The rebel fleet sailed under cover of night, cloaked in silence and tension. Only the creaking of wood and the whisper of waves filled the air as Raizen and his handpicked strike team slipped away from the main armada, steering toward the heart of enemy territory. Their destination: Volkris, the volcanic isle that served as Flameheart Drax's forward command. But this wasn't an assault. It was a ghost mission — one meant for eyes and ears, not swords and cannons.
The rebels needed answers. Too many questions surrounded Drax — his meteoric rise, his inhuman strength, his ability to command fire like a living weapon. And more chilling still were the whispers: that Drax's flames were more than just elemental — they were laced with voidfire, the same black flame that had once surrounded the ancient weapon known as the Crown of Shadows.
Raizen stood at the bow of a small stealth skiff, his cloak drawn tight, his eyes locked on the glowing crimson fog rising from Volkris ahead. The air reeked of sulfur and scorched metal, and the sky above the island seemed permanently dyed in hues of red and black. This wasn't just a war zone — it was a place twisted by power. Unnatural power.
"Keep low," Raizen murmured to the crew: Zuri, Flint, and two elite scouts from the Smuggler King's network — one-eyed mercenaries who'd been paid handsomely to guide them through the shadow currents. "No one draws a weapon unless I say. We're not here to fight. We're here to find out what Drax really is."
The scouts navigated the volcanic rock passages with practiced ease, guiding the team through magma-etched caverns that pulsed with heat. They passed slave forges run by terrified captives, factories forging armor that shimmered with cursed embers, and barracks where soldiers bathed in fire as part of some brutal initiation.
But the deeper they went, the more disturbing the signs became.
Beneath the main foundry, hidden behind layers of charred stone, they found an underground chamber — older than the island itself, carved in black obsidian and inscribed with ancient glyphs. The chamber pulsed with residual energy that made Raizen's skin crawl.
"This… wasn't made by Drax," Flint muttered, his voice trembling. "This is older. Much older."
At the center of the room stood a twisted altar, its surface cracked and still glowing faintly with dying fire. Upon it lay fragments of a crown — unmistakably similar in structure to the Crown of Shadows, but malformed, as though burned alive from the inside. Surrounding it were skeletal remains, warped by intense heat and time, dressed in ceremonial armor bearing the Sigil of the Void Court — an order long thought extinct.
Raizen's breath caught in his throat.
"They were trying to copy it…" he whispered. "They were trying to recreate the Crown."
Zuri knelt beside the fragments, running her fingers across the scorched metal. "But why would Drax be here? He's not some ancient king. He's… what, a warlord?"
One of the mercenaries — the taller one, known only as Shade — stepped forward and broke the silence.
"He's more than that," Shade said, his voice grim. "I've seen things, followed rumors. Flameheart Drax wasn't born like the rest of us. He was made."
Raizen turned sharply. "What do you mean, made?"
"There's a program," Shade continued, "run by the remnants of the Void Engineers. After the Crown of Shadows was sealed away, the World Government tried to replicate its power through vessels — humans shaped by alchemical fire and void relics. Most didn't survive. But Drax… he was their masterpiece. A weapon they couldn't control. So he broke free, took what he needed, and now he wants to finish what the Crown started — not to control the world… but to burn it clean."
Silence fell like ash.
Zuri stood, drawing her blade halfway. "So he's a living relic? A monster crafted from forbidden fire?"
Raizen felt the weight of realization settle in his chest. This war wasn't just about rebellion or tyranny anymore. It was about something older — something deeper.
Drax wasn't wielding the legacy of the Crown.
He was its echo.
Suddenly, the cavern shook. A deep rumble echoed through the tunnel, followed by the hiss of pressurized steam. Alarms blared, red lights flaring above. Their presence had been detected.
"Time's up," Flint said, pulling a smoke pellet from his belt. "We need to vanish — now."
The team burst into motion. They raced back through the winding tunnels as firetroopers descended, their armor gleaming with molten runes. Explosions lit the sky above Volkris as Raizen's team fought to escape. But the firestorm closing around them was no ordinary blaze — it was sentient, moving with purpose, tracking them like prey.
Raizen unleashed Cinderfang to cut a path through the encroaching inferno, its blade humming with a rebellious heat that defied Drax's corrupted fire. They fought through collapsing passages and magmafalls, the air choked with smoke and screams. One of the scouts was incinerated — the other vanished into the smoke.
They barely made it back to the skiff. As they sped away from the island, Raizen looked back at the infernal skyline, where a massive silhouette stood watching them from the cliffside. Drax. His eyes glowing like twin furnaces. Not pursuing. Just watching.
Raizen clenched his fists.
They had the truth now. But it wasn't comforting.
Flameheart Drax wasn't merely a tyrant or a warlord.
He was the legacy of an ancient sin — the Crown of Shadows reborn in flesh and fire.
And if they didn't stop him soon, the world would burn under the weight of forgotten horrors.
END OF CHAPTER9