Shift.
Capable of tearing an item from its natural place and transferring it... to an unknown point. Or... chosen.

One circle.
Six catalyst points. One center.

“Magic doesn’t destroy.
It… disperses.”

Kaelthar stroked the center of the parchment.

“If I can’t get through the stone…
I can make it disappear.”

The sound of the bells did not announce glory.
It announced silence.

The capital of the Kingdom of Karmil loomed over yellowish hills, built with pale stone towers and streets intertwined like ribs.
But that day, the sky was grayer than usual.
And the central square was crowded.

There were flags.

There were soldiers.

And there was Greg , standing on the golden pulpit, clad in the black armor of the champion of men, the three-sword crest on his chest—symbol of the ancient Order of Pure Honor.

His eyes were calm. So calm.
And no one could explain the chill they felt even before hearing his voice.

— “Men and women of Karmil …”

The voice echoed. Clear, almost soft.
But each word carried an invisible weight, as if it permeated the air.

— “This kingdom thrives on order. On discipline. On the purity of our lineage.”

Tense silence. The first rows of nobles kept their chins raised. The merchants, behind, merely listened.
Further back still… the demihumans . Those who worked outside the walls but needed to enter to sell, heal, or help.

Greg pointed his finger to the heavens, without raising his voice.

— “But there are forces… that grow in the shadows.
— They whisper. They manipulate. They corrupt. — Forces that do not belong to this soil. ”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

Greg looked down, feigning regret.

— “We don’t talk about war. We don’t talk about blood.
— We talk about protection .”

The word fell like a stone in the center of the square.

And with it, his aura expanded.

A dense energy. Invisible.
But everyone there felt it. As if the air became thicker, darker. As if doubt ceased to be doubt… and became certainty.

“The demihumans bring imbalance.
They invoke forces that our ancestors themselves tried to forget. To allow them… is to open the doors to our own downfall.”

In the following days, the effects were silent… at first.

A demihuman merchant was shoved at the fair.
A cat-eyed healer was prevented from crossing the wall gate. Three young hunters of mixed blood were beaten on the outskirts of Karmil —and the guards did nothing.

Greg watched from afar.
Without giving orders.

He didn't need to.

Its influence was like mold: invisible, slow… and deadly.

In internal meetings, nobles discussed over glasses and veiled threats.

— “They infiltrate the guilds.”
— “They sleep with our daughters.” — “They bring ancient artifacts. Symbols of impure times.”

Greg just listened.
And smiled, every now and then.

At night, alone in the tower where he had been staying, he stared at the map of the continent beneath black sails.
The border line between Karmil and the Mixed Lands pulsed slowly under a spell only he could see.

He whispered:

— “Divide before you conquer… that’s just the first step.”

A spark ran through his armor.
The essence of the Bloodecho still lived within him. Mixed with his own blood.

That's when the voice came.
Again.

Kaelthar.

“The tracking is nearly complete.
When the magic takes hold, I want you to go to the village of Dur'Malen .
There's something there… that I need. And only you can get it without awakening the veil.”

Greg responded coldly.

— “Understood. But be careful with your plans.
— Eldoria is still inaccessible. The stone holds.”

“Not for long.”

Silence.

“Oh… and watch out for Grumak.
My hunters have already left. But if he escapes… Finish what you should have done.”

Greg closed his eyes.

And he murmured:

— “This time… he’s not walking back.”

The next morning, new leaflets circulated around Karmil :

“Urban Purity Protocol: Review of Permissions for Entry and Permanence of Demihumans in Internal Zones.”

The city wasn't a prison yet.
But it was transforming, hour by hour, into a field surrounded by stares.

Greg descended the steps of his tower.
The city breathed with fear.

And he — hungry.

The hall throbbed.

Kaelthar 's feet like a drum whispering war.

Ahead of him was the Altar of Bones .
Above, the enchanted map of Earthlight spun slowly, shrouded in purple mists.
Eldoria glowed in the center like an untouched wound.
And all around… the dots began to light up.

Six.

—It's almost time… — his voice grazed the silence like a dull blade.

He opened the circular scroll , recovered from the spiritual remains of Gornak , the ancient orc sage who had died sworn to protect the secrets of the First Alliance.

In the center of the parchment: a spiral seal.

Around it: six marks —each calling for an artifact. An anchor. A symbol.

“Six forces to break the path.
One point to transfer the world. And the breath of will to seal what should never be seen.”

That was the key.
Not to destroy the Harmony Stone —but to banish it.
To push it from the physical plane into the Gray Veil. A place where neither light nor shadow have form. And where the Stone's magic … would not reach Eldoria.

Kaelthar took a deep breath. He touched the floating map with his hand stained with ancient blood and murmured:

— “You opened the rift with the gems…
…so I can too.”

From the lower reliquary, he removed the central artifact of his plan:

the Eye of Varhel .

A sphere of living obsidian, with golden internal veins, that moved like serpents trapped in a river of light.
A forbidden instrument, capable of tracking the energy flows belonging to the Veil , or carrying "sealed spiritual memory."

Kaelthar poured his own blood over the surface of the sphere.
It pulsed. The map of Earthlight formed in the air with absolute precision.

And then… the dots started to glow.

One by one.

—

Nurok 's Hammer

In the north of the human lands, near the ash mountains, a dense glow pulsed in a burning red.

—“The Tribe of Nurok …” — Kaelthar murmured.

Resilient orcs. Direct heirs of Gornak .
The warhammer that rests in their temple was not forged —it was discovered , within a crater where time still bleeds.

“Gem of the Forge.
Pulsates with the memory of raw creation.”

Kaelthar knew that this place was sacred,
and guarded by bloodlines that still remembered his name.

But he also knew the forgotten paths.

“I’ll open the rift near the southern border.
I’ll send Greg for it when the time is right.”

The Second Item — D' Shakar 's Solar Sphere

In the scorching desert of the demi-human continent, a new light emerged.

Yellow. Pulsating. Almost alive.

—“The Solar Sphere…” — he whispered, enchanted.

Guarded within the Reptilian Throne of D' Shakar , an ancient kingdom whose kings live for centuries and still worship the sun as a spiritual entity.
The sphere rotates perpetually, regulating the thermal flows of the Dawn ceremonies.

“Gem of Light.
Represents the pulse of balanced fire.”

Kaelthar gritted his teeth.

— “They won’t give me that artifact.
But every light has its night.”

The Third Item — The Secret of Bloodtrail

The third glow was the strangest.

He didn't appear on the map.
He appeared outside of it.

Among trees that didn't exist in the records.
In a village forgotten by the kingdoms, hidden by spiritual veils.

Blood-Trail.

Kaelthar narrowed his eyes.
The image steadied: Circular hut. Roots wrapping around the roofs. In the center… a figure seated before a low flame.

Lysara .

He shuddered.

— “Are you… still alive?”

Her image was faded. Her face paler. Her body more hunched.
But it was her. The one who once refused to bow .
The one who fought against the original rift. The one who sealed the first trace of ruin.

“The Root Gem… is with her.”

Kaelthar took a step back. The sphere trembled.

— “Even though you’re weak… you still protect.”

He couldn't attack her directly. Not yet.
But he knew what to do.

“Bloodtrail will be touched by shadows first.”

The map kept spinning.

Three points already revealed.
Three were missing.

But Kaelthar didn't need to wait any longer.

The Circle of Ruin was already in motion.

He walked to the center of the hall.
The runes on the floor began to glow.

Six marks.

He touched each one with the blood of memory.
He spoke in forgotten tongues.

And the earth responded.

"With these six points, I will surround Eldoria.
With these six seals, I will tear the Harmony Stone from the world."

The rift would open in the same place where the Harmony Stone would be, where the ground was sealed with blood during the Last War.

He would be a runner. Controlled. Precise.

Through which an army not of beasts, but of soldiers from the demonic continent , would pass.

In limbo. In the dark. In silence.

And Greg …

Greg would be the herald.

“With his aura, with his name, with his shield… he will bring the first breach.”

Kaelthar turned to the sphere and whispered:

— “Blood-Trail…D' Shakar … Nurok …

You are the beginning.”

He snapped his fingers.

Shadows appeared at the edges of the hall.
The bearers were summoned. The blood would be drawn. The bearers would be called.

The ritual was written.

Eldoria would not see the next festival.

The Harmony Stone…
would be exiled.