The sky remained a dull, oppressive gray as Vael finished burying his mother beside his father. The early morning air hung thick and lifeless, carrying only the scent of damp soil and fading herbs. No birds sang their usual dawn chorus. No gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the old oak that had shaded the small house for years. Each shovelful of earth landed with a dull, final thud that seemed to echo the hollow ache in Vael's chest.
He worked in silence, his hands raw from the wooden handle of the shovel. Sweat mixed with the dirt on his face, but he didn't stop to wipe it away. This was the last thing he could do for her, the woman who had offered warmth and normalcy to two broken souls sharing one face. The woman who had hummed old tunes while packing lunches and patted Gruk's hand like he was just another stray in need of feeding.
Gruk stood a few paces away, motionless. His gaze was locked on the small tiffin box resting on the wooden bench near the door. The faint, lingering scent of fresh bread, roasted herbs, and hearty stew still clung to the cloth wrapping. Vael's mother had prepared the meal with quiet care the night before, portioning enough for three so they could eat together back at the barracks. She had even smiled and said, "Don't let it get cold on the way."
For the first time in this twisted second life, a genuine, unfamiliar sadness settled deep in Gruk's chest. Not the dramatic, theatrical rage he wore like armor, but something quieter and far more painful. She actually made this… for me too. The thought repeated in his mind like a cracked record. This simple farm woman had seen past the "future Demon Lord" posturing and treated him like a person. And now she was gone ripped away in a single brutal moment because she had become an inconvenient variable in someone else's scripted fate.
Aamon stood silent beside him, eyes distant and lost in thought. The usually sharp shadow seemed weighed down by the same invisible chains.
Then Aamon's voice broke the heavy quiet, sharp and urgent.
"My king, we should act. Now."
Vael straightened slowly, brushing dirt from his calloused hands. His voice came out low but steady, edged with ice.
"Yes… but we must be careful. We cannot trust anyone anymore. Not the guild, not the heroes, not even the walls of this city."
Gruk's eyes shifted to Haldir's broken body lying twisted on the ground nearby, limbs bent at unnatural angles from the final blow. The sight sent a fresh wave of fury through him.
"What do we do with this trash?" Gruk asked, his tone flat.
Vael glanced at the corpse, then met Gruk's gaze.
"Use it. Raise him as one of your undead. Make him serve."
Gruk's lips curved into a dark, predatory smile.
"Thank you, my king." He crouched beside the body, his voice slipping back into that familiar theatrical lilt even in the shadow of death. "For eternity, you will pull weeds from the garden until your bony fingers bleed. You will mop every floor in this house until the wood shines. You will carry every heavy load, every stone, every burden until the stars themselves burn out and the pages of this cursed story turn to ash."
The words carried a hint of his old dark humor, the kind that had once made Vael's mother chuckle despite herself. Yet Gruk's eyes remained hard as flint. Beneath the jest, the promise was deadly serious. This was no idle threat it was a vow carved in blood and resentment.
Vael gave a single, decisive nod.
"We return to the guild before sunrise." He turned to Aamon, his crimson eyes flashing. "Watch the movements of that demon disguised as Haldir Morbelith. Report anything unusual. Do not engage unless necessary." He paused, jaw tightening. "Now… let's move."
As the three prepared to depart, Vael's crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim pre-dawn light. A single thought burned in his mind like a brand: I'm coming for you, Miraleth. The wheel you worship so dearly is about to break.
Back at the guild…
Raymond woke with a pounding headache that felt like a warhammer slamming against his skull. He lay sprawled on a bench in the common room, the sour taste of last night's cheap ale still thick on his tongue. Empty tankards and scattered cloaks surrounded him. He groaned, pushing himself upright, the world tilting unsteadily.
Every morning the so-called heroes gathered for rigorous training practice in the yard sword drills, spell practice, formation runs. But today the very idea felt pointless, almost laughable. He stumbled outside and wandered toward the training grounds, stopping at a safe distance to watch Darius and Kufa sparring far off in the distance. Their blades clashed with disciplined rhythm under the watchful eyes of instructors.
Training for what? Raymond thought bitterly, rubbing his temples. The main villain Vael was supposed to be the great looming threat according to the original pages. The one the heroes would eventually triumph over in some grand, scripted finale. But he isn't even playing the role anymore. Whoever or whatever is pulling the strings out there… they're turning out to be small fry compared to the real chaos that's breaking loose.
As he turned to leave, a familiar, gentle voice stopped him cold.
"Aren't you training today?"
Elara stood a few steps away, her expression a careful mix of curiosity and quiet concern. Sunlight caught in her hair, making her look almost exactly like the character he had once written unchanged, steady, the one fixed point in a story that had spiraled wildly off-script.
Raymond shrugged, forcing a casual tone. "I'm skipping."
"Why?"
Before he could brush it off, Elara's eyes narrowed slightly as she scanned him. "And where's your sword? Where is the Divine Sword?"
Raymond frowned, patting his side instinctively. "It might be lying around somewhere… or maybe still in the common room. I was pretty out of it last night."
Elara didn't wait. She hurried off to check the benches and corners where he had passed out. A moment later she returned, shaking her head. "I can't find it anywhere."
Raymond's stomach dropped. He went back inside and searched the exact spot where he had collapsed, then every corner of the common room under tables, behind barrels, even in the rafters. The Divine Sword was gone. Completely. He couldn't remember anything clearly after a certain point.
"I remember drinking with Haldir… after that, nothing. It's all blank."
Elara's face tightened with visible worry. She rushed toward the training grounds, scanning for Haldir's familiar figure, but he was nowhere to be seen. She quickly asked Darius, Kufa, and Beatrice if any of them had spotted him that morning. None had. The answers only deepened the unease settling over the group.
Near the hidden portal…
Morbelith waited in the deep shadows of the ruined alley, a large bundle wrapped tightly in dark cloth resting at her feet. She shifted her weight impatiently, silver eyes fixed on the faint violet outline where Haldir was supposed to open the portal from the other side. The bundle whatever it contained seemed important enough that she kept one hand resting protectively on it.
A calm, steady voice suddenly sliced through the silence like a blade.
"Going somewhere?"
Morbelith turned sharply, her disguised form tensing. Aamon stepped out from the gloom, his presence quiet yet undeniably imposing, cloak settling around him like living shadow.
Before she could summon a retort or melt into darkness, Gruk appeared from behind her with unnerving silence, his steps light despite the weight of everything that had happened. He was still clutching the tiffin box in one hand, refusing to release that last fragile connection to the woman who had shown him unexpected kindness.
"Are you waiting for this?" Gruk asked, his voice dripping with mocking venom as he stared directly at her wearing Haldir's stolen face. "How touching. Waiting for your little partner like a loyal dog hoping for scraps from the table."
With a casual wave of his hand, dark necrotic energy swirled around him in twisting ribbons. Haldir's broken corpse rose unsteadily from where they had left it earlier, limbs jerking into unnatural motion. The eyes now glowed with an eerie violet light undead, forever bound to Gruk's will.
Gruk let out a laugh that started theatrical and bold, but it cracked at the edges, turning ragged. A single tear slipped down his cheek, born not of sorrow but of raw, seething anger that refused to be contained. The theatrical villain mask slipped completely for a heartbeat, revealing the ancient, furious being beneath.
"You took something that wasn't yours to take," he growled, voice low and dangerous.
The air grew thick and oppressive as Gruk fully released his demonic aura. Shadows lengthened unnaturally across the alley, the temperature plummeted until breath misted in the air, and an invisible pressure pressed down on everything nearby. With a single, contemptuous flick of his finger, a concentrated surge of dark power slammed into the hidden violet portal. The gateway shattered with a deafening crack that echoed across the entire city like a thunderclap from the heavens.
Moments later, the city tower bells began to ring frantically sharp, urgent peals warning of imminent danger.
In the distance, the ground trembled. A massive horde of undead began marching relentlessly toward the city walls, their hollow eyes glowing with the same ominous violet light. Skeletons, shambling corpses, and twisted remnants answered Gruk's silent call.
The entrance gate guards spotted the approaching force first and sent an urgent report racing to the heroes' guild.
"The undead… they look like tauren, elves, and orcs!" one messenger shouted, voice trembling with disbelief.
The heroes who had gathered at the walls froze in collective shock. Recognition hit them like a physical blow. Those faces, those forms they belonged to beings that were supposed to be long dead and buried deep within the forgotten pages of a story that was never meant to escape control.
At that exact moment, as Vael advanced with grim purpose toward Miraleth's heavily guarded residence on the upper slopes of the city, the ground beneath his feet began to shake violently. Cracks spiderwebbed across the cobblestones.
A cold, indifferent blue screen materialized before his eyes, glowing with clinical detachment.
[Quest Pending]
[Collect the soul of the slain corpses]
Vael stared at the notification, his glowing crimson eyes narrowing with barely contained fury. The tower bells continued their frantic ringing in the distance. The undead horde drew closer with every passing second, and somewhere in the heart of the city, the enforcers of the old wheel were undoubtedly preparing their response.
To be continued