Gruk and Aamon had been mining for hours in Shadowmoon Valley. Some of the ores were stolen from orcs (though they never tried to face one on one). Some were robbed and taken after killing goblins. Some came from humans, and a few they actually mined themselves. Gruk was fond of creating trouble wherever he went Aamon had to follow along with him. But sometimes they ended up getting looted by the rogues.
Gruk wanted to dominate the other races living in the Shadowmoon region. He leaned on his pickaxe, wiping sweat from his brow with a grin that showed too many teeth.
"Soon I'll be strong enough," Gruk declared, voice booming across the rocky pit. "I'll raise an army from these corpses undead legion, unstoppable! We'll march back to the underworld, kick Valthar off his shiny throne, and I'll sit there instead. Imagine it, Aamon! Me, Gruk the Magnificent ruling from the obsidian seat, with you as my loyal second-in-command!"
Aamon, knee-deep in a half-dug vein, didn't even look up.
"Prince Gruk, you said the same thing about the goblin chief's left boot last week. You still haven't used it. It's still sitting in your pack, collecting mold."
Gruk waved a dismissive hand, nearly knocking over an imp miner.
"That boot was cursed! It kept whispering 'give up' every time I tried to wear it. Bad vibes. This time is different. Look around corpses everywhere! Perfect material for my glorious undead legion!"
He swung his pickaxe dramatically, smashing a rock and sending shards flying into an imp's face. The imp screamed and ran in circles. Gruk laughed so hard he almost dropped his weapon.
"See? Even the minions are excited!"
Aamon sighed so deeply it sounded like his soul was leaving his body.
"They're excited because you just gave one of them a free facial reconstruction. Again."
Gruk ignored him and crouched down, poking at a half-buried goblin skull with his boot.
"Think about it, Aamon. I raise these fools as zombies loyal, tireless, no backtalk. No more whining about quotas or pay. They'll follow me into the abyss itself. Then we go back to the tournament grounds, challenge Valthar to a rematch, and when he loses, I take his crown, his ring, his throne everything!"
Aamon finally looked up, face completely flat.
"Prince… you lost to Valthar because he crushed your spine in front of the entire court. You were screaming for your mother. I had to carry you out like a sack of potatoes."
Gruk puffed out his chest.
"Details, Aamon! Details! That was then. This is now. With an undead army, I'll be unstoppable. I'll make Valthar kneel literally. I'll have him polish my boots with his tongue while my zombies cheer."
Aamon stared at him for a long moment.
"You do realize zombies can't cheer. They just groan."
"Then I'll teach them! I'll train them! I'll have zombie cheer squads! Pom-poms made from goblin ears!"
Aamon pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it left marks.
"I need a vacation."
Gruk grabbed his shoulder.
"No vacations until I'm king! Now come on deeper we go. More corpses, more power, more throne!"
They went deeper into the Shadowmoon region. Gruk kept talking, voice echoing off the black stone walls.
"Our road to success starts from here, Aamon. No more second place. No more 'almost king'. This valley is mine. The ores are mine. The dead are mine. And soon the entire underworld will be mine!"
Aamon sighed again deeper this time.
"Prince… if we keep looting everyone, someone is going to loot us back. Again."
Gruk laughed loud, manic, echoing.
"Let them try! I'll raise their corpses too! Double the army!"
Meanwhile, Vael continued along the deadly mountain paths, crossing rivers and facing many dangers.He killed many on the way, not because he wanted to, but because he had no other option. Even the humans were killing humans; they all had killing intent.
For a moment he felt it was not him anymore. Sometimes he felt lost in his mind. Even if he tried to stop, since his arrival within minutes he had been killing wave after wave of orcs and rogues for hours. His hands were stained with blood that wasn't his own, his breathing shallow and mechanical, his thoughts dull and distant like echoes in an empty room. The weight of each life he ended settled on him like wet ash, heavy but numbing. He moved forward because stopping felt impossible like admitting the killing had become part of him.
Suddenly there came a memory of his mother waiting at home, how his life was when his father was still alive. Her flour-dusted cheek when she smiled at him, the way she hummed while kneading dough, the quiet evenings when his father would sit by the fire and tell old stories of the river. The warmth of those days felt impossibly far now, like a dream he could no longer reach. His throat tightened. His chest ached. For the first time since he arrived, the numbness cracked, and underneath was raw, burning guilt.
Vael realized someone had said it true: "Curiosity kills."
So he planned that since he had enough ores, selling them to merchants would bring him more than enough coins. He opened the map from the system. It was quite far from where he was, so he decided to hold for a night.
In the blink of an eye he climbed the towering tree and curled up among its branches for sleep.
Commander Darius suddenly raised his fist. The entire column halted at once — horses snorting, armor clinking, dust settling around them.
He turned in the saddle, eyes scanning the southern horizon.
"We hold here for the night," he said, voice low and final. "It's not far now, but we haven't reached the destination yet. Set up tents. No fires. We move at first light."
The riders dismounted in silence. Tents rose quickly — canvas stretched tight, stakes driven into hard earth, bedrolls unrolled without a word.
Beatrice stepped forward, staff planted firmly in the dirt. She looked at Darius.
"Are we going the right way, Commander?" she asked. "I've been thinking… why do we need to follow the drake? Can't we just prepare ourselves back at the capital? Strengthen our defenses? If the time comes, we'll be ready."
Raymond cut in before Darius could answer. His voice was quiet but firm.
"When a True Demon King rises, the earth faces catastrophe. The heavens send us warnings — as per the legends and prophecy. But none of that happened. And all of a sudden, someone summoned Deathwing out of the blue. None of this makes sense. And if that someone is — or is not — a True Demon King, why go in the other direction? We just need to know. Or recruit him if possible. If not… probably kill him while he's still in his weak state. Because from what I know, he has not taken the throne yet. Or else the world would already be filled with demons — destroying everything we built and loved."
Commander Darius looked at Raymond for a long moment. Then he nodded once — slow, deliberate.
"You're right, Raymond," he said. "We have to take the first step before the underworld does. Now we rest here for the night… before it's too late."
The camp settled into uneasy quiet. Horses stamped softly. Wind moved through the grass. Stars appeared one by one overhead.
Raymond sat apart from the others, back against a low boulder, knees drawn up, staring at the dark southern horizon. His hands rested loosely on his sword hilt, but his fingers twitched every few minutes a small, restless habit no one else seemed to notice.
Elara watched him from her bedroll a short distance away. She had not moved closer. She had not spoken since the earlier conversation. She simply watched.
He had not looked at her once since they stopped.
She noticed the way his shoulders stayed rigid even in rest.
She saw how his gaze never settled always flicking south, then to the empty air beside him, then down to his own hands as though they belonged to someone else.
She noticed the faint tremor in his breathing when he thought no one was looking.
Elara pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The night was not cold, but something in the way Raymond carried himself made the air feel thinner.
She wanted to cross the short distance between them.
She wanted to ask again softer this time what was eating at him.
She wanted to place a hand on his arm and feel the warmth that used to be there.
But she stayed where she was.
Because every time she had tried to reach him these past days, he had answered with the same quiet wall: "I'm fine."
Because the smile he gave her now never reached his eyes.
Because the man she had once known the one who laughed easily, who leaned into her touch, who shared his thoughts without hesitation felt farther away than the southern horizon he kept staring at.
Elara looked down at her own hands steady, healer's hands and felt them suddenly useless.
She did not move closer.
She did not speak.
She simply watched him sit alone in the dark, shoulders tight, gaze lost somewhere she could not follow.
And for the first time since they had left the capital, she felt the distance between them grow wider than any road could measure.
No one slept easily.