The encounter with Rosin Karat had bestowed Ery clarity, but it was far from the solution he had hoped for. Answers only led to more questions. The na "Vayerel" reverberated in his thoughts—a cosmic figure ntioned as part of Karat's group—but when Ery scoured the stronghold's prisoner records, he found no one under that na. He hit wall after wall: sealed files, redacted details, and missing nas that only deepened the mystery.
Another day slipped by without progress, and Ery found himself once again buried in the alchemist's quarter of the stronghold, sleeves rolled up, grinding powders and boiling herbs to produce more of the Expira Draught. It was essential for the war effort, yes—but it consud ti he didn't have.
Thankfully, soone stepped in.
"I will gladly help," said Ivaris with a grin.
Ery had hesitated at first—sharing such an important recipe wasn't a small gesture—but he was desperate. Unlike most alchemists, who would hoard knowledge for profit, Ery handed it over freely, earning Ivaris's respect and freeing himself with alchemy works to continue his investigations.
"You're a good bro," he said, eyes wide with admiration. "I'll never forget this."
With the burden of alchemy off his shoulders, Ery threw himself back into his investigation.
That very morning, however, chaos erupted across the stronghold.
Thousands of warriors were lined up and subjected to rigorous tests. What followed was nothing short of a nightmare—one in ten was found to be infected, dark spots appaer on their bodies as the pill works as intended. So collapsed and surrendered quietly; others panicked, attempting to flee, triggering brutal clashes throughout the grounds.
Then, as things escalated, another revelation broke through the chaos.
Gelael, the Ember Sage, stepped forward.
With all the pride of a man unveiling a masterpiece, he introduced what he claid to be a cure. Ery watched the first trials, and the sight was burned into his mory forever.
The so-called cure was brutal.
Infected prisoners were laid on stone slabs, trembling as high-grade recovery pills were force-fed to strengthen their physical resistance. Then Gealel would summon his cosmic fla—a dark fire that danced unnaturally, like it had a will of its own. The flas did not burn the flesh… not at first. Instead, they pierced straight to the soul.
The parasites scread as they were torn apart, their spiritual anchors consud.
Unfortunately, so did the hosts.
Two out of every three subjects died writhing, their soul shattered into dust. The ones who survived… they were husks, their cultivation destroyed, minds damaged. They would need years to recover—if ever.
But Gelael? He wore a smile through it all.
The more prisoners he got to practice on, the better he beca. Hence, he was grateful for Ery's pill, which provided him with more test subjects to improve his success rate.
"You find them, and I'll cure them," he said to Ery with a chuckle, his eyes glittering with morbid excitent. "We make a good team."
There was sothing in the sage's eyes that disturbed Ery. A pleasure taken in the suffering he inflicted—a detachnt that bordered on cruelty.
During the next command briefing, Lord Ariel, the vice commander of the stronghold, publicly recognized their efforts. He extended a rare offer: one reward of their choosing.
Ery wasted no ti. He requested access to classified prisoner data. It was a risky reward, one that could risk suspicion, but Ery was running out of ti.
Hours later, he was hunched over the encrypted docunts in a secluded war chamber. He flipped through reports—so heavily redacted—but among the blacked-out lines and sealed nas, he found what he was looking for.
It appeared Rosin Karat had indeed joined the northern forces shortly before surrendering himself. However, during his surrender, an unexpected ambush broke out. Dozens of cosmic-level experts were caught in the chaos, and many perished. Only a handful escaped—and one of them was the very man Ery sought: Vayerel.
The report gave Vayerel's last known location—a small northern city just two days' travel away.
His heart surged with hope.
At last, a real lead.
But there was no ti to waste. In just a few days, Ery was supposed to join the upcoming joint expedition. He knew there would be no chance of getting formal approval to leave the stronghold now, not with the heightened alerts and quarantine protocols. So he made a decision.
He would sneak out.
That night, while Ivaris slept soundly in their shared chamber, Ery quietly packed his gear. He stood by the door, muttering to himself.
"Spatial magic would be really useful right about now..."
Unfortunately, stealth and timing were all he had.
Navigating the stronghold's labyrinthine halls, Ery slipped through the lesser-used routes and maintenance passages. The corridors were dimly lit, the occasional flickering light crystal humming overhead. His every footstep reverberated faintly against the cold stone walls, but no one seed to be paying attention. It helped that his recent contributions had earned him a level of respect. Alchemists weren't typically expected to sneak around at night, so the guards didn't give him a second glance.
At the third checkpoint, a pair of tired sentries looked up at him and gave a lazy salute. Ery returned the gesture with a calm nod and pressed forward. The tension in his chest only grew heavier with each gate he passed.
Only one gate remained
It was the outermost checkpoint, manned by a seasoned cosmic-ranked officer with a sharp gaze. Ery's pulse quickened. If he were discovered, he'd have to fight his way out.
He was only a few steps away from the gate when suddenly a piercing alarm echoed through the air.
His heart dropped. They found ?
But as Ery turned, he felt a tremor in the ground—followed by a sense of dread washing over him through his spirit sense.
No... the alarm wasn't for him.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of hostile signatures surged toward the stronghold like a dark tide crashing down from the north.
The central stronghold was under attack.
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