NOVEL NEXT Chapter 111: The Scout!
The world outside Grosh'ka was an ever-changing maze of dread and wonder.
The scouting party moved silently through the jagged undergrowth of a shattered forest—trees like twisted bones, vines that hummed with latent mana, and ground that occasionally pulsed beneath their boots as if alive. They'd been on the road for days now, keeping their heads low, marking their routes with subtle scratches on stone and rune chalk left behind like breadcrumbs.
Under David's guidance, the group had slowly gelled together. The awkward tensions between races—orc, human, minotaur, and a few half-beastkin—had dulled with time. There were still occasional spats, of course, but the wilderness had a way of pushing old grudges aside. Hunger, exhaustion, and constant danger reminded them that survival mattered more than pride.
"Careful," whispered Nelda, a sharp-eyed minotaur scout, her curved axe resting against her shoulder. "Tracks up ahead. Beast... Big one."
David nodded. "We move around. Everyone, quiet. No sudden mana flares."
The team adjusted without complaint. Ethan's orders were clear—avoid battle at all costs unless absolutely necessary.
An orc named Rulgar, once a rowdy brawler who snarled at humans on sight, now walked just behind a thin, quiet beastkin scout named Miv. The two no longer traded insults but shared jerky from the same pouch. Progress.
They hiked over hills that oozed glowing sap and through ruins where ancient weapons floated mid-air, suspended in fields of frozen time. Some nights, they camped inside long-forgotten stone huts buried under moss and ash. Other nights, they didn't sleep at all—forced to walk under the haunting cries of night-walking beasts whose forms shimmered like mirages.
Once, they stumbled upon a tree that whispered.
Its voice, soft and rustling like wind through parchment, spoke in tongues none could understand. Curious, one human scout had dared to step close—and within moments, roots had burst from the ground and tried to drag him under. It took all of David's quick thinking and an emergency burst of mana to free him.
"Remind me never to trust trees again," the scout muttered later, nursing his bruises.
Another time, while navigating a marshland where the water ran black and reflective like oil, Nelda fell waist-deep into quicksand hidden beneath the surface. It took three of them to pull her out, drenched and fuming but alive. Even then, her gratitude was gruff.
"You're lucky I don't have a temper," she grumbled, spitting muck.
"Right," David had chuckled, "just a war axe the size of a grown man."
Tension turned into familiarity. Trust grew slowly but surely—not because they suddenly liked one another, but because the Labyrinth punished division. Meals were shared without prejudice. Jokes, while rare, began to pass between former enemies.
At night, when they sat around carefully suppressed fires using heat-dampening runes, the conversations turned toward memories. Families lost. Distant homes. Stories of other sanctums whispered like myth. They spoke of the Sanctum Lord Ethan, who had defied expectations and claimed dominance not with fear—but strategy and resolve.
Still, the Great Labyrinth watched.
They felt it always—like something ancient breathing through the stone. Beasts roamed with intelligence behind their eyes. Some tracks they followed led to bloody ruins and shattered weapons, signs of conflict between beings they couldn't even name. Other places felt warped, twisted in time—where the sun never set and the air grew too still.
In one section of the maze, they encountered a shrine made entirely of bones, its centerpiece an obsidian blade driven through a severed eye that still blinked. They didn't linger. Rulgar swore the blade whispered his name. Miv wouldn't even look at it.
Another time, they passed through a field of statues. At first, they thought it was art—until they noticed the horror still carved into each face. Creatures turned to stone mid-scream, all facing the same direction, as if running from something... or someone.
"Let's not find out what did this," Nelda said flatly.
They moved.
Maps grew detailed, rune markers refined. Despite the creeping fatigue, they were getting closer to something. Even without Kaeryx's presence, a subtle instinct began to guide David—perhaps seeded by Ethan's system-linked influence, or perhaps something else. Something deeper.
Then came the twelfth day.
It started like any other. Blistering wind. Tense silence. Rations cut in half. They scaled a ridge of jagged obsidian, each step crunching underfoot like glass.
And then, it hit them.
The air shifted—charged with something unseen. Mana clung to their skin like dew. The hairs on their arms stood on edge.
On the horizon, through the swirling haze and roiling dust, a faint outline shimmered.
David halted them with a raised hand. His expression grew sharp.
"Eyes ahead," he said softly. "Everyone. Look."
They peered through the mist.
Past a deep gorge, across a dying forest and a lake that glowed a faint, haunting green—they saw it.
Sprawling walls of ancient stone, cracked but standing tall. Spires like fangs. Light from within that flickered faintly.
A sanctum.
Another one.
Finally.
David turned, eyes wide—not with fear, but fierce triumph.
"Form up," he ordered. "No mistakes. We report back. Ethan has to see this himself."
And they began the descent.
The Sanctum shimmered in the distance like a mirage made real—stone towers shaped like jagged dragon horns pierced the sky, surrounded by concentric rings of black walls inscribed with glowing red glyphs. The scent of scorched rock and ozone clung to the air.
They had finally found it.
Or rather, stumbled upon it.
It was Nelda who first noticed the air grow thick with heat, and the runes on her axe faintly hum without her touch. That was the only warning they got.
Then came the pulse—a pressure wave of raw spiritual intent bursting from the Sanctum itself. The scouting party froze. Some instinct deeper than reason screamed inside them all.
They'd been seen.
"No—no way," whispered Miv, her voice trembling. "We're still cloaked… aren't we?"
"Scatter!" David snapped. "We've been marked!"
From the obsidian walls, figures emerged like ghosts from smoke—tall, bipedal beings with deep scales, swept-back horns, and fire-colored irises. Dragon-men.
They moved like veteran predators—controlled, fast, and utterly silent. The earth cracked beneath one's leap, and he landed with a thunderous thud just meters from the party.
Panic surged through them.
Nelda roared and lifted her axe, but David slammed a hand across her arm.
"Not here. We die if we fight."
Another dragon-man's gaze locked onto the group. His nostrils flared—then he pointed.
"There."
Shit.
They'd been completely exposed.
And then—
A squelch.
The slime—until now quietly nestled in Miv's side pouch—launched itself into the air.
Its gelatinous body flattened and expanded, shimmering with sudden mana. What had once looked like a simple, squishy creature now pulsed with eerie bioluminescent veins. As it fell over the group like a dome, something extraordinary happened.
The world went silent.
Light bent around them. Mana in the air... dispersed. Even the dragon-men's glares lost focus as if their eyes passed right over the party. Sight. Scent. Heat. Sound. Mana. Presence. All gone.
The slime wasn't casting an illusion.
It was erasing their existence.
They crouched together, hearts pounding.
One dragon-man stepped forward, eyes narrowing.
"Where'd they go?" he growled. "They vanished mid-field."
Another hissed, drawing a gleaming scimitar from his back. "They're veiled… but this isn't normal cloaking."
"They'll reappear. Wait."
Time crawled.
The slime trembled atop them, straining visibly. Its core dimmed and brightened, struggling to maintain the veil. Each of them could feel it—this living veil of mana wasn't meant to cover so many.
They couldn't breathe too loud. Couldn't think too loud.
Nelda's knuckles turned white around her axe hilt. David gritted his teeth, willing the beast-men to look away. Miv whispered a prayer to gods she didn't believe in.
Ten seconds passed.
Twenty.
Thirty.
The slime shuddered, its glow sputtering—
And then, the dragon-men cursed and turned, beginning to fan out. One took flight. Another sniffed the air and growled in frustration.
"They're gone," one said at last. "Either cloaked by a relic… or protected by a curse."
"They won't stay hidden for long."
With that, the dragon-men moved on—back into the shadows of their Sanctum.
The moment they were gone from view, the slime collapsed, its form returning to a wobbling, exhausted puddle. The veil dropped.
Air returned. Mana flowed again.
David didn't wait.
"Move," he ordered. "Fall back—two clicks. Don't speak. Don't breathe unless you must."
They ran. Quietly. Swiftly.
It wasn't until an hour later—deep in the winding folds of the Labyrinth's overgrown cliffs—that they finally stopped, panting, shaken, and alive.
David crouched beside the slime. The poor thing was near translucent, its pulsing core barely glowing. It had nearly burned itself out shielding them.
He gently lifted it onto a leaf bed.
"Brave little bastard," he muttered.
Nelda dropped to her knees, still breathing hard. "What… was that thing?"
David exhaled, still stunned himself.
"Something Ethan sent. Said we might need it in an emergency. I thought he was being cautious. Turns out he was being exact."
Miv gave a shaky laugh. "Does he ever explain anything in detail?"
"No," David said. "He just… plans."
They all sat in silence.