Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

Ron's thoughts churned, a frantic current amidst the battle's chaos. As clashing blows echoed and Markus held his ground, a daring theory sparked in Ron's mind: if divinants like him were tied to divinity, to the very essence of the divine weapons wielded by the Luminaries, then perhaps his own latent powers could finally manifest. He didn't fully grasp his abilities yet, but a profound spark of enlightenment was stirring, refusing to be ignored.

Markus, locked in a brutal fight with the monstrous figure, caught Ron's distant gaze and sighed inwardly. "Not again," he thought, recognizing the familiar trance Ron was slipping into. Usually, this meant Ron would become lost in his thoughts, oblivious to the world burning around him. But this time, something was different. A fiery, unnatural glow blazed in Ron's eyes—fierce and captivating.

Markus hesitated, yet found himself strangely reassured. The glow, the raw determination etched on Ron's face, felt profoundly mystical. "Whatever it is you're doing, or planning to do, I hope you do it fast," Markus thought, gritting his teeth as he dodged another vicious attack from the possessed host. Despite his usual grumbling, Markus trusted Ron. And that fiery glow made him believe that whatever Ron was about to unleash, it would be extraordinary.

Lost in his trance, Ron's mind unraveled mysteries he hadn't known lay within him. His martial arts—every form, every strike—were suddenly infused with crystal clarity. Concepts he'd never grasped before now resonated with profound understanding. His movements, once instinctive, now hummed with something greater. He began to connect his divinity with his weapons, his sword and his very being becoming conduits for divine will.

A bright radiance began to emanate from Ron's body. He had seen this glow during his trial, but then, he hadn't understood it. Now, it felt different. It wasn't an external phenomenon but a part of him, guiding him as if the light itself possessed a will. He murmured softly, his voice barely audible, "This is the same aura Father showed... the Divinants of the War God. The blessing of the God of War."

The world around him seemed to slow. Sounds dimmed, movements blurred, and Ron's focus sharpened until the battle was a mere blur of fleeting shadows. He was awakening, stepping onto a stage of power he had only glimpsed before. This was what it meant to be a divinant. It wasn't just strength or speed; it was the manifestation of a divine blessing, a direct connection to a greater force.

Ron's voice broke the eerie stillness. "Markus, stand back!"

Markus obeyed instinctively, pulling away and watching as Ron raised his weapon. The glow around him intensified, engulfing him in fiery brilliance. His sword gleamed as divinity poured into it, enhancing his speed, power, and defense. Ron shifted his stance, positioning himself for a strike that carried the weight of his newfound enlightenment.

Ron's voice rang out, raw and commanding. "Hate-Ender's Strike!"

With incredible speed, he lunged, his form blurring as he delivered the finishing blow. His strike didn't touch the host's body but aimed directly at the spirit's aura—piercing through the darkness. The possessed figure let out an otherworldly scream, the spirit's malice clinging on. "Hungerrr... Hate... Feeeed..." its voice echoed, desperate and feral, before slowly diminishing into silence.

The glow surrounding Ron faded as the monstrous spirit disintegrated into nothingness. It was over.

Overwhelmed by the success, Ron leaped into the air with comical exuberance. "I did it!" he exclaimed, punching the sky. Markus, still catching his breath from the exhausting fight, couldn't help but smirk as he approached.

"Hate-Ender Strike?" Markus asked, his tone dry but tinged with amusement. "Where did that come from?"

Ron shrugged sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know... it just felt right. Ending their malice, their hate, and then—strike! Nothing fancy. Hahaha."

Markus let out a tired laugh, shaking his head. "Cool."

The two shared a brief moment of levity as the soldiers watching from the sidelines gaped in awe. To them, the fight had been a revelation—an extraordinary display of prowess beyond their comprehension. But to Ron and Markus, it was just another step in their journey—one victory, one revelation, and countless mysteries still waiting to be unraveled.

Aftermath and Report

Back in town, the two accompanying soldiers wasted no time reporting to Chief Alister. Their expressions were grave but tinged with awe as they recounted the events. Alister listened intently, his brows furrowing with each word. When they described the spirit possession and the monstrous aura surrounding the host, he could hardly believe it. Yet, their vivid account of Ron's actions—his calm precision, his radiant divinant power, and his incredible finishing strike—left no room for doubt.

Alister leaned back, exhaling sharply. "So it's true... a malignant spirit. And Lord Aric's son... a divinant." Shaking his head in disbelief, he began drafting the official report, meticulously recording every detail. He knew this information was too important to keep local. "This must go to the chiefs and to Lord Aric himself," he muttered, his pen scratching furiously across the parchment.

Meanwhile, in their rented room, Markus, ever the dependable assistant, was busy with his usual duties. He sat at a desk, drafting a thorough report of the mission. As the team's unofficial secretary, bodyguard, butler, and all-around handler, Markus excelled at turning chaos into order. The report included everything—the battle details, strategic insights, and even observations on the divinant blessing technique.

Once satisfied, Markus leaned back with a contented sigh. "All done," he announced. "I'll send this to Lord Aric immediately." Turning to Ron, he asked, "Anything you want to add?"

Ron waved a dismissive hand but then grinned. "Nah, I'll leave it to you. Just make sure you include my awesome moves."

Markus raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

Ron laughed but quickly shifted his tone. "Okay, but seriously, don't forget to highlight the divinant blessing. It's clearly the best way to deal with these spirits. The council needs to know that."

Markus gave a small nod. "Of course. I didn't miss a thing." He folded the report neatly, sealed it, and called over their trusted messenger bird. The creature, a highly trained avian gifted to them at the start of their emissary mission, was no ordinary bird. Hardened by rigorous training, it was swift and capable of surviving in the harshest conditions. Markus tied the report to its leg and gave a simple command. "Go. Deliver this to Lord Aric."

The bird took off, cutting through the sky with purpose.

A New Wave and a New Path

Back at the village, trouble stirred once more. Another flock of possessed had emerged—not a large number, but enough to send waves of fear through the townsfolk. A soldier rushed to inform Ron. "Sir, we need your help!"

Ron smirked, turning to Markus. "Ready for another round, mate?" His confidence was unshaken.

Ron and Markus sprang into action, and this time, with experience on their side, the battle was swift. Together, they efficiently subdued the possessed without harming their hosts, their teamwork seamless. The soldiers stood in awe as Ron and Markus demonstrated an intricate dance of combat, precision, and restraint. Once the possessed were incapacitated, Ron instructed the soldiers to tie up the hosts and let them rest. Arrangements were made for their interrogation and care.

Ron turned to Chief Alister with a nod. "They're all yours now. Make sure they get the care they need. My work here is done."

As the duo prepared to leave, Ron felt a sense of fulfillment. His mind, however, was already on the next steps. "It's time to head back to the Rugal Estate," he said.

Lord Aric's Pride and a Royal Summons

Meanwhile, the messenger bird arrived at the estate, where Lord Aric received Markus's report. Sitting in his study, Aric's eyes scanned the parchment carefully, his expression shifting from concern to pride. "So... divinity is the key," he murmured to himself. "This changes everything. Now we have the edge. We finally know how to approach this."

He immediately summoned the council, updating their defensive strategies based on the insights from Markus's report. Lord Aric's chest swelled with pride at his son's achievements. "Ron," he said softly to himself, "you've proven yourself beyond what I could have imagined."

After ensuring his own domain was prepared, Aric rallied his forces, blending the strengths of his warriors with the divinant's unique abilities. When the next wave of possessed spirits struck the gates of the Rugal Estate, the defenders were ready. The divinants took the lead, their divine essence and precise techniques proving unmatched against the malignant spirits. Their ability to destroy the spirits without harming the hosts set them apart, and their presence inspired those around them.

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Yet, it was the warriors who held the line, their discipline and bravery ensuring that the defenses never faltered. They worked seamlessly alongside the divinants, using their expertise in combat to protect the estate's walls and hold off the possessed until the divinants could finish the job. The battle was swift and decisive, the combined forces demonstrating a harmony of strength and strategy.

When the dust settled, the hosts were spared, and the Nomad Healers worked tirelessly to nurse them back to health. The estate stood strong, a testament to the unity and power of its defenders.

A Father's Pride and a Son's Refusal

Lord Aric stood before his son, his usually composed demeanor softened with pride. "You have done a great job, Ron. You've saved countless people with your discovery. I am proud—not just as the Lord of our domain, but as your father. You, my son, have proven yourself to be not only our top warrior but a true beacon for humanity."

Ron grinned sheepishly, scratching his head. "Of course, Father... well, Markus helped!" His laughter faded abruptly as he caught himself, suddenly remembering to whom he was speaking. His posture stiffened as he quickly reverted to his serious mode, his tone clearing. "Ahem."

Aric, though amused, didn't address the slip. "Anyway, son, your contribution will greatly aid humanity. The Sword God himself has received news of your exploits, and he is most pleased. He wishes to see you."

Ron's eyes widened at the mention. "The Sword God?!" He shifted nervously, already sensing where this was headed. "Umm... no. I'm sure you want me to go, and I know he wants me to be there, but absolutely not. I can't do it, Father. He'll only limit me—put rules on my adventure. So that's a big no."

Aric raised an eyebrow, clearly anticipating his son's objection. "I haven't finished speaking yet," he said, his voice calm yet firm. "But yes, you are correct in guessing. I'll send him your reply, and I'll explain it to him."

Ron sighed in relief, his posture relaxing. "Thanks, Father. That's one less thing to worry about." He paused, then glanced up hesitantly. "Are you sure you don't want me to meet him?"

Aric nodded, his expression thoughtful. "It's your decision, Ron."

The council members seated nearby exchanged discreet glances, struggling to contain their amusement. It was rare to see Lord Aric interrupted mid-conversation, rarer still for him to allow such interruptions. Watching the two interact like a normal father and son was unexpectedly delightful—especially witnessing someone boldly objecting to the Lord.

Summoning a guard, Aric spoke next. "Bring Markus here."

Moments later, Markus entered the room, his usual composed expression unwavering. The council rose, acknowledging both Ron and Markus with their utmost respect. One of them stepped forward, presenting badges of honor to the duo. Another followed, handing gold coins to them for their travel allowance, along with a personal reward for each of their achievements.

Markus took the reward graciously, sending nearly all the gold to his family back home, keeping only a modest amount for himself. Ron, meanwhile, was less restrained, pocketing his share with a grin, though he didn't fail to express his gratitude to the council.

Aric addressed his son once more, his voice steady and commanding. "Ron, you have proven your worth. You are most useful when you dedicate yourself to your craft. Humanity needs you. Your skills as an investigator will only grow, and I trust you to handle what lies ahead. We've received reports of disturbances in a northern town. I want you to head there next and investigate thoroughly. Always send us a report."

Aric glanced at Markus, adding, "Three messenger birds will be assigned to accompany you on your travels."

"Three birds?" Ron asked, looking incredulous but too polite to outright complain. He didn't argue, though his expression shifted comically as he turned to Markus, quirkily lifting his upper lip as if to mock him. The silent message was clear: Looks like you'll be writing even more reports now.

Markus shook his head, understanding the unspoken jab. "Yes, Ron. I know—I'll be doing all the reports and sending them to the Lord. As always."

Aric, watching the exchange, allowed himself a rare smile. "You are dismissed for now. Rest up and wait for your next orders."

The duo bowed respectfully, leaving the chamber as the council observed them with pride. Though their paths were demanding, the trust and faith placed in them were unshakable, and their journey was far from over.

Aric's Plans and Elion's Loyalty

Lord Aric stood by the window of the chamber, gazing out at the sprawling estate below. His mind was sharp, considering the next steps. "I suppose it's time to meet the Sword King," he murmured to himself. "Ron, however... he's made it abundantly clear he won't be coming along."

He exhaled deeply, recalling his son's objections. While Ron was gifted, spirited, and growing into his role as a divinant, his refusal to meet the Sword King was steadfast. Aric couldn't force him—not now. Still, the absence of his son meant the responsibility of representation would lie squarely on his shoulders.

Aric turned toward the guard stationed by the entrance. "Bring Elion here," he commanded.

Shortly after, Elion Draveth, Aric's trusted divinant, entered the chamber. The room seemed to quiet as Elion stepped inside, his presence measured but commanding. Loyal to his master beyond question, Elion had served Aric for years, his devotion unwavering. While Elion lacked the extraordinary power of a Blade Lord, his strategic mind, sharp instincts, and divine resilience made him invaluable.

"You called for me, my lord?" Elion asked, bowing respectfully.

"Yes," Aric replied, his voice steady. "The Sword King has summoned us. I had hoped Ron would join me, but he has declined. I'll respect his decision, though I fear the opportunity missed may one day weigh heavily on him. Nevertheless, we must move forward."

Elion nodded, his gaze firm. "I understand, my lord. The boy has his reasons, and he'll come to his own in time. Until then, I'll stand beside you."

Aric allowed himself a faint smile. "You always do. Prepare for our departure; this meeting will shape the path ahead."

Elion bowed once more. "As you command, my lord. I'll see to the arrangements immediately."

As Elion left to make preparations, Aric's thoughts lingered on his son. Ron's independence was admirable, but his reluctance to embrace his full potential as a divinant was troubling. Still, Aric trusted him to grow in his own way, perhaps finding his strength in the unlikeliest of circumstances.

Turning to his council, Aric addressed them with the gravity befitting his title. "The Sword King awaits. Our alliances and strategies will determine the survival of humanity. Ensure the estate remains secure while I am away."

The council nodded in solemn agreement, their trust in Aric absolute.

The Wrath of Valtherus

The chamber pulsed with a dim, foreboding light. Valtherus stood motionless at its center, his crystalline throne casting harsh reflections of brilliance across the walls. The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of Malrik Veylshade kneeling before him, his head low and his eyes unreadable. Behind Malrik, the masked figures of the Black Order lingered in the shadows, their presence muted as though they dared not draw the Athenari's ire.

Valtherus's radiance flickered, the light emanating from him cold and sharp like broken glass. Yet it was not the usual controlled brilliance of his divine aura. Instead, it was fractured, unstable—a manifestation of the fury boiling beneath his cold exterior.

"The sorrowfiends..." Valtherus began, his voice cutting through the air like a blade, "...failed to breach the defenses of Rugal's city. Failed."

The word reverberated through the chamber, its weight enough to make the air feel heavy. Malrik's head dipped lower, though he showed no outward sign of fear. The Athenari's anger was palpable, a force that seemed to charge the very atmosphere with an oppressive intensity.

"They were destroyed," Valtherus continued, his voice escalating in anger with every syllable. "Not scattered, not delayed. Destroyed. By the warrior faction—a collection of brutes who have no grasp of the divine. This was not supposed to happen."

The light around him flared briefly, illuminating the chamber in a blinding flash. The masked figures of the Black Order flinched, their loyalty unwavering but their resolve tested under the weight of his rage. Still, Valtherus's focus remained fixed on Malrik, the leader of this sinister group.

Yet, when he spoke again, there was no direct blame in his words, only a cold, biting reprimand. "You carried out your orders as instructed," Valtherus admitted grudgingly. "The sorrowfiends were planted where they needed to be. But now..." His voice dropped to a dangerously low growl, "...those warriors have found a way to eradicate my creation. They have ruined what was to be a masterpiece of control. Once again, the Warrior Faction, with their meddling and brute force, has disrupted my designs."

Malrik finally lifted his gaze, his expression calm but his tone deferential. "My lord, their discovery is troubling, yes—but we can adapt. The Black Order is ready to carry out your will."

Valtherus's piercing gaze bore into him, his aura flickering with restrained fury. "Ready to carry out my will? Do not presume to comfort me with hollow assurances, Malrik. Their discovery threatens not only the sorrowfiends but everything. If the Warrior Faction believes they can neutralize what I have created, their audacity will spread to others."

He turned, pacing slowly. "Do you understand the implications of this failure? Faith in the Luminaries rests on their ability to 'save' humanity from threats like the sorrowfiends. If the Warrior Faction steps into the role of saviors, the very foundation of our power begins to erode."

Malrik remained silent, knowing better than to interrupt Valtherus in his rage. His masked associates stood like statues, shadows stretching unnaturally around them.

Finally, Valtherus stopped and turned, his eyes blazing with cold light. "This failure will not be forgotten. No... it will fuel what comes next. Let the Warrior Faction think they have achieved some grand victory. Let them believe they hold an edge. Their arrogance will blind them to the greater storm I shall unleash."

His aura flared again, brighter and harsher than before, forcing everyone in the chamber to avert their eyes. "Strengthen the sorrowfiends. Modify them if you must. If the warriors have found a weakness, eliminate it. And spread them further, wider. We will drown their defenses in a tide of malice they cannot hope to withstand."

Malrik inclined his head, his voice calm despite the charged air. "It will be done, my lord."

Valtherus stepped closer, towering over the kneeling figure. "See that it is, Malrik. Fail me again, and the shadows you so deftly command will be the first to consume you."

Malrik rose to his feet with calculated composure, his associates stepping forward as his shadow deepened around them. "The Black Order exists to serve the Athenari. We will not fail."

Valtherus said nothing further, his figure turning to face the crystalline light once more. But his presence remained oppressive, his wrath rippling through the chamber as an unspoken warning. As Malrik and his masked followers retreated into the shadows, one thing was clear: the Warrior Faction's victory was not a triumph—it was the spark of a far greater conflict to come.