Veldt's Throat, Twin Serpent's Spine — Dawn, Year 8002 A.A.
The morning came slowly, peeling its way across the sky like a golden parchment set alight. Light seeped through the jagged crown of cliffs that formed the valley's teeth—Twin Serpent's Spine. The mountains did not rise, but coiled—black, serpentine, and ancient. And within that narrow, winding gorge, the world felt like it held its breath.
A silver mist moved like a living thing between the walls, thick and slow as syrup, curling through the ancient bones of Veldt's Throat. It pooled and twisted around the boots and hooves of the convoy trudging cautiously below—Carlon's soldiers in full formation, silent but for the wet crunch of stone and the low clatter of mana-forged armor.
There were no birds here. No insects sang in the crevices. Only the hush of watchful stone and the pulse of magic.
The soldiers' faces were stone-set, their bodies trained and hardened, yet something inside each of them knew they were not marching alone.
Among the many crates—some packed with weaponry, others with food or scrolls—there was one that sat darker than the rest. A single crate whose runes glowed not with flame or light, but with an eerie rhythm of silence. Its sigils hummed softly beneath the breath of reality, as though singing to something buried beneath the world.
Item X.
And atop it, unmoving as the mountain behind him, sat Adam Kurt.
Cross-legged, his bare paws lightly resting on the mana-carved surface, he faced the rising sun. His robe—blue green and sleeveless—fluttered slightly in the breeze, but his posture was still. His blue fur, usually so vibrant under sunlight, appeared dimmed in the valley's shadow, and the yellow blindfold across his eyes seemed to pulse faintly, like a lantern beneath cloth.
Within him, he felt it.
There should be birds. There should be wind. There should be the scattered noise of nature wrestling with man. Instead…
Too still. Too symmetrical.
And then, the stillness broke.
HISSSS—POP!
A burst of gray smoke cracked through the air, curling overhead like a wounded beast. It stung the nose, clung to the skin, and silenced the last traces of ordinary thought. Torches flickered. Men coughed. And shadows moved in.
"Battle formation! Guard the cargo!" bellowed General Gon, the Komodo giant whose scales shimmered with heat-woven armor. His tongue flicked once, catching scent and ozone, and then he surged forward with a roar that cracked the stone.
"All shields brace left! Right flank—secure the center! Lock the box! I said LOCK IT!"
And from above, they descended.
Figures in soot-black cloaks leapt from the cliffs like living blades—Ronins with their faces wrapped in scarves, their eyes gleaming with belief. Ropes, mana, and sheer hoofed agility guided them down the cliff-face, where no normal warrior could tread. Their weapons shimmered with blue-tinged energy, flickering not like fire, but like memory.
A voice cried out—"For the Savior! For Carlon's True Justice!"
At the center of the storm came Garo—small, fierce, a Tenrec Tracient with a scimitar that danced like wind. He landed without flourish, without sound, and in the breath it took a soldier to gasp, he had already cut through the runic defenses meant to keep enemies at bay.
Gon responded with fury.
"Filthy Ronin! You die here today!"
"Arcem: SCALES OF RËSH!"
The change came at once. His armor fused into him, scales thickening, claws lengthening. His blade, once separate, now flowed from his right arm—heavy as iron, slick with condensed mana. Each step he took made the ground shudder.
And still, Garo didn't yield. No armor. No magic cloak. Only wind and instinct.
They met like fire and oil.
Adam did not move.
He remained still, balanced atop the humming crate, blindfold tilted slightly as though sensing each heartbeat on the battlefield. One soldier—a young Ronin too eager, too brash—charged toward him, blade high.
Adam twitched.
That was all.
The Ronin collapsed mid-leap, limbs stiff, eyes wide, breath stolen. Not a cut. Not a burn. Something inside him had been—unmade.
Adam did not even lift a paw.
These Ronins… they're more than zealots. The Tenrec, especially—Garo—he fights Gon like an equal. That means training. Preparation. Purpose. But they're not here for victory. This isn't about crates. It's about the world seeing them rise. But… to what?
Then the earth groaned.
It was not the sound of spell or weapon.
It was something deeper.
No… older.
The mist rose higher. A pressure built beneath the soil. A soundless vibration that gnawed on the edges of thought.
Adam rose slowly, Hisame's hilt shifting softly behind his shoulder.
It's begun.
At the mouth of the valley—both ends—the cliffs cracked.
Boulders tumbled. Dust bloomed. And suddenly, the convoy had no path forward. No road back. Just stone and death on either side.
Panic rippled. The soldiers moved like a body stabbed in the heart. Some turned toward the walls, striking them uselessly. Others gripped their spears and whispered prayers beneath their breath.
"What… what is this trickery?!" Gon snarled, slashing at the wall with fury. "This is treachery! Sorcery!"
From above, Garo leapt to a ledge, blood on his tunic. He grinned—not with joy, but certainty.
"The Savior walks with us tonight," he called. "Your walls are now your coffin."
And the wind stopped.
From the highest ridge, a silhouette appeared.
The mist parted—not with fear, but reverence. It bent away from his steps as if ashamed to touch him.
He did not leap.
He did not fly.
He walked.
White-furred. Horns curved like broken moons. Scars adorned his body like badges, like names he no longer spoke aloud. And on his arm, the faded symbol of Hazël #7 glowed faintly—like something half-remembered by history.
When he stepped onto the ledge overlooking the whole of the valley, the world seemed to listen.
Even the thunder mounts stilled.
Even the mana in the air paused its hum.
And then he spoke, voice low, voice ancient, voice like the storm returning to the mountains after a long exile:
"Warriors of the Trisoc. This battle need not end in death. Surrender Item X, and I will leave you breathing. Resist… and you will be buried here with it."
From atop the crate, Adam turned his face fully toward the voice.
That aura.
That name.
That weight.
He had not felt it in years—not since the last meeting of the Narn Lords before they arrived at Kürdiala.
Kurtcan, he whispered.
The wolf within stirred.
So the young goat lives…
Adam stepped forward on the crate's top, and when he spoke, his voice did not shout.
"Karadir Boga. Former top foot soldier of ArchenLand. Once the cleaver of mountains. And yet… here you stand. A ghost unburied. What has become of you, my friend?"