Spirit Game

The surviving Hobgoblins and elven warriors were equally exhausted.

For a brief moment, they allowed themselves to believe it was over. The air was heavy with exhaustion, the kind that seeps into your bones after a fight that drains every last ounce of strength.

They had lost good men and women — brave souls who had fought valiantly but had not survived the fight. Their sacrifices weighed heavily on those who remained, a somber reminder of the cost of their victory.

Rain's gaze swept over the battlefield, taking in the sight of his companions as they tried to catch their breath and regain their composure.

Santi was still on her knees, her face streaked with tears and dirt, her eyes hollow from the death of her father. Now she was truly alone.

Helliana gave her a reassuring nod, but the sorrow in her eyes mirrored Santi's grief.

Thraigar tried to mask his fatigue with a grim smile, though it faltered under the weight of their shared losses.

"It's over," Rain murmured, his voice barely audible above the quiet stillness.

The words hung in the air, a tentative declaration that almost seemed too fragile to be real.

But even as the words left his lips, Rain felt a gnawing unease in the pit of his stomach, an instinct that whispered that their victory might not be as complete as it seemed.

Before he could dwell on the feeling, the ground beneath them trembled.

At first, it was so faint that they might have dismissed it as an aftershock from the battle. But then it grew stronger, the vibrations pulsing through the stone floor with an intensity that was impossible to ignore.

The air, which had been still and heavy, began to stir, a low rumble reverberating through the cavernous space.

Rain's eyes snapped upward, scanning the darkened blood red sky, and that's when he saw it — a faint, ominous shadow spreading across the distant horizon.

It was as if the very sky itself was being blotted out, consumed by a darkness far more profound than the remnants of Gorm's darkness.

The shadow moved, undulating like a storm cloud, but there was something more deliberate, more menacing about it.

The others followed Rain's gaze, their weariness momentarily forgotten as they, too, witnessed the creeping darkness.

The air grew colder, a biting chill that gnawed at their exposed skin and sent shivers racing down their spines.

It was a cold that felt ancient, primal, and with it came a sound — a distant, thunderous roar that echoed through the mines like the wrath of a long-forgotten god.

"What is that?" Helliana whispered, her voice trembling.

Golly's face was drained of color, and took a step back, his wide eyes reflecting the approaching darkness. "No . . . it can't be," he stammered. "Not here.

Not now."

"What do you mean?" Rain demanded, though he could feel the dread creeping into his own voice.

Golly swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he gestured toward the horizon. "That's no ordinary storm," he said, his voice tight with fear. "It's a hurricane, yes, but not just any storm. It's . . .

it's a dragon. A dragon of the Barren Wasteland. Balaur, the beast of WAR!"

Rain stammered, "D-dragon . . .?" he knew that there were dragons in the Spirit Realm, but a dragon . . . right now?!

WHY?!

The words hit them like a physical blow. Dragons were creatures of legend, mythical beasts whose power was said to rival the gods themselves.

They had been thought extinct, or at the very least driven into the most desolate corners of the world, far from civilization.

However now, one of these ancient monsters had awakened, drawn by the lingering power of Gorm's dark magic and the upheaval of the underworld.

"Balaur . . . the one the elders spoke of?" Santi whispered, her voice trembling. "They say he dwells in the far north, in the Scorched Peaks where the Dwarves make their home."

"He's rumored to be the God of the Wasteland," Helliana added.

"Then why is it here?" Rain asked, his eyes wide.

"Balaur was said to be in a deep slumber — untouched for centuries. The underworld's dark magic must have stirred him," Golly muttered, his face pale. "We need to get out of here—now!"

The roar sounded again, louder this time, and with it came a gale-force wind that howled through the air, whipping up dust and debris.

The horizon was no longer just a shadow; it was a living, breathing storm, and at its center was a massive, sinuous form that blotted out the dim light.

The dragon's scales were as black as night, glistening with a sinister sheen as it cut through the sky like a monstrous specter of doom.

Balaur was no ordinary dragon. His scales, forged from adamantine, gleamed like molten metal, wreathed in smoky flames and streaked with the blood of fallen armies. Scarred from endless battles, he was a master of war, burning through his enemies and shattering fortresses with ease.

This was no mindless beast — this was Balaur, the beast of war!

Helliana's eyes narrowed as she gripped her bow, urgency in her voice. "We have to move. If that thing reaches us, we're finished."

"Where can we go?" Santi's voice trembled with panic, her composure crumbling. "You can't escape a dragon! No one can!" Despair etched across her face, it looked as though she had already given up.

Thorgar hefted his axe, his expression grim but resolute. "We stand and fight. We've faced worse."

Rain knew the warrior was trying to bolster their spirits, but even Thorgar couldn't hide the fear in his eyes.

The truth was, they were exhausted, wounded, and vastly outmatched. The thought of facing a dragon, one of the apex predator in the Spirit Realm was beyond daunting – it was suicidal!

The dragon roared once more, the sound so powerful that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth.

The mines shuddered in response, loose rocks and debris cascading from the wreckage as the creature drew nearer. The winds intensified, becoming a full-blown gale that whipped through the city, threatening to tear them apart.