Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

The camper was quieter than usual as Arkan continued his discussion, the Shadowblades and Clyde hanging onto his every word. Clyde, still in awe of Arkan's ability to break things down with surgical precision, scribbled notes mentally as he listened. The man's monotone voice carried with it a weight that cut through any lingering noise in Clyde's mind.

"As I said earlier," Arkan began, his sharp gaze scanning the group, "the Abyssals might already be blending into human society. Our mission is simple: catch one." He paused briefly, watching their reactions, before continuing. "Where do we start? We have two options."

He raised one finger. "First, we trace all records, all transactions we have so far, and cross-reference them with the people on our list—those connected to the organizations aiding the Abyssals. From there, we zero down the possibilities until we reach a conclusion."

Clyde leaned forward, intrigued. "That sounds... complicated."

Arkan smirked faintly, ignoring the comment. "Second option: we don't do anything because I've already done all of that." His words were so rapid and matter-of-fact that it took Clyde a second to register them.

"Wait, you've already—" Clyde started, but Arkan cut him off with a quick nod.

"I followed the money trail, and it all led to one person," Arkan said, leaning back slightly. "A merchant who calls himself Seron."

Arkan reached into his pocket and tossed a photo onto the table in front of the group. The image showed a man in his forties, with glasses perched neatly on his nose and a professional demeanor that seemed wholly unremarkable. He looked like any other salaryman—except for his eyes. Clyde noted the cold calculation in them, a sharpness that betrayed a shrewd, pragmatic mind.

"Seron," Arkan continued. "A merchant who's pragmatic, resourceful, and—like most people in this line of work—dangerous. His business ventures support the Abyssals, collecting artifacts, treasures, and anything else they might find valuable. If the Abyssals have someone working behind the scenes, it's him."

Ripclaw whistled softly, flipping the photo in his hands. "So this guy's the big shot funding chaos for the Abyssals? Doesn't look like much. Glasses and a tie, really? Is he gonna hit us with financial jargon until we faint?"

Darktide chuckled deeply. "I bet he eats bear."

Aqua rolled her eyes, her tone sharp. "Focus, please. If Seron's connected to the Abyssals, we can't afford to underestimate him."

Clyde's mind spun as he processed Arkan's plan. He couldn't help but marvel at how methodical the strategist was. "He followed the money trail," Clyde thought, "and narrowed it all down to one man. How does he do that?"

Arkan glanced around the group, his tone growing sharper as he brought the conversation back to the mission. "This is our chance to expose a direct connection to the Abyssals. We take Seron down, and we might finally uncover how deep their influence runs—and what they're planning next. This mission won't be easy. If Seron's working for the Abyssals, he won't go down without a fight."

Phantomblade, who had remained silent until now, nodded slowly. "We move out at dawn," he said, his calm voice grounding the team. "Stay sharp. This mission could change everything."

Clyde sat back in his seat, his heart pounding as he watched the Shadowblades prepare for their next step. For all the chaos and absurdity he had seen from them, this moment reminded him why they were legends.

The Abyssals Convene

Twice a year, or when summoned by their enigmatic leader, the Ten Abyssals gather in secrecy. These meetings, steeped in shadow and silence, are where strategies are forged, revelations shared, and the weight of their collective purpose felt most keenly. Tonight was one of those rare occasions.

The chamber was lit only by flickering flames, casting uneven shadows on the figures gathered. At the head of the room, the masked leader presided, their hound-shaped visage commanding quiet respect.

"The Shadowblades continue their interference," one voice began, frustration biting through their words. "They've dismantled another organization. Businesses ruined. If we don't act, their interference will cripple us."

The leader tilted their head slightly, their masked gaze cold and deliberate. "Enough," their voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "We've let them interfere long enough. They think themselves untouchable." The leader leaned forward, their tone dropping to a growl. "Cut off their heads. Let them see what it costs to cross us."

Slow, echoing footsteps broke the tense silence. From the shadows, Malrin emerged, his presence as imposing as his reputation. "I'll handle it," he declared, his voice low and resolute. "The Shadowblades have drawn our blood for long enough. It's time I remind them what it means to face an Abyssal."

The leader studied him in silence before nodding. "It's yours. Do not fail."

Attention shifted as darker news emerged. "The Athenari are spreading lies," one voice said angrily. "Rumors claim devils rule the southern territory. They're preparing their justification to invade."

"Then we counter with lies of our own," the leader said. "We will say this—they created the devils. Let the rumors spiral out of their control."

Lysara smirked, her voice brimming with confidence. "That is my specialty," she said. "Let me handle it. They'll choke on their own propaganda."

Before the tension could ease, Vyran, his crown glinting in the faint light, rose to speak. "If they're spreading rumors, it means they're looking for a reason. Trouble is brewing in our territory again," he said grimly. "Shouldn't we be preparing for war?"

The masked leader's gaze lingered on him, their voice calm yet firm. "We try to avoid conflict with them, but you're right, Vyran. We should start preparing."

Vyran nodded, his expression approving, as anticipation rippled through the room.

Finally, Nephra stepped forward, his voice subdued and heavy with regret. "I failed," he admitted, frustration evident in his tone. "Countless trials, and I could not achieve it. But Aurel... Aurel succeeded where I failed." His words drew the room's attention, curiosity simmering. "He has created a being almost akin to our kin—a marvel beyond my grasp."

The masked leader's voice dropped into a thoughtful, deliberate cadence. "Observe him further," they ordered. "Do not make an enemy of him. Perhaps he truly is the child of chaos that we seek."

As the room buzzed with the implications of Nephra's revelation, the leader raised a hand, silencing the murmurs. "Before we proceed further, there is someone you must meet. Our ranks are now complete." From the shadows stepped Lyra, young and fierce. The leader gestured toward her. "This is Lyra. Your new sister—the Tenth Abyssal."

Lyra's eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over the gathered figures. A subtle, almost predatory smile touched her lips. "It's a pleasure to meet all of you," she said, her voice a low, melodic purr that held an edge of steel. "I'm only interested in beautiful things, and it's beautiful to have a new family."

The Abyssals regarded her with curiosity and silent acceptance, their bond unspoken but undeniable. As the meeting drew to a close, the chamber seemed heavier, shadows deepening under the weight of their decisions and the storm that loomed just beyond the horizon.

After the Meeting

The other Abyssals had dispersed, leaving the masked leader and Vyran alone in the dimly lit chamber. The leader turned, their voice quiet yet filled with a weighty confidence.

"If the vessel is truly perfect, unlike our other failures," they began, "then he may have been the real chosen child of chaos. If he becomes what we hope for, then, Vyran, the war you seek with the Athenari might come—but only if we make Aurel ours. For now, we let him grow."

Vyran folded his arms, his crown catching the faint light as a smirk tugged at his lips. "I see. Then I'll wait. But that doesn't mean I'll be idle."

The leader tilted their head slightly, their voice taking on a darker, playful edge. "Neither will I. I will play with the Athenari for a while... cause them trouble."

As if answering the playful tone, a figure emerged from the shadows, her presence light yet unsettling. A girl wearing a bunny mask stepped forward, her voice lilting with mischief. "Yes, brother. We continue to play."

The leader chuckled softly, their masked visage turning toward her. "Of course. Let chaos reign."

Their laughter faded into the shadows, leaving behind an air of quiet menace that promised storms ahead.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

Shadowblades: The Hunt for Seron

The Abyssals had laid their plans, their shadows stretching across the land, but unbeknownst to them, another hunt was already underway. Miles away, under the cloak of a pre-dawn chill, the Shadowblades moved with purpose.

Clyde had been with the Shadowblades long enough to witness their brilliance firsthand, and in those moments, he felt he didn't just stand beside them—he stood in awe of them. They weren't just a group of fighters or tacticians; they were legends in the making, the kind of team you didn't think could exist until you saw them in action. He had seen them do what others couldn't, unraveling conspiracies, toppling entire operations, and outwitting the sharpest minds of their enemies. They were precise, relentless, and, above all, untouchable.

And tonight, he was part of something big.

Their mission to find Seron—the Abyssal merchant who had eluded countless others—was coming to a climax. Clyde stood with the team in their makeshift command post, his eyes scanning the room. It was a rare moment of calm before the storm, but the air buzzed with an energy that felt almost electric.

Arkan, the tactician, commanded the room as if he were orchestrating a symphony. Clyde admired the way he worked, his sharp eyes darting over the notes and maps spread before him. "We've followed the money trail," Arkan said, his voice crisp and certain. "Traced every shipment, decrypted every coded message. It all leads to him—Seron. He's the Abyssal we've been searching for."

Clyde leaned against the wall, letting Arkan's confidence wash over him. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by quiet intensity. "This plan is solid," he said, his voice steady. "We've accounted for every angle. If we stick to it, we'll take him down."

Phantomblade stood at the center of the room, his presence commanding attention without effort. Clyde had watched him lead before, and every time, it was like witnessing gravity itself—unwavering, unshakable. Phantomblade's voice cut through the tension with calm authority. "We'll observe him first," he said, his tone steady and deliberate. "Confirm his identity. Once we're sure, we strike."

Clyde felt his chest swell with pride. This team wasn't just good—they were the best. The way they worked together, their seamless precision—it was something Clyde had never seen before joining the Shadowblades. He had always been sharp, always been quick on his feet, but these people made him feel sharper, faster, better. They were unstoppable.

Observing Seron

The marketplace was alive with noise and motion, its streets crowded with merchants, buyers, and shadowy figures moving in and out of the bustling trade city. Clyde moved with the team, their disguises perfect, their movements fluid. To anyone watching, they were just another group of traders blending into the chaos. But Clyde knew the truth—the Shadowblades were watching, calculating, hunting.

He couldn't help but marvel at their finesse as they tracked Seron. Arkan's gaze seemed to pierce the crowds, his mind working faster than anyone Clyde had ever known. Phantomblade moved like a shadow, his presence nearly invisible despite the quiet authority that surrounded him. Clyde stayed close, scanning the streets for signs of their target.

They spotted Seron weaving through the crowd, his movements smooth and unassuming. Clyde almost doubted they had the right man—he seemed so ordinary, just another merchant peddling rare artifacts. But then Clyde noticed the way Seron handled himself—too controlled, too calculated. Every deal seemed rehearsed, every glance hiding an agenda.

"Look at him," Clyde muttered into the communicator, his voice sharp with anticipation. "The way he moves. The way he's handling those artifacts—there's something off. Something Abyssal."

Phantomblade nodded, his eyes fixed on Seron. "We're not rushing this," he said quietly. "We observe. We confirm. Then we move."

The Perfect Plan

Back at the hideout, the Shadowblades finalized their strategy. Clyde felt the intensity in the room as Arkan outlined the operation, his voice sharp and precise.

"We corner him in the trade sanctuary," Arkan explained, pointing to the map spread across the table. "His guards will be minimal. He's relying on discretion, not brute force. We strike hard and fast."

Phantomblade interjected, his tone calm but firm. "Remember, Seron is no ordinary target. If the intel is correct, he's strong—more than strong. If things go wrong, retreat is not an option."

Clyde couldn't help but smirk, his confidence cutting through the tension. "Relax," he said, his voice steady. "This is going to be a clean job. We've got this."

The team nodded in silent agreement, the weight of their mission settling over them like a storm about to break. Clyde looked around at the people he'd come to trust—the people who had shown him what it meant to be part of something extraordinary. He felt the pride swell in his chest again. They were the Shadowblades—the best of the best—and tonight, they were going to prove it.

The Trap Springs

Clyde moved through the dark corridors of the labyrinth-like warehouse, his heart pounding in rhythm with the subtle movements of the Shadowblades around him. It wasn't fear—it was anticipation. For the first time, the team he had come to admire, the team he had grown to call family, had found their elusive prey. This was it. Seron—the merchant Abyssal responsible for countless operations and untold chaos—was within their reach.

He glanced toward Phantomblade, who led them silently through the maze. There was no hesitation in Phantomblade's steps, no doubt in his eyes. Clyde had watched their leader in moments like this—calm under pressure, relentless in the face of danger. It was why Clyde had never feared, never doubted. The Shadowblades were untouchable, unstoppable. They had never lost.

The team crept closer to the chamber where Seron waited. His movements seemed almost too controlled, his demeanor calm despite the danger closing in around him. Clyde frowned, the unease in his chest growing. "This doesn't feel right," he muttered, his voice barely audible through the communicator. "It's too easy."

Before anyone could respond, Phantomblade raised his hand, signaling for silence. The team froze, watching as Seron finally stopped moving. He turned toward them, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Clyde's stomach sank. That smile—it wasn't fear or surprise. It was confidence.

Seron's voice echoed in the chamber, smooth and mocking. "You came all this way," he said, his tone calm. "Only to find that the odds were never in your favor."

Before Clyde could process the words, the room darkened, suffocating under a sudden, overwhelming presence. From the shadows stepped Malgrin, towering and fierce, his crimson gaze locking onto Phantomblade. The Abyssal's aura was suffocating, pressing down on Clyde's chest like a physical weight. Malgrin's massive blade glimmered with dark energy, the symbols etched into its surface glowing faintly.

Clyde froze. His body refused to move as the realization hit him—there were two Abyssals. And not just any Abyssals. Malgrin, the strongest among them, was standing before them, his presence alone feeling like the promise of death.

Phantomblade's Command

Phantomblade drew his weapon, his voice cutting through the suffocating tension. "Shadowblades," he said firmly, "fall back. There are two Abyssals here—the odds aren't in our favor."

Clyde felt the words pierce his chest like a blade. Retreat? They had never retreated before. Not once. The Shadowblades didn't back down, didn't falter. He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling up. "But we can fight!" he protested, his voice tinged with desperation.

Phantomblade turned to him, his gaze steady, unwavering. "You retreat," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "That's an order. I'll hold them off."

Clyde shook his head, his mind racing. "We can do this! You've never lost. We've never lost."

Phantomblade's voice softened, just for a moment. "Not today," he said. His gaze hardened again, his tone sharpening. "Go! Live to fight another day."

Clyde's Realization

The team hesitated, but Phantomblade's command forced them to move. Clyde followed reluctantly, his heart aching as he glanced back toward their leader. Phantomblade stood tall, his shadows coiling around him like living creatures. For the first time, Clyde felt something he had never felt before—a gnawing doubt. Phantomblade had always been invincible, always in control. But now, Clyde saw something else in his leader's posture—strain.

The battle began, and Clyde couldn't tear his eyes away. Phantomblade lunged at Malgrin, his shadow clones surging forward in perfect unison. Phantomblade had made a swift, grim decision: engaging Malgrin now was their only chance for his allies to escape.

Malgrin countered effortlessly, his colossal blade releasing shockwaves that shattered the chamber walls. He moved with a chilling grace, his voice cutting through the chaos. "I am Malgrin," he rumbled, his tone deep and resonant, "my siblings think you have done enough damage to our group, so I intend to end it now."

His crimson gaze swept past Phantomblade, lingering on the retreating figures of the Shadowblades. A faint, almost curious smile touched his lips. "You honestly think I will let them leave?" he asked, his voice devoid of mockery, simply stating a fact. "Ah, I'm going to play with you first, then I'll catch up to them later. I hope you won't disappoint me, Phantomblade."

Phantomblade pressed harder, summoning phantom warriors that moved with precision, attacking Malgrin from every angle. He knew all too well that the enemy in front of him was too strong; this was a desperate delaying tactic. Across the chamber, Seron remained seated, calmly sipping his tea, as if waiting for Malgrin to finish a minor chore.

The two titans danced, neither truly unleashing their full power yet, seemingly measuring each other. Malgrin was a blur of motion, his massive frame defying its size. Any shadow clone he passed through simply eradicated, not merely dispelled. His movements were frighteningly precise, even more so than Phantomblade's renowned agility. Malgrin's hands, like demonic claws, parried and struck with brutal efficiency.

"Buying time?" Malgrin said, his voice carrying easily over the clash of steel and magic. "It doesn't matter. I want to see more of your moves. You see, I heard things about your legendary skill. I want to taste it myself."

Malgrin's crimson aura flared, his demonic symbols glowing brighter as he summoned grotesque creatures to the battlefield. They clawed their way from the ground, monstrous forms that overwhelmed Phantomblade's shadows with sheer force.

Clyde watched in horror as Phantomblade struggled to keep pace. Every strike from Phantomblade was perfect, calculated, brilliant—but Malgrin's power was overwhelming. It wasn't a matter of skill. It was a matter of raw, unrelenting strength. Phantomblade didn't just struggle—he faltered. Clyde had never seen him falter.

"What's happening?" Clyde whispered, his voice cracking. He didn't expect an answer. He didn't need one.

The chamber erupted with destruction as Phantomblade unleashed his full power, his shadows covering the battlefield, attacking relentlessly. The ground cracked beneath the weight of their clash, the air vibrating with unearthly energy. Clyde had never seen Phantomblade fight harder, never seen him push beyond his limits like this.

But it wasn't enough.

Phantomblade vs. Malgrin: Titans in Battle

The fight began with a deadly silence, the chamber vibrating with tension as Phantomblade and Malgrin faced off. Their presence alone felt like storms converging—two forces that could tear the world apart.

Phantomblade's shadows rippled around him, forming into phantom warriors and clones, his aura dark and commanding. His blade hummed faintly, holding a power honed over years of battle. He radiated confidence. No Abyssal had ever overwhelmed him before, and this one would be no different—or so he believed.

Malgrin smirked, his devilish aura glowing like molten fire, crimson veins pulsing across his skin. The colossal blade he wielded vibrated with destructive energy, its edge promising devastation. Behind him, demonic forms clawed their way out of the ground, snarling and snapping, their mere presence distorting the air.

"You're bold to stand against me," Malgrin growled, his voice echoing like thunder. "But boldness will only make your fall more amusing."

Phantomblade's shadow clones darted forward, attacking from multiple angles. Their blades sliced the air with deadly precision, each strike amplified by Phantomblade's shadow magic. Malgrin countered, his blade cleaving through the clones in a single motion, releasing a shockwave of crimson energy that cracked the ground beneath their feet.