Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

Echoes of Failed Evolution

A dim glow flickered in the Vanguard's war-room, illuminating scattered documents and hastily drawn diagrams pinned against the walls. The air was thick with tension, unspoken uncertainties clashing beneath the surface. Clyde stood at the center, one hand resting on the edge of the war table, his expression taut with conviction. Before him, several Royal Vanguard members listened in silence, their faces reflecting a mix of skepticism, concern, and quiet fear.

"Nephra has failed—again and again." Clyde's voice was sharp, pressing through the heavy silence. He tapped the parchment before him, where a rough-sketched diagram lay. "Not for lack of trying. Not for lack of intelligence. Every attempt to force the Malifuge into a controlled transformation collapses into chaos. But why? And more importantly—" His fingers traced a jagged arc across the chart. "Why does he continue?"

One of the Vanguard members frowned, arms crossed. "You're implying Nephra isn't just experimenting—he's chasing something specific."

"Exactly." Clyde's tone hardened. "Look at the pattern. Each failure follows a structure. Not random. Not unpredictable. The Malifuge rejects control, yet adapts. When pressed, they shift. Some grow erratic. Others... mimic. Lyra's existence proves that mimicry isn't just survival—it's a byproduct of Nephra's interference." A murmur spread through the group, unease tightening the air.

"Then what's his end goal?" another asked.

Clyde adjusted his stance, gaze steady. "Three possibilities." He turned to the first marked section of his diagram. "One: He believes there is a final, perfected form hidden within their instability. If he can force them beyond the failures, they'll stabilize into something new." His hand moved to the second point. "Two: The Malifuge aren't evolving randomly—they're being guided. He suspects something external—an unseen force—is shaping their transformation." A sharp pause.

Clyde continued. "Three: This isn't about control. It never was. Nephra might be trying to provoke something deeper—to push the Malifuge toward a revelation none of us have seen yet."

And then, the most chilling thought of all slipped into his mind—a realization so unsettling he almost didn't want to voice it aloud.

"There was mention of an Abyssal in our last mission." Clyde's voice was quieter now, more deliberate. "One of the beings we fought—stronger than any Divinant, stronger than anything we've measured before." Silence blanketed the war-room. One of the Vanguard members shifted uneasily.

"If that Abyssal was truly beyond Divinant strength..." Clyde exhaled, the weight of the implication settling in. "Then what happens if Nephra himself is an Abyssal?" A new weight settled into the room—a realization that made everything before it seem insignificant.

"If that's true, then Nephra's failures aren't failures at all." One of the Vanguard members spoke, voice steadier than expected. "They're steps—deliberate steps toward something beyond control."

Clyde tightened his grip on the parchment. "That's what I intend to find out—before Nephra does." But as the weight of his own words settled over him, Clyde realized—this was beyond them now. Beyond the Vanguard's function. Beyond the scope of their missions. They had uncovered something deeper than mere experimentation—something that threatened the stability of everything they stood to protect.

One of the members finally broke the silence. "We need to tell the Queen." A murmur of agreement spread through the group, yet Clyde shook his head. "We don't have enough." That was the truth. What they had were fragments, uncertainties, whispers of theories stitched together through failure. Not enough to demand action—not yet.

And then, the final word came—not from Clyde, but from another member of the Vanguard. "The threat is real," they said. "Even if we don't understand it—even if we lack proof—we've proven it to be real. Someone, or something, is behind it." Silence stretched, the weight of those words settling like stone. And in that moment, Clyde knew—they were already too deep into this mystery to turn back now.

Weighing the Unseen War

The Queen sat at the head of the chamber, her presence commanding yet still. Around her, the gathered royal advisors and high-ranking officials spoke in measured tones, their words laced with uncertainty. The crisis with Nephra was unfolding faster than expected, and the Royal Vanguard, despite its strength, was not equipped for this kind of battle.

"Our military can handle this," said a hardened voice—Lord Vaelis, a high-ranking strategist. His posture was rigid, unwavering. "We have forces prepared. If the threat is real, we deploy and neutralize it before it grows beyond control."

"And what of our other conflicts?" another voice countered—Lady Isolde, an advisor known for her precision. "The kingdom is still recovering. Our military is stretched across multiple fronts—handling insurgents, border disputes, and rogue factions looking to exploit our weakened state. We cannot afford another war without certainty."

The Queen listened, her gaze sharp but unreadable.

"Then do we seek aid from another kingdom?" a younger strategist suggested. "We have allies—those willing to lend forces if we present this crisis properly."

"We don't have enough evidence," Isolde said evenly. "We present theories, assumptions—but no proof that the threat is organized or escalating. Any kingdom we approach will ask for substantial justification before committing troops. And if we fail to deliver that proof, we weaken our political standing." Silence stretched across the chamber.

Then, another voice broke the stillness. "There is a group," said Lord Callais, his tone level, knowing. The Queen turned slightly, listening. "One that does not answer to nations but has handled threats like these before." Several in the room stiffened.

"They work silently. Not in shadows, but unseen," Callais continued. "Their victories are not publicized, yet they have preserved this world more times than history records. If this crisis is beyond our understanding, then it may be exactly the kind of mission they take upon themselves." A quiet interest flickered in the Queen's expression.

"You speak of the Shadowblades," she said. A murmur rippled through the room. Some recognized the name. Others had only heard whispers.

"They do not accept requests easily," Vaelis remarked, his tone skeptical. "They choose their battles carefully. And they do not bend to royal decree."

"Which is precisely why they are the right choice," Callais countered. "They do not waste time with bureaucracy or uncertain threats. If they come, it is because they recognize the danger as real."

The Queen considered this carefully. "And what do you propose?" she asked.

Callais leaned forward slightly. "We send word. Not a demand, but a message. If they do not answer, we are no worse off than we were before. But if they do... then we will know that this crisis is not just speculation. It is something far greater than we anticipated."

Another pause stretched over the chamber, then the Queen exhaled. "Very well. Send the message. Let the Shadowblades decide if this is truly a battle worth taking."

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And so, the first step was taken—a quiet invitation sent toward forces unseen, waiting to determine whether this conflict was theirs to claim.

A Moment Between Storms

The sky was streaked with amber light as the evening settled over the outpost, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Clyde leaned against a railing, arms crossed, while Aurel and Kirin sat nearby, a quiet hum of conversation passing between them.

"So, what's the verdict?" Aurel finally asked, stretching slightly.

Clyde exhaled, gaze distant. "Missions are on hold for now. Not indefinitely—just until we finalize our part in this mess."

Kirin raised a brow. "Not complaining, but that sounds suspiciously like time off. Which means I could technically just—" he paused, considering the possibilities, "—have an actual break."

Aurel smirked. "You'd waste it on another hell-training regimen, wouldn't you?"

Kirin clicked his tongue. "That was the plan. But now that you mention it..." He leaned back, eyes narrowed as if weighing his options. "On second thought, maybe taking another mission would be better. Less suffering."

Clyde chuckled, shaking his head. "Don't get too comfortable. The Queen contacted the Shadowblades."

Aurel's expression flickered, something sharper, more focused. "Wait—you mean she actually reached out to them?"

"Officially. Her advisors weighed the options, and in the end, she decided this isn't something the Vanguard can handle alone."

Aurel was silent for a moment, then exhaled—a hint of something reverent in his tone when he finally spoke. "Phantomblade." The name carried weight. "He's the strongest I've ever known. He doesn't just defeat enemies—he dismantles their very idea of strength."

Clyde tilted his head slightly. "So you admire him?"

Aurel didn't hesitate. "He's one of the reasons I push myself harder. If the Shadowblades step in, I want to be strong enough to stand beside them—not behind them."

Kirin smirked. "And here I thought you were just stubborn for no reason."

Aurel shook his head, laughing under his breath. "Shut up."

Clyde glanced at the horizon, the weight of things to come settling in. The Shadowblades had been contacted. Whether they answered or not—well, that was another battle entirely.

The Boundless Link

Kirin wiped blood from his split knuckles, his breath sharp and labored. His body wasn't broken—it refused to break—but Aurel's training pushed beyond reason, beyond exhaustion, beyond limits.

"Keep going," Aurel said evenly, not as encouragement, but as expectation.

Kirin exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. Push the body until it stops feeling like mine. I got it."

Aurel nodded, satisfied, then turned—his focus shifting entirely. Rindel. Unlike Kirin, Rindel sat motionless, waiting. Always waiting. Aurel strode forward and lowered himself onto the ground, crossing his legs. Without hesitation, Rindel mirrored him, adjusting his posture until he was seated exactly the same way. Aurel studied him, intrigued.

"You can understand me, can't you?"

Rindel's head tilted slightly, then nodded—a silent affirmation.

"Are you capable of speech?"

Without hesitation, Rindel twisted his face sideways, indicating no. Not surprising.

"But you can comprehend everything I say?"

Another nod. That was enough for Aurel.

"Can you fight?"

This time, there was no answer. No nod. No shake of the head. Just stillness. Aurel frowned slightly. He understands—but does he truly know what fighting is?

"You understand me. That's good enough." His fingers tapped against his knee, thoughts shifting. "If you're some kind of extension of me, then that must mean you have something from me." Aurel's eyes flickered, calculating. "Which means—maybe you know a thing or two about battle."

A test, then. Aurel shifted into a swordsman's battle stance, holding his form firm—a silent instruction. Rindel mirrored him effortlessly.

"Good," Aurel murmured. "Now follow this."

He transitioned through several stances and movements, his blade cutting through the air with practiced precision—each step calculated, each shift a lesson. Rindel copied everything flawlessly. Aurel narrowed his gaze. He wasn't learning. He was just copying. So Aurel raised the difficulty. He shifted into complex transitions—feints, rotation strikes, adaptive counters—slowly increasing the unpredictability. Yet... Rindel kept up. Every movement was perfectly echoed, as if Aurel's skill existed within Rindel by default.

Aurel smirked. He was enjoying this. For the first time in a while, he felt like a true master with a perfect student—one who didn't argue, didn't falter, didn't need correction. But then a new thought struck him.

"If he's like a construct... can I control him?"

Aurel focused inward, attempting to command Rindel the way he would manipulate a forged weapon. Nothing. Rindel remained still, unmoved. Aurel frowned, then lifted his palm, conjuring a construct sword. It shimmered into existence effortlessly.

"Still got it," he muttered. But Rindel was different. He had a mind of his own.

"What if I try to dominate him?"

Aurel concentrated, tapping into his psychic link, pushing his will toward Rindel—not as an order, but as an assertion of control. And Rindel reacted—but not as expected. Instead of submitting—he bent onto one knee. The motion was slow, deliberate—not submission, but understanding. Aurel's eyes narrowed. It wasn't control. Rindel wasn't being forced. He was acknowledging Aurel's authority.

"You don't need to do that," Aurel murmured. Rindel already considered himself his servant, his extension. Control wasn't necessary. Connection was.

Aurel exhaled, realization settling over him. Before he could command Rindel, he had to communicate with him. He closed his eyes. The answer was in the link. The moment Rindel had been created, a connection had formed—one he hadn't fully explored.

"I don't need words. I just need to tap into the link." His mind stretched outward, reaching—searching—until something shifted. He could feel it. Not just connection—perception. Aurel's consciousness brushed against Rindel's own, and suddenly, he saw through Rindel's eyes, felt through Rindel's body. A deeper bond than mere command—a shared understanding, a seamless extension of his will.

Aurel smirked. "Amazing." Rindel wasn't just an ally. He was him.

Forging Battle Instincts

Aurel stood firm, arms crossed as he regarded Kirin. The tension in the air was sharp, thick with anticipation. This wasn't simple training anymore—this was a test.

"Do not hold back," Aurel instructed, his voice unwavering. "Fight properly. Like a warrior."

Kirin exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. His gaze flickered toward Rindel, sitting motionless, lifeless in expression. Still. Waiting.

"Start!" Aurel commanded.

Kirin exploded forward, his body a blur of sheer force, his feet kicking up dust as he lunged. His blunt sword swung in a calculated arc—fast, strong, direct. A strike meant to land, meant to hurt, meant to demand response.

Rindel moved. Not to attack. To defend. His reactions were impossibly clean—evading with perfect precision, blocking each strike without wasted motion. The clash of steel rang out, Kirin pressing forward with relentless aggression, but Rindel wasn't faltering—just absorbing, redirecting, neutralizing every assault with unnatural ease.

"Don't hesitate!" Aurel barked. "Keep attacking! Mean it!"

Kirin gritted his teeth, adjusting, refining. His strikes grew sharper, footwork tighter—no wasted movement, no hesitation. Aurel was watching, correcting, pushing him further.

"Your stance—wider! Don't overextend—use your strength, not just momentum!"

Kirin adjusted on the fly, soaking in every correction, his body responding even under exhaustion. Aurel smirked. "Good. You're learning."

And then, he shifted his attention. Rindel.

"Alright, let's see what happens if you stop defending." Aurel didn't speak. He didn't need to. Through the psychic link, he issued a command—an intention rather than words. Attack.

Rindel changed his stance immediately. The shift was smooth, fluid—no hesitation, no confusion. From passive defense to active offense, his posture transformed in an instant. Kirin froze for a fraction of a second, caught off guard.

"Don't lose focus," Aurel warned.

And Rindel struck. It wasn't wild. It wasn't reckless. It was Aurel's technique—his movements, his precision, his approach to combat. Kirin recognized it immediately—the stance, the flow, the controlled aggression. It wasn't as sharp as Aurel himself, but it was undeniably his master's style.

"No way," Kirin thought, adjusting quickly. He went from attacking to defending, blocking, countering, fully locked into the duel now. Rindel was strong. Not just because of sheer force—his skill level was absurd.

It's like he has years of experience—but that's impossible. No... it wasn't experience. It was something else. It was like he had already fought thousands of battles—without ever having fought a single one.

And then came the final strike. Rindel moved decisively—his blunt sword slicing in a finishing arc, catching Kirin off guard with punishing force. The impact sent Kirin flying—his body crashing through the air before violently smashing into a thick tree trunk, splitting the wood on impact.

Aurel blinked. That was not what he expected. He immediately issued a command through the link—a silent but firm order. "Stop." And just like that, Rindel halted, lowering his sword.

Aurel approached, reaching a hand toward Kirin. "You've improved."

Kirin groaned, rubbing his face. "Thanks, Master... but I just got my ass handed to me." His gaze shifted toward Rindel, a flicker of disbelief behind his exhausted expression. "He's a monster," Kirin muttered. "He's like you—but not like you."

Aurel exhaled slowly, contemplating the words. Rindel was exactly that. An extension—but stripped of unpredictability, stripped of anomaly. A perfect mimic of Aurel's battle style, but without the chaotic instincts that made him truly dangerous.

"This changes everything," Aurel thought. Rindel wasn't just strong. He was the perfect weapon—one that fought like him, moved like him, and could sharpen into something even deadlier.

And the best part? He was only beginning.