Still In The Human Avatar’s POV
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."
They didn’t reply, but he could see the faint tremble in their movements. He decided to indulge them.
"Why not tell me who sent you?" he asked, his tone almost conversational. "Was it the Duke himself? Or someone higher up? Or perhaps you’ve been manipulated, just like Elyndor?"
The taller of the two assassins hissed, their voice sharp and venomous. "Glory to the elven empire."
A raised an eyebrow. "That’s bold talk for someone standing in the middle of my web."
They froze. Too late, their eyes flickered downward, catching the faint glint of wires embedded in the earth around them. A smirked, his gauntlet clicking softly as he twisted his fingers.
Snap. Whip. Crack.
The wires constricted, carving through armor, flesh, and bone with ruthless efficiency. The taller assassin crumpled, blood pooling around their broken form. The final one didn’t even try to flee. They stared at A, hatred burning in their eyes.
"Do you think you’ve won, Avatar?" the assassin spat, blood dripping from their lips. "You’re walking into a war that will consume your kingdom. Your gods won’t save you."
A tilted his head, considering their words. "Maybe. But you won’t be around to see it."
With a final flick of his gauntlet, the last wire snapped taut, ending the assassin’s life. Silence returned to the forest, broken only by the faint hum of A’s mana threads retracting back into his gauntlet.
He stood there for a moment, surveying the carnage. The Deadwood Circle had been formidable, but they were just tools—pawns in a larger game. Their deaths only raised more questions.
Why send assassins now? Was this just a test, or a warning?
A sighed, wiping a bit of blood off his gauntlet. He’d never been the strongest Avatar, not in raw power. That title belonged to others like C the Wise or the Dragonkin’s Avatar, but strength was relative. A knew the value of preparation, the power of planning. He’d made himself the hardest to kill, and that had always been enough.
He straightened, pulling out a small cylindrical device from his pouch. Flicking it open, a holographic map projected into the air. The cursed crown he’d been monitoring, flickered on the map like a bloodstain, its signal pointing toward the Scorched Badlands. Toward the god-beast.
"Destruction incarnate," A whispered again, his voice heavier this time. He didn’t doubt the god-beast’s strength. What worried him was the rapid rate of its growth. If it continued to ascend at this pace, it would soon reach the Third Stage—possibly stronger than any Avatar in the Middle Realms. Including him.
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He clenched his jaw, recalling James’s description: molten veins, obsidian scales, eyes that burned with unyielding power. If that thing was destruction itself, what chance did the Middle Realms have?
His mind flickered to the war. The Elves had moved faster than expected, their armies already pressing against the border. It wasn’t just a territorial grab—it was an act of desperation. Did they know about the god-beast’s true nature? Or was this a distraction, orchestrated by a hidden hand?
The gauntlet hissed again as he flexed his fingers, mana coursing through its veins. It was a marvel of his own design, capable of amplifying his spells and physical strength beyond their natural limits. But even with his contraptions, his intellect, and The State, he wasn’t sure if it would be enough.
"The State…" He exhaled slowly, the mere thought of the technique filling him with a mix of dread and determination. The Avatars had all mastered it—a last-resort ability that tripled their power for a brief, excruciating minute. If the god-beast truly reached the peak of the Third Stage, The State might be their only hope.
After all, the peak of the Third Stage Of Monsters was already equivalent to an Avatar’s strength.
The Fourth Stage & Beyond, Only the gods could deal with them.
His thoughts shifted to James. The boy had survived where others hadn’t, his wits and resourcefulness carrying him through. A faint smile tugged at the corner of A’s lips. James reminded him of himself, once. But James was still young, untested. He had potential, yes, but potential wouldn’t save them from what was coming.
A’s gauntlet hummed softly, the map projection fading as he pocketed the device. He turned his gaze to the barrier once more, the shimmering magic pulsing faintly. Beyond that line lay the Elven Empire—and answers. If anyone could shed light on the god-beast’s origins and the mind-bug’s manipulations, it was C the Wise.
"I just hope you’re not part of this, C," he muttered under his breath. "Because if you are…"
He didn’t finish the thought. Instead, he took a deep breath, the air crackling faintly with latent energy. His path was clear, though the weight of it pressed heavily on his shoulders.
A stepped forward, the barrier parting before him like water, its magic bending to his will. The line between kingdoms blurred as he crossed into Elven territory, his mind racing with strategies, questions, and the lingering echo of James’s voice.
+
James paced nervously in the small clearing where his hut once stood, the charred ground crunching underfoot. His mind was a storm of guilt, confusion, and anger. His master’s cryptic words echoed in his head, but the image of the god-beast loomed larger than any warning or instruction. Its molten eyes, the sheer indifference in its voice—it had burned itself into his mind like a brand.
And now war. War was tearing the Middle Realms apart. He couldn’t sit idle while everything he knew crumbled.
He glanced at the rune-stone in his hand, its faint glow pulsating with promise. Calling Sylvia felt like the obvious first step. She’d understand. She’d help. James hesitated, though, his thumb hovering over the activation glyph.
Before he could decide, the stone flared brighter, the light pulsating erratically. Someone was contacting him. His heart leapt to his throat.
"Sylvia?" he whispered, pressing his mana into the rune.
The familiar voice crackled to life, soft but urgent. "James! You’re alive?"
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "Sylvia. Yeah, I… I made it out."
Her relief was palpable, even through the unstable connection. "I can’t believe it. I thought—I thought—" She cut herself off, her voice trembling. "I’m so glad. I was terrified we’d left you to die."
James clenched his fists, shame creeping into his tone. "It was my choice, Sylvia. I told you to leave."
"That doesn’t make it right!" she snapped, her voice breaking. "We abandoned you. Thrain wanted to come back, but I—" She stopped abruptly, as if the words hurt too much to say. "I couldn’t convince him."
James paused, his brow furrowing. "Thrain? What do you mean?"
She hesitated, her voice quieter now. "When I tried to reach him, after… after we left, he only said one thing. ’I’m done.’ Then he cut the connection."
James’s chest tightened. Thrain, the stalwart dwarf who never backed down, was giving up? It didn’t seem possible. But then again, they’d faced something no mortal should have to face.
"He’s alive, at least," James muttered, though the words felt hollow. "And you? What happened after you left?"
Sylvia’s voice softened. "We returned to my people’s borders, but it wasn’t safe for long. The Elven Empire’s forces are mobilizing. Even within our Dominion, we’re bracing for the worst. My master has issued strict orders not to engage in any conflicts unless directly provoked."
"Strict orders," James echoed bitterly. "We’re pawns in a game none of us understand."
"I know," she said quietly. "But what about you? What happened after we left you with that… that monster?"
James shivered at the memory. "It let me go."
Silence. When Sylvia spoke again, her voice was laced with disbelief. "What? Why?"
"It said I was too weak to bother with," James admitted, his voice bitter. "And I think it’s true. Compared to it, I’m nothing. The god-beast—it’s beyond anything I’ve ever seen. It played with us, Sylvia. You saw that."
Sylvia’s wings flared audibly through the connection, the sound sharp and agitated. "And it just let you walk away? That doesn’t make sense. A creature like that doesn’t show mercy."
"It’s not mercy," James replied. "It’s indifference. It doesn’t care about us. We’re insects to it, Sylvia. It’s focused on something bigger. And it’s going to keep ascending until nothing can stop it."
Sylvia’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Then why are we still alive?"
James hesitated. The thought had gnawed at him since the moment he’d used the return stone. "I don’t know. Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it just likes playing games. Either way, it’s out there, and we’re here, trying to figure out how to survive this war."
The word hung heavy between them. War.