Hearing distant hoofbeats galloping away in a hurry.
Hearing wings unfurl and then come crashing down with force.
Ronn took flight.
Leaving behind a freezing, worried, and guilty boy.
"This world hates me, apparently… why did I have to be reincarnated as a damn darkness mage?!"
He felt sorry for himself. He also knew that it was at least partly his fault—if not everything.
"T-that thing down there…" he shuddered. "I felt its gaze aimed right at me…"
Walking toward the gates, his mind was in turmoil. On one hand, he wanted to stay with Talmir. On the other, he was glad that he was away from this monster. And now, of all times, he would have to explain and convince people of what was happening—unsure of himself, unsure if the people of Kolma were the same as the people of Ragla.
Doubt lingered in his mind, and with that doubt, every step he took became heavier and harder to take.
"What if I'm blamed for what happened there? What will happen to me then?"
He was nearing the gate when the guard, Tom, noticed him.
"Ey, buddy! Aren't you a little lightly clothed?" he said, inquiring.
Teclos wanted to tell him to bring him to the chief, but a big lump in his throat seemed to form suddenly, stopping him from speaking.
Tom tilted his head. "What? Cat got your tongue? What's wrong, boy?"
Timidly, he gathered the courage to speak to another human being again. "H-hello, Mr. Tom. I-I need to go to the chief in a hurry. Everyone is in d-danger."
Oh hell, now I can't even speak anymore? What the hell is wrong with me? he thought, ashamed of himself and disappointed. How many times do I have to remind myself that I'm over forty years old by now?!
As the inner turmoil grabbed hold of Teclos, Tom became serious, sensing that something was wrong.
"What happened? Where is Talmir?"
"We need to h-hurry! Ragla is under attack. I need to s-speak to the chief and Father Pella. Please!"
Tom nodded once, the easy humor gone from his face.
"Alright," he said shortly. "Let's hurry inside."
Before Teclos could protest, Tom bent down, scooped him up under one arm, and broke into a run. The sudden motion stole the breath from Teclos's lungs as the gates of Kolma rushed toward them. The other guard shouted in confusion as Tom barreled past without stopping.
"Where are you going?!"
Tom barked back, "Chief's business!"
The gates parted just long enough for them to slip through, then slammed shut again behind them with a heavy thud.
They ran through torchlit streets, boots pounding against stone, Teclos clinging weakly to Tom's shoulder as his thoughts spiraled. Faces blurred past—merchants closing shutters, villagers staring in confusion, someone shouting after them—but none of it felt real.
Everything felt distant.
Wrong.
Tom slowed only when they reached the chief's house, already lit from within. He kicked the door open and carried Teclos straight inside.
"Chief!" Tom called. "Something's wrong. Really wrong."
Chief Brahm was on his feet instantly, eyes sharp despite the late hour. He took one look at Teclos—pale, shaking, eyes wide with fear—and his expression hardened.
"Put him down," Brahm ordered.
Tom did, gently this time.
Teclos stumbled as his feet touched the floor, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. Brahm was already moving, snapping orders.
"Blankets and tea. If you could hurry, honey?"
His wife rushed off to get them.
Teclos tried to speak, but the words tangled in his throat again. He hated it—hated the weakness, the shaking, the way his body refused to obey him when it mattered most.
It was like he was shell shocked.
Brahm crouched slightly to meet his eyes.
"Easy, boy," the chief said, voice steady. "You're safe here. Take a breath."
Safe.
The word almost made Teclos laugh.
"I… I need to speak to Father Pella too," Teclos managed at last. "P-please."
Brahm studied him for a moment longer, then nodded.
"Tom," he said. "Go. Bring him. Now!"
Tom didn't argue. He was already moving.
While they waited, Elira pressed a steaming cup into Teclos's hands and wrapped a thick blanket around his shoulders. The heat seeped slowly into his fingers, but the trembling didn't stop.
Brahm sat across from him, patient, watching without pressing.
"What happened?" the chief asked quietly.
Teclos swallowed.
"Ragla…" he began, then stopped himself.
Not yet.
"I'll explain," he said instead, forcing the words out. "When Father Pella gets here."
Brahm nodded again. He didn't look offended that Teclos didn't trust him—only concerned.
They waited.
It felt like hours, though it couldn't have been more than minutes before hurried footsteps echoed outside and the door opened again.
Father Pella entered, breathless, his robes hastily thrown on, eyes immediately locking onto Teclos.
"My child," he said softly. "What is wrong?"
That was all it took.
The dam broke.
Teclos told them everything.
About the training.
About the meeting with the hunters.
About Joe—his rage, his lies, his death.
About the dungeon.
The pressure.
The gaze that had locked onto him like a blade against his soul.
"T-that thing down there…" Teclos whispered again, hands tightening around the cup. "I felt it looking at me."
He told them what he'd seen before fleeing—the scream, the dead rising, the ghouls tearing into the village.
He told them what Talmir had said.
That he was to run.
That he was to bring everyone.
That Ragla wouldn't hold without help.
And finally—
"There's more help coming," Teclos finished, voice raw. "From Lupos. Ronn said he'd get them to open the portal. Bringing Inquisitors, Knights—everyone with him."
Silence filled the room.
Chief Brahm leaned back slowly, face grim.
Father Pella closed his eyes.
Undead.
A banshee.
A lich's servant.
And a village drowning in blood.
Pella exhaled shakily and looked at Teclos again—not as a child now, but as a messenger who had carried horror on his back and lived.
"You did well, boy," he said quietly.
Teclos flinched.
"But I-I ran," he whispered.
"And because you ran," Pella replied gently, "others may yet live."
The weight of that settled heavily in the room.
Teclos felt a tiny bit reasured from that.
Meanwhile, flying as fast as he dared, Ronn urged the pegasus onward.
Lupos was still far—too far for his liking—and he could feel every wasted heartbeat clawing at him. He had already lost precious minutes delivering the boy to Kolma, minutes that now screamed in his mind like an accusation.
His thoughts were grim and bitter.
'The moment I could, I ran.' Was one of the thoughts he had.
The pegasus responding to his emotions beat its wings harder, muscles trembling beneath him as cold air tore past. Ronn leaned low against its neck, breath ragged and teeth clenched.
Coward, a voice whispered inside him.
You left men to die.
"No," he muttered aloud, his voice snatched away by the wind. "No… I'm not done yet."
He tightened his grip.
I'll make it right. I swear it.
The cold was brutal at this speed. It cut through his gloves, numbing his fingers until pain bloomed sharp and white. Frost crept along his knuckles, skin stiffening, burning. His face felt like cracked stone. Every breath scraped his lungs raw.
The pegasus screamed in protest, wings faltering for a heartbeat before surging again.
Three hours.
Three merciless hours from Kolma to Lupos, pushing both rider and beast to their limits. By the time the city's lights finally burned through the darkness ahead, Ronn's vision swam and his hands shook violently.
He barely felt the landing.
The moment they hit the ground near the outer guard station, he slid from the saddle and staggered, nearly collapsing before forcing himself upright.
"No time," he rasped. "No time…"
Ignoring the pain, he half-ran, half-stumbled straight toward the guard captain's post.
This wasn't a matter for common guards. He needed authority. Power.
And the Church.
The guard captain stiffened the moment Ronn spoke—soot-covered, frostbitten, eyes wild—and within minutes the grim news had been relayed upward. Count Aweq's lands were threatened. A banshee had manifested. An entire village was under siege.
That alone was enough.
The stamped seal of the Dawn Church was pressed into Ronn's trembling hand by a priest present at the gate—official permission to enter the inner sanctum and speak directly to the Arch Bishop of Lupos.
Without it, they would never have let him through.
He left the pegasus in the barn beside the guard station, pressing his forehead briefly against its warm neck.
"Rest," he whispered. "You did enough."
At the main gates of the Dawn Church, two guards barred his path, halberds crossing before him.
"No entry without sanction," one said flatly, eyes already sliding away.
Ronn held up the stamp.
The reaction was immediate.
The guards straightened, weapons lowering as if by instinct.
"You may enter," the second said quickly.
Ronn didn't thank them.
So this is how it is, he thought grimly as he passed beneath the towering archways. A man bleeding in the street is nothing—but ink and wax open every door.
Inside, a paladin met him at a run.
The man was clad head to toe in gleaming silver-white armor, runes etched deep into every plate, magic humming softly beneath the metal. A greatsword rested across his back, its presence alone heavy with power.
"This way," the paladin said, voice deep and steady. "The Arch Bishop's office is this way."
They moved quickly through marble halls and candlelit corridors until they reached massive wooden doors reinforced with gold inlay.
The paladin knocked once. "A messenger bears urgent news, Your Eminence," he said in a grim tone.
"Enter," came a smooth voice from within.
The office beyond was lavish.
The Arch Bishop sat behind a massive wooden desk, robes of deep crimson and white draped elegantly over his form, gold embroidery catching the candlelight. A chest filled with gold sat neatly beside the desk. Papers were stacked everywhere—reports, edicts, correspondence. A dining table, two plush sofas, and towering shelves of books filled the room.
He toyed idly with a gold coin in one hand while writing with the other.
His eyes flicked to Ronn—and dismissed him.
"A peddler," he said mildly. "You may speak. Briefly."
Ronn swallowed and spoke.
And as the words banshee, death mana, and Ragla left his mouth, the coin stopped spinning.
The bishop's expression hardened.
Frivolity vanished.
"Regulus," he commanded.
The paladin straightened instantly.
"Prepare the inquisitors. Summon the paladin order. Alert the priests."
His gaze cut back to Ronn, sharp and cold. "A monster manifesting on my lands will not be tolerated," he declared arrogantly.
Orders followed swiftly—precise, ruthless.
A full detachment of knights and paladins. Inquisitors armed for subjugation. Priests to contain corruption and sanctify ground.
"Go," the bishop said to Ronn, already turning back to his papers. "Use your stamp. Prepare the portal so we can leave immediately."
Ronn bowed once and hurried out.
At the portal site, two knights stood guard before a colossal structure.
The gate floated above the ground—a massive ring of mythril and adamantium engraved with golden runes and sigils so dense they glowed faintly even at rest. A massive staircase connected upward toward its center, leading into empty air.
It wasn't just a doorway.
It was a threshold—wide enough for an army.
Ronn showed the stamp and spoke quickly.
The knights nodded and moved to panels embedded on either side of the structure, placing their hands upon them. Mana surged outward, blue-white light racing along the runes as the gate began to hum.
The air trembled.
Space itself seemed to bend.
Ronn watched, breath held.
Hold on, he thought desperately.
All of you… just hold on a little longer.
Back at Kolma, the hunters were ready to set out before Ronn even made it to Lupos.
Almost every able-bodied fighter from Kolma had been mustered, all twenty-five of the active hunters standing with their gear ready, weapons at their backs or waists, prepared to be drawn.
Ten of the twelve village guards flanked them, shields braced, faces set with grim determination.
Pella arrived last, clad once more in his old silver armor etched with protective runes—an earlier version of paladin armor. His great double-bladed battle axe hung easily on his back, its weight alone capable of crushing skulls. Two priests followed him, chanting prayers and blessings under their breath as they moved to join the group.
They fell into formation with the others.
There was no hesitation. No delay.
Every step toward Ragla would be a march into death and chaos—but they were prepared to face it.
The streets of Kolma grew silent behind them as the group moved out, torches flickering, weapons ready, hearts steeled.
And somewhere beyond the horizon—just past the edges of Kolma's sight—
Ragla still burned.
Lives were still at stake.