"But what about the war?" James demanded. "The Elves, the Middle Realms—if this thing keeps growing, it won’t just be the Avatars fighting it. It’ll be everyone."
"That is why I must act," his master said. "I am heading to the Elven Empire to uncover the truth behind their actions. Their war is a distraction, James. Something is driving them—something connected to the god-beast’s rise."
James felt his chest tighten. "And what am I supposed to do? Hide? Run?"
"Yes," his master said bluntly. "You are not ready for what lies ahead. The god-beast is not your battle to fight. Not yet."
James’s voice rose, anger and desperation spilling over. "I can’t just do nothing! I watched it kill Kael, destroy Elyndor, shatter everything we thought we understood! And now the Elves are marching to war because of it? There has to be something—"
"Enough!" his master’s voice thundered through the connection, silencing him. "You are not useless, James. You are alive. That is enough for now."
James clenched his jaw, his hands trembling as he gripped the rune-stone. "And what about you? What if you don’t come back?"
There was a pause, the silence stretching painfully before his master spoke again, his voice softer this time. "You have always been stronger than you know, James. Trust in that strength. Trust in me. I will return."
The connection faded, the rune-stone’s glow dimming. James stared at it, his mind racing. The weight of the world pressed down on him, heavier than ever before.
The god-beast. The Elves. The war.
And he was caught in the center of it all, a pawn on a board far larger than he could comprehend. For now, all he could do was wait—and hope his master’s words were more than empty promises.
+
The forest at the border of the Human Kingdom and the Elven Empire was unnervingly silent, save for the crunch of leaves beneath his boots. A faint mist clung to the ground, curling around his legs like restless phantoms. The stillness was a predator’s stillness—the kind that spoke of unseen eyes, watching, waiting.
’A’, the Avatar of the Humans, adjusted the straps of the intricate mana-engineered gauntlet on his right arm. The faint hum of power emanated from its core, visible through the transparent casing. With each step, the gears and runes etched into the gauntlet clicked softly, an ever-present reminder of the strength he’d built with his own two hands.
Destruction incarnate. A god-beast. His mind echoed James’s words from the conversation moments ago, each syllable carrying a weight he couldn’t ignore. He’d heard rumors—whispers of a monstrous being born in the Scorched Badlands—but he’d hoped they were exaggerated tales meant to stoke fear.
Now, he knew better. The god-beast was real, and it was growing.
"James survived," A murmured to himself, a small relief in an otherwise grim situation. He hadn’t been sure what he’d find when the communication rune activated. The boy’s shaken voice, recounting their encounter, had been both a balm and a curse. James was alive, but what he’d faced… A clenched his fist, the gauntlet hissing faintly as mana surged through it.
Elyndor. Manipulated. A mind-bug.
The implications were staggering. Elyndor, the prodigy of the Elven Avatar, had been a pawn in a larger scheme. The mind-bug was no small feat; its use required precision and knowledge of ancient magic. That meant there were forces beyond even the Avatars at play. The question was: who? The Duke of the Elven Empire? That snake of a man certainly had the ambition, but his methods were usually more overt. If not him, then…?
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A’s brow furrowed, his mind cycling through possibilities. C the Wise, his long-time rival and—once upon a time—ally, came to mind. She was the Avatar of the Elves, renowned for her unparalleled magical prowess and strategic brilliance. But would she stoop to such treachery? Manipulating her own student? A sighed, his thoughts heavy. No, not her. But if not C, then who?
The stillness around him deepened as he neared the border, the trees thinning to reveal a vast expanse of open plains. The Elven Empire’s territory stretched beyond, its rolling hills and shimmering forests a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of the human side. Somewhere out there, C the Wise was likely grappling with the same chaos.
He stopped at the edge of the treeline, his sharp blue eyes scanning the horizon. The faintest shimmer of magic hung in the air—an ancient barrier that marked the divide between kingdoms. He knelt, brushing his fingers against the ground, and his gauntlet whirred to life, runes glowing faintly as they analyzed the lingering energy.
"Enhanced," he muttered, frowning. The barrier had been reinforced recently. The Elves were expecting something—perhaps an incursion from the Humans, or worse, the god-beast itself.
The moment A stepped through the shimmering barrier into Elven territory, the atmosphere shifted. The air was heavier, sharper, filled with a tension that clung to his skin. He felt it immediately—the faint hum of cloaked mana signatures, subtle distortions in the environment that betrayed hidden presences.
They were waiting for me.
His lips curled into a faint smile. The Elves were nothing if not predictable. The Duke would never allow an Avatar of the Human Kingdom to simply stroll into his domain unopposed. And these weren’t amateurs; no, the faint pressure tickling the edges of A’s senses spoke of the Deadwood Circle—elite assassins so skilled they could end demi-gods if their plans aligned. The air reeked of their precision.
He stopped walking, standing motionless in the clearing as if daring them to make the first move. The fingers of his mana-gauntlet flexed, gears clicking faintly as mana conduits warmed to life. His voice broke the silence.
"Do you really think this will work?" His tone was calm, almost amused, but laced with steel. "Sending assassins after an Avatar? I expected better from the Duke."
Silence. The forest didn’t stir. Even the faint rustle of leaves seemed to die away. But A could feel them—five presences, each moving like shadows through the trees, weaving mana to cloak their movements.
"Do you really think this will work?" His tone was calm, almost amused, but laced with steel. "Sending assassins after an Avatar? I expected better from the Duke."
Silence. The forest didn’t stir. Even the faint rustle of leaves seemed to die away. But A could feel them—five presences, each moving like shadows through the trees, weaving mana to cloak their movements.
They’re patient. That’s good. Means they think they’ve already won.
A casually rolled his shoulders, taking a single step forward. His boots crunched on the forest floor, the sound almost deafening in the unnatural stillness. "You’re the Deadwood Circle, aren’t you?" he said, his voice carrying in the eerie quiet. "I’ve heard the tales. Five assassins, each one trained to kill gods. Very impressive."
Nothing.
"Did you know I once hired your predecessors?" he continued, his voice conversational. "Brilliant craftsmen. I studied their techniques. Improved upon them, actually."
That did it. A faint shift in the air—a ripple in the mana field. A’s eyes flickered toward the source just as a needle-thin shard of mana shot toward his throat. His fingers twitched.
Snap!
The sound of a wire slicing through the air came first, followed by a muffled thud. The shard dissipated mid-flight, its caster crumpling to the ground, their neck severed cleanly by a near-invisible filament. A glanced in the direction of the fallen assassin, the faint glow of his gauntlet casting eerie shadows across his face.
"You should’ve done your research," he said, his voice low and mocking. "You’re not the only ones who work with threads."
The remaining assassins moved instantly. They didn’t hesitate—not even as one of their own lay lifeless at their feet. Mana surged, forming blades, spears, and webs of shadow as they attacked in perfect unison, closing the distance with inhuman speed.
A raised his hand, and the gauntlet flared to life. Threads of mana, finer than spider silk, shot outward at supersonic speed. To the naked eye, it was as if the air itself had turned against the assassins.
Slash. Crack. Whip.
One assassin lunged at him with a twin-bladed dagger, the weapon shimmering with enchantments meant to pierce even an Avatar’s defenses. A sidestepped casually, the wire coiled around the dagger’s hilt snapping taut and pulling the assassin off-balance. With a flick of his wrist, the wire sliced cleanly through the assailant’s arm. They screamed, but the sound was cut short as a second wire looped around their neck, silencing them forever.
The forest erupted into chaos.
Another assassin leapt from above, their body wreathed in shadow that absorbed all light. A shifted his stance, his gauntlet releasing a pulse of energy that lit the air like a web. The shadow-wreathed figure hesitated—a fatal mistake. One of the threads caught them mid-air, cutting through the cloak and embedding itself deep into their chest. They fell without a sound.
The last two hesitated, their flawless synchronization faltering. A let out a soft chuckle. "Ah, there it is," he said. "Doubt. That’s the problem with perfection. One crack, and it all falls apart."