Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

Setting: Royal Vanguard Base

Whispered Fears

The very air within the Royal Vanguard Base felt thick, laden with an unspoken dread that coiled through its halls like smoke in a sealed chamber. Here, amidst the organized chaos of war preparations—tables stacked high with fractured relics, their ancient power muted and their surfaces chipped from forgotten battles—the seasoned warseekers found little distraction. Their gazes, usually sharp with strategic focus, were now habitually drawn to each other, searching for answers, confirmation, or even just a shared tremor of fear. What truly plagued them, more than any impending conflict or the mending of shattered artifacts, were the rumors of Aurel.

These weren't just whispers; they were insidious currents, flowing from hushed conversations in mess halls to terse exchanges in training grounds, each carrying a fragment of the mounting horror.

"He summoned chaos beasts against the Luminaries," hissed a young scout, his face pale, to a grizzled veteran polishing his sword. The veteran merely grunted, but his knuckles whitened on the hilt.

Across the chamber, a supply officer, usually meticulous, dropped a stack of manifests. "Saved the Umbrafang like he was their kin," she muttered, her voice barely audible, as if speaking the words aloud might summon the nightmare itself. Others nearby froze, their own tasks forgotten.

"Killed a hero from the Luminary Order — the Shadowblade saw it happen," a gruff voice declared from a shadowed corner, cutting through the tense silence like a rusted blade. This last accusation, relayed with grim authority, seemed to settle heaviest, confirming the unspeakable.

A nervous murmur rippled through the gathered few. One voice, laced with frantic desperation, whispered, "If he isn't a chaos being, he's surely Abyssal." Another, softer, tinged with disbelief, followed, "Was he always like this? Could we have been so wrong?" The questions hung in the stale air, unanswered and terrifying.

The casual, furtive whispers ceased abruptly as a figure stepped forward. Clyde, one of the most respected and vital members of the Royal Vanguard, moved with a weary gravitas. His face, etched with the scars of countless skirmishes and the deeper lines of command, was usually impassive, a bastion of strength. But today, a tremor ran through his broad shoulders, and his hands, which had guided strategic maneuvers and signed death warrants without flinching, seemed to clench involuntarily at his sides. He had seen battles rage like infernos, witnessed betrayals that tore alliances apart, and stood firm against prophecies that foretold doom. Yet now, the words that escaped him trembled more than usual, strained by an emotion that threatened to break through his hardened exterior.

"He was Vanguard," Clyde stated, his voice a low rumble, heavy with a grief that fought against duty. "He stood with us. He fought for us." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the anxious faces of his subordinates, each seeking reassurance he could barely provide himself. "But if he fights for chaos now… if these rumors are indeed true… then Aurel is not a lost friend to be mourned. He is a growing storm that threatens to consume us all." The finality in his tone sent a fresh wave of fear through the chamber, solidifying the unspoken dread into a tangible, horrifying truth.

Kirin's Conviction and Departure

The weight of these accusations pressed heavily on Kirin, even before Clyde's grim pronouncement. He had been just outside the council chamber, the frantic whispers leaking through the sturdy oak doors, each word a hammer blow to his heart. His mind reeled, flashing through a kaleidoscope of memories: Aurel, not as the monstrous betrayer they described, but as the patient mentor, the fierce protector, the one who had always embodied unwavering principle. He summoned chaos beasts? Saved the Umbrafang? Killed a Luminary hero? No, it was impossible. He clenched his gauntleted fist so tight his knuckles scraped raw against the steel, the sharp pain a welcome anchor against the rising tide of despair and denial. He'd overheard everything, and with each slanderous word, a fierce, desperate conviction ignited within him.

Unable to contain his turmoil, unable to stand by while his master's name was dragged through the mud, Kirin stormed into the chamber to face Clyde. Their argument didn't just begin; it ignited, a clash of loyalty and pragmatism, crackling with raw, potent emotion.

"Kirin, what are you doing? You shouldn't be here!" Clyde's voice, weary from the day's grim news, was laced with sharp urgency. "You heard the reports, same as everyone. Aurel… he's lost, or worse. Going after him is suicide."

Kirin's eyes, usually earnest and open, blazed with a desperate fire. "Lost? No, he's not lost! You know him, Clyde! There's more to this, there has to be a reason, something we're not seeing!"

"Reason?" Clyde scoffed, the sound devoid of humor, laced with frustration. "What reason could there be for turning on everything he swore to protect? For allying with chaos? This isn't the Aurel we knew, Kirin. You're holding onto blind loyalty here, you've got to see the truth of what's happening!"

"Blind loyalty?" Kirin echoed, the words stinging him. "Is that what it is, Clyde? To believe in someone we fought beside, someone who taught us everything, someone who embodied what it means to be Vanguard? You're judging him on whispers and half-truths, just like everyone else!"

"Half-truths?" Clyde countered, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The Shadowblade saw it, Kirin! A Luminary hero, dead by his hand! What more truth do you need? He's a threat, plain and simple. And if you chase after him, you become a threat too, or worse, just another casualty."

"No!" Kirin's voice rose, a desperate plea cutting through the tension. "You don't know him like I do! He wouldn't just abandon us, abandon everything, not without a reason! There's something deeper happening, Clyde, something we're missing!" He took a step forward, his jaw set. "Just let me talk to him before we declare him an enemy! Before you all condemn him, let me speak to him, let me understand!"

Clyde stared back, his expression a mix of frustration, pity, and a grudging respect for Kirin's unwavering spirit. He knew arguing further was futile. Kirin's stubbornness, usually a strength, was now a dangerous liability.

That night, driven by an unyielding purpose that drowned out all fear, Kirin packed his gear. It was simple, humble, and worn, each piece a testament to his practical nature and his years of service. His sturdy leather tunic, patched countless times, offered protection without hindrance. His worn boots, caked with the dust of a hundred trails, were silent promises of countless more miles to come. His waterskin, his meager rations, a small flint and steel—each item chosen for necessity, stripped of all comfort. There was no room for sentimentality, only for the desperate mission ahead.

Before he left, a raw, aching need for understanding, for a final plea, compelled him. He found a scrap of parchment and, with a trembling hand, scribbled a simple letter, addressing it to Clyde. The message was concise, a direct reflection of his unwavering heart: "I will find Master and bring him back." He left it prominently on his cot, a silent defiance, a hopeful promise, and a final farewell.

The next morning, the silence of the barracks was broken by a familiar, heavy tread. Clyde, a worried frown already etched on his face, paused at Kirin's door. He hadn't seen the boy at breakfast, a rare occurrence given Kirin's disciplined routine. "Kirin? Are you there? Can I come in? Look, I know you're worried about Aurel, but..." His voice trailed off as he noticed the door was ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning. He pushed it open, the heavy wood groaning in protest as he entered, uninvited. "Kirin, are you here?"

No reply came from the empty room. Clyde's gaze swept the small, sparse quarters, his heart sinking with each passing second. Then, he spotted it: a single, folded piece of parchment on the bed, his name clearly written on it in Kirin's familiar, earnest hand. "A letter for me?" he murmured, a cold premonition settling in his gut. He picked it up, unfolding it to reveal the simple, yet profoundly impactful, message. Clyde held it, the flimsy paper feeling impossibly heavy in his calloused hand, a deep sigh escaping him as he thought of his impulsive, loyal friend. "Kirin," he murmured to the empty room, his voice barely a whisper, filled with a complex blend of regret, fear, and a desperate, fragile hope. "I honestly hope you can bring him back, but the situation now is different. So very different... I only hope you'll be safe out there." He crumpled the letter slightly, his gaze fixed on the open door, a silent testament to Kirin's vanished presence.

The Trail of Umbrafang

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Weeks bled into one another as Kirin pressed forward, his journey an arduous, solitary odyssey. He wandered through shattered forests, where ancient trees stood as skeletal sentinels against a bruised sky, their bark scorched and leaves withered by unknown blight. The ground beneath his worn boots was a tapestry of broken branches and churned earth, marked by loose Malus sigils—faint, unsettling patterns of dark energy that hinted at the Umbrafang's passage. His method wasn't strategic; it was pure, unadulterated stubbornness, fueled by an unwavering belief. Not particularly cunning or adept at intricate tracking, he simply went from person to person in every desolate village, every remote outpost, every lonely shepherd's hut he encountered along the Abyssal border. "Have you seen a man, tall, with gray hair, a pale face, and perhaps carrying a sword?" he'd ask, his voice hoarse from endless travel, his eyes wide with desperate sincerity. Like a desperate man searching for a lost loved one, he pressed on, his approach as direct as his heart. Most villagers, hardened by the encroaching shadows of the borderlands, would eye him with suspicion, or simply shake their heads in weary resignation, warning him away from the dangers that lurked in the deepening twilight. Relic remnants and strange energy readings often led him astray, down winding paths that ended in dead ends or exposed him to minor skirmishes with stray chaos beasts. He didn't find the Umbrafang; in truth, he was hopelessly lost, circling back on his own tracks more often than not, the sheer vastness of the shattered lands dwarfing his meager sense of direction. The despair of his fruitless search began to weigh him down, adding a crushing mental burden to his already physically exhausted state. Still, despite the exhaustion that weighed on his limbs and the growing despair that gnawed at his spirit, he walked, refusing to yield.

Unbeknownst to Kirin, his relentless, single-minded search, though aimless, had not gone unnoticed. News of his wandering had already reached the Umbrafang. Their vast and intricate information network, a shadowy web spun through the very fabric of the Abyssal Lysara's influence, ensured that such intelligence traveled swiftly and efficiently. Lord Aric, seated on a throne carved from obsidian in a cavern far removed from the daylight world, received the dispatch concerning Kirin's peculiar, dogged pursuit. He read the terse report, a faint, almost amused hum rumbling in his chest. "Hmm," he mused, his voice a deep baritone, "I'm busy with my missions piling up right now, but I guess I need to spare some time for this lost puppy." His golden eyes, usually unreadable, held a flicker of something calculating, almost paternal. He decided to personally intercept Kirin, knowing that the young man was Aurel's friend, a connection that both complicated and simplified the situation. Kirin, with his unwavering loyalty, represented a potential weakness for Aurel – a distraction that could jeopardize their larger, more critical mission. He needed to be stopped, for Aurel's sake.

It was in a particularly desolate, scorched clearing near the Abyssal border, with no discernible path forward, that Kirin finally felt it. The air grew heavy, thick with a foreboding that settled deep into his bones, a palpable sense of approaching power. Chaos hummed in the air like a scream held underwater, a low, resonant thrumming that vibrated through the very ground beneath his worn boots. He looked up, his weary eyes straining through the gloom, and from the deepening shadows emerged a cluster of figures. Ahead lay a group of Umbrafang warriors — cloaked figures in dark, utilitarian armor, their bodies pulsing with volatile energy that radiated an unsettling, dangerous power. Each warrior wore a featureless mask, obscuring their identity, giving them an almost spectral presence. And at their head, stepping forth as if he had conjured himself from the very chaos, was their leader: Lord Aric — tall, regal, his very presence commanding. His golden aura, majestic and brilliant, flowed around him, a stark contrast to the desolate clearing, truly befitting a warrior divinant of immense power. His armor, woven with chaos energy, seemed to pulse with a dark, unsettling power that absorbed the natural light rather than reflecting it, a contradiction of his radiant aura. His eyes, though visible through a slit in his helm, remained unreadable, like ancient gold holding untold secrets.

Kirin, though his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, stared at the imposing figures. He recognized them. "It's them, the Umbrafang," he murmured, remembering the same masked group his master and he had encountered on their last mission before they were separated. This group, usually shrouded in shadow and keeping a low profile, now stood openly before him, having clearly sought him out. He spoke to them with conviction, his voice unwavering despite the tremor in his hands. "I come seeking for my master, Aurel!"

Lord Aric's gaze was piercing, assessing. "The man you're chasing has a new path, Kirin," he stated, his voice like steel dragged across ash, each word heavy with a cold authority. "A path that does not include you. Give up on him. You are merely a burden to him. He has his own personal mission, and you will only be a distraction. Don't you get it? He left alone."

Kirin fell into a deep, agonizing thought. The words resonated, striking a chord of raw fear and doubt. Could this man, this powerful, imposing leader of a shadowed faction, be right? Had Aurel truly abandoned him, seeing him as a burden? A seed of despair, cold and sharp, pricked at his resolve. Yet, his loyalty, forged in countless shared trials, refused to break. He pushed the thought aside, forcing himself to meet Aric's unyielding gaze. "But I still want to hear it from his own mouth," Kirin replied, his voice regaining its unwavering conviction, though a tremor of pain lingered beneath. "I won't give up on him."

A flicker of something akin to approval, a fleeting respect, crossed Lord Aric's stern face. Ah, what a good disciple, he thought, observing Kirin's raw determination. Aurel is lucky to have him. But the impression was fleeting, overshadowed by the greater mission. He knew what he had to do. "Listen, Kirin," Aric said, his voice hardening, the underlying current of sympathy abruptly vanished. "I can't let you chase him. You are far too weak to go after him, too much of a risk. It ends here."

Kirin understood the message instantly. The shift in Aric's tone, the cold steel in his eyes, was unmistakable. It meant battle. He had to let his guard up, prepare for an assault. And Aric did not hesitate. Lord Aric, a top warrior divinant with only a few, legendary enemies considered his equal, was in a league far beyond Kirin's nascent abilities. The gap in strength was not merely large; it was an insurmountable chasm.

Aric launched his assault. It wasn't a showy display of power, but a precise, brutal, and terrifyingly efficient strike. His movements were a blur, a golden-clad streak of motion that seemed to defy the very air. Kirin, relying on instinct, attempted to evade, twisting his body. But Lord Aric was faster, a whirlwind of controlled force. Each blow landed with bone-jarring impact – not wild swings, but calculated strikes designed to disable and overwhelm. Aric was stronger, effortlessly parrying Kirin's desperate blocks, sending shockwaves up his arms. He was smarter, anticipating Kirin's reactions before they even formed, cutting off escape routes, turning Kirin's own momentum against him. And he was more experienced, his every move honed by centuries of combat, a chilling demonstration of mastery against Kirin's raw, undeveloped skill.

The sound of impacts echoed in the clearing—the thud of fist against flesh, the sickening crack of bone, the grunt of pain forced from Kirin's lungs. Kirin fought with the desperation of a cornered animal, but it was futile. Aric moved like liquid shadow, punctuated by bursts of golden light and the ominous hum of chaos energy. Kirin stumbled, fell, pushed himself up only to be driven down again. Aric, while meticulously beating Kirin, made sure not to fatally hurt him. He knew about Kirin's incredible, almost abnormal, body endurance and his rapid healing ability, a unique trait that baffled even the Umbrafang's healers. But even with that resilience, Aric needed to ensure that Kirin's body and, more importantly, his spirit, were utterly broken today. Forgive me, boy, he thought to himself, his gaze unwavering, but this is for your own good.

The barrage of hits finally stopped, the echoes of their brutal cadence fading into the heavy air. Kirin knelt to the ground, his body a canvas of raw, purple bruises, his tunic torn, and his posture one of utter defeat. His limbs trembled uncontrollably, threatening to give out completely. Every muscle screamed, every joint felt dislocated, and the sharp, sickening pain of truly broken bones radiated through him. He was totally beaten, a broken puppet.

Lord Aric stood over him, breathing evenly, not a single hair out of place. He observed Kirin's slumped form, a flicker of genuine surprise in his unreadable eyes. He is a monster, Aric thought, a grudging admiration seeping into his mind. His body truly is remarkable. Aric hoped he hadn't overdo it, that he hadn't crossed the fine line between breaking his spirit and shattering it irrevocably. A peculiar pang of something akin to pity, an unusual warmth, stirred within the ancient warrior, and instead of delivering a final, crushing blow to Kirin's morale, he said something unexpected.

"Kirin, I know you want to go to Aurel, but in your current state, your strength... it's simply not enough," Aric began, his voice softening, the cold steel replaced by a resonant, almost gentle tone. "I admit, you are strong. I heard you even went toe-to-toe against one of our Malus members, a feat few could boast. But that alone is not enough to follow Aurel down the path he walks now."

Then, like a father inspiring a son to reach for a greater destiny, Aric offered a profound, almost sacred encouragement. "Be stronger. Strong enough to one day walk beside Aurel, not merely in his shadow, or chasing him. Strong enough to be his peer, his equal." Lord Aric watched Kirin, sensing the turmoil beneath the shattered exterior. Is this why Aurel chose him as a disciple? His indomitable heart, his uncanny body, and his raw, untapped potential... He may one day truly help Aurel. Perhaps Aurel will need someone like him in these increasingly dark times. The thought solidified into a conviction. He spoke again to Kirin, his voice firm, yet imbued with genuine prophecy. "You have potential, boy. You are good. Become stronger." He then imparted a crucial pointer, a secret that transcended their current animosity. "Your divinity," he instructed, his gaze focusing intently on Kirin's slumped form, "find a way to awaken it to the second stage. By then, I won't try to stop you."

Kirin looked almost unconscious, his eyes staring blankly at the ground, his face contorted with pain. He was hurting, too hurt, his bones broken, his muscles screaming. Every fiber of his being was consumed by agony, but he was not truly unconscious. Aric's words, sharp and clear despite the haze of pain, had cut through the fog, igniting a new, desperate spark. He absorbed every syllable, the meaning sinking deep into his wounded spirit. As the Umbrafang warriors began to depart, their cloaked forms melting into the encroaching shadows of dusk, Kirin remained kneeling, alone. And then, as the last of them vanished, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his battered lips.

"Thank you," he whispered, the words rasping from his bruised throat, carried on the wind to no one. "I will become stronger."