CHAPTER 22: FLEEING PHOENIX

"Avenge us."

The voice came from behind—familiar, sorrowful, and chilling. Auren turned his head slowly, knowing full well what he would find. Darkness surrounded him, thick and absolute, and yet from the pitch-black void emerged a dreadful scene.

A pool of blood shimmered faintly at his back. Then, from its surface, small hands broke through. One after another. Tiny fingers, tiny arms, blood-slicked heads with lifeless eyes. Infants—newborns—crawling from the crimson pool with harrowing cries.

They dragged themselves forward, slow and eerie, as if climbing out from the very depths of death. Blood clung to their delicate skin like a second birth. Their wails echoed in every direction, a cacophony of desperation and grief that struck deeper than any blade.

Auren stood unmoving as they reached him—dozens of babies with torn flesh, crushed limbs, and open wounds. The faces of the damned.

But he did not recoil.

He had seen them before.

For the past seven years of his life, this nightmare had returned to him again and again. At first, he had awoken screaming. Now, he simply frowned—tired, sad, and furious. The sorrow in the children’s eyes no longer startled him, but it never dulled.

This time was different though. Now that he had learned to understand the ancient tongue of this world, their cries made perfect sense. They weren’t just screaming—they were pleading.

"Justice..."

"Kill the Phoenix..."

"Make him pay..."

The children clung to his legs, arms outstretched, begging for retribution with trembling lips and wide, hopeless eyes. Despite the grotesque appearance, Auren knelt down gently and patted each blood-soaked head, his voice steady and full of quiet promise.

"I will," he said. "I swear it."

He didn’t need to ask what they wanted. He had known for years. Robert and Marissa had told him the truth when he was just three years old: King Aurelus, his biological father, had ordered his execution at birth. Only the defiance of the court mage Jorthon spared him. The mage, unable to stomach the infanticide, teleported him to a hidden village far from the capital—into the care of the quiet ranger, Robert.

But Auren’s disappearance had enraged the King.

And so, King Aurelus issued the most horrific decree in the history of Austerra: "Slaughter every child under the age of one."

Thousands of infants. Innocents. Sacrificed because he—Auren—lived.

The massacre reached even the ears of the Emperor, but by then, the damage had been done. Auren had collapsed into a month-long depression when he first learned the truth. It was the first time he understood the depths of his father’s cruelty—and the unbearable price others had paid for his life.

He had cried with rage. With guilt. With helplessness.

But thanks to the relentless support of Robert and Marissa, he rose again. Hardened. Determined.

He made a vow.A vow to the spirits of the ten thousand children who haunted his dreams:He would avenge them.He would claim the throne.And he would take King Aurelus’s head.

As Auren knelt among the crying children, a shrill, familiar screech pierced the air.

He turned—and there it was. The Red Phoenix.

Majestic, terrible, and blazing with celestial fire. Its feathers shimmered with crimson flame, its eyes glowing with predatory malice. The sigil of his father. The eternal reminder of tyranny.

Auren’s body tensed. Fury surged through him like magma.

His hands clenched into fists, his feet braced.

Every time this dream came, the Phoenix attacked. Every time, he stood his ground—and every time, he failed to strike it down.

But this time... something was different.

The Red Phoenix looked at him—not with arrogance, but wariness. It gave one thunderous cry and turned, flapping its mighty wings and launching into the air.

It was fleeing.

Auren blinked, startled. He had never seen it run before.

"You’re not going anywhere."

In a flash, he summoned his MJ Boots—sleek magic-forged greaves crafted for pure acceleration. They wrapped around his legs, etched runes glowing to life. Then came his dagger—a curved obsidian blade that shimmered with blue light. He surged forward, blasting into the sky, chasing the flaming beast through the dark void.

The wind screamed past his ears. The Phoenix weaved, ducked, and climbed through the nightmare sky, but Auren was faster now. He had trained for this moment. And just as he closed the distance, his dagger raised to strike—

Agony exploded in his skull.

A piercing pain shot through his head, and in a flash of blinding light—

Thud!

Auren’s body slammed into solid bark.

"Owww..." he groaned, clutching his head.

Leaves rustled as he tumbled down, crashing from the tree branch he had been sleeping on. Dirt greeted his back as he landed in a heap on the forest floor.

Above him, the canopy swayed gently in the morning breeze.

"Damn it..." he muttered, rubbing the fresh bump on his forehead. His MJ Boots had activated mid-dream, launching him straight into the tree above his makeshift perch.

He winced, cursing under his breath.

Sleep in trees to avoid predators, they said. Safe from beasts, they said.

He grumbled as he stood up and brushed himself off.

Nearby, his rune-inscribed sleeping bag lay crumpled—a magical item that masked scent, sound, and body heat. Essential for survival in the wilds. He folded it carefully and packed it into his satchel.

The dream still lingered in his mind, vivid and unsettling.

"That’s... really weird," he mumbled aloud.

A voice echoed in his head.

’What is, master?’ chirped the familiar tone of Bigbird.

Auren sighed. "That dream again."

He turned toward the rising sun—its golden rays filtering through the trees of the Runewood, the forest bathed in the soft glow of dawn.

’The bloody pool with the babies?’ Bigbird asked, his voice light but curious. ’Haven’t you gotten used to that one by now?’

"I have," Auren replied softly. "But something was different this time. The Red Phoenix didn’t attack me."

’Oh? That’s new... I’d love to fight that overcooked chicken myself. I’d show him which Phoenix fragment is stronger.’

Auren rolled his eyes. "You do realize you’re both from the same holy beast, right?"

’Exactly. And I’m clearly the superior fragment. Let him come—I’ll roast him.’

Despite himself, Auren chuckled. Their banter had become a comforting routine. But one thing always stood out—Bigbird, despite being a fragment of the same entity, couldn’t access his dreams. Something blocked him.

Somewhere deep in Auren’s mind, there was a barrier. Unreachable. Even to Bigbird.

’Probably the angel’s doing,’ Auren mused.

He pulled out a strip of beef jerky from his pack and took a bite.

"Still," he muttered, chewing thoughtfully, "why would it flee this time?"

There was a pause.

’Maybe... it sensed something stronger hunting it?’

Auren smirked.

"Then that means it’s afraid of me." He swallowed the last piece. "And one day, it’ll have every reason to be."

He unfurled his hand-drawn map, examining the terrain. Last night, he’d heard the haunting chorus of Night Stalkers. That kind of coordinated howl usually meant one thing: a new Alpha had risen.

He traced a path with his finger, aiming for the southeast. It was safer, with fewer predators—but something told him danger had a way of finding him regardless.

"I hope that white cat is dead," he muttered, rolling the map shut and packing it away.

He double-checked his supplies, tightened the fang trophy around his waist, and vanished into the underbrush—silent and swift.

Meanwhile, high above the Runewood canopy, Gondar moved like a whisper through the trees. With each silent leap from branch to branch, he displayed the kind of fluid agility no human could ever hope to match.

His lean, muscular frame—honed from years of elven training—seemed weightless as he soared through the morning air. Twin daggers rested comfortably on his back, the curved blades gleaming faintly under the filtered sunlight.

Compared to humans, elves were simply built differently. Their muscles were denser, more efficient. Their bones, lighter yet stronger. A single adult elf could leap almost three times the height of a trained human warrior and land without a sound.

In hand-to-hand combat, an average elf could take on three—sometimes even five—well-armed men and walk away without a scratch. But the difference wasn’t just physical. Their senses were sharper. They could hear a snapped twig from fifty paces, see in the dark as if it were twilight, and track the subtlest footprints in damp moss. For a human, surviving in the wilds took tools, spells, and luck. For an elf, it was instinct.

And yet, even among elves, Gondar stood out.

He is the only son of the leader of Velka’Dar—one of the hunter bloodlines of the elven clans, known for their near-supernatural physical prowess. While most elves had triple the strength of a normal man, those of Velka’Dar could boast fivefold. It made Gondar a predator among predators.

But strength meant nothing without patience.

He crouched on a branch, narrowed his eyes, and scanned the forest floor. Tracks. Faint. Probably a crawler. He sniffed the air—yes, the musty scent of fur and rot lingered. A Night Stalker. He crouched lower, motionless. A bead of sweat slid down his temple and vanished into the wind. Gondar’s breathing slowed to a near stop. He was no longer a warrior. He was the forest itself.

A hundred yards east, Jairah was doing the same—albeit in a different style. Unlike Gondar, Jairah favored stealth magic over raw athleticism. While Gondar leapt through trees, Jairah slipped through the underbrush like a ghost, her form cloaked in a veil of illusion.

She didn’t need brute force. She relied on her bow, and poison-tipped arrows hidden beneath her cloak. Both elves had agreed to separate temporarily and meet back in an hour. It was an efficient tactic. Cover more ground. Spot more prey.

In contrast, the human contestants approached the test with far less elegance—though no less ingenuity.

Leon’do, for example, relied on traps. He carried a roll of enchanted tripwire, a few bait sacks soaked in animal musk, and a collection of compact rune-stakes designed to create temporary cages once triggered. His strength didn’t come from speed or swordplay—it came from preparation. Planning. Patience.

Farther north, Micha’el—the only gold-haired elf in the trial—walked calmly and alone. He had already completed his hunt the night before. With unshakable poise, he now made his way toward the Aetherthorn to deliver his trophy. He had faced a lone Night Stalker head-on in single combat—and won. For him, the test had been over the moment it began. His calm confidence made him both respected and feared by the other contestants.

But unknown to him, a new player had entered the field.

Something large. Something quiet. It moved through the trees like mist, its pale body rippling with white heat. Even the Lantaws—the magical watchers assigned to observe and protect the area—had not detected it. Nor had the hidden wardens stationed among the trees.

Its eyes never blinked.

Its tongue flicked in and out.

And its gaze was fixed firmly on Micha’el.

It had no interest in the others.

Only the golden one.

The morning sun rose higher, bathing the forest in gold—but in the shadows, something hunted.