CHAPTER 74: HIDDEN IN THE BLACK FOG

Far away, beyond the reach of daylight, there was a sea of black fog. It spread endlessly, swallowing land and sky, thick as ink poured across the world. Those who dared to wander into it vanished without a trace. Sometimes, faint screams drifted out from the fog, carried by no wind, yet lingering like echoes of the dead. It was said no map could chart it, no compass could point through it, and no prayer could pierce its veil.

Somewhere inside this suffocating mist lay a place no human had ever returned from. The fog parted reluctantly, curling back as if pushed by an unseen hand, revealing a structure that was neither castle nor ruin, but something far older and stranger. Black stone rose in sharp, unnatural angles, its surface slick as though it had been carved from frozen shadows. Veins of dim light pulsed beneath the surface of the ground, like the slow heartbeat of the earth itself. The air there did not move; it weighed heavy, thick, as if each breath dragged chains into the lungs.

At the center of this hollow world, upon a jagged platform, was a throne unlike any other. It was not made—it had grown, a dark shape sprouting from the stone, curling upward, tall and sharp like the ribcage of a dead god. The seat waited, vast and cold, for the one who ruled it.

Three figures knelt before that throne.

The first was a hulking shadow of rage. His body looked carved from fire-hardened rock, cracks glowing faintly as if molten anger burned just beneath his skin. Each breath came out as a growl, shaking the ground. His head was bent, but the horns curving back over his skull betrayed his monstrous nature. The air around him trembled, as though the ground itself feared to rouse his temper.

Beside him crouched another, thinner but no less unsettling. His movements were restless, twitching, as though he could never be still. His eyes, a poisonous green, darted ceaselessly, always measuring, always coveting. His hands flexed with hunger, yet never touched anything—like a starving creature forced to watch a feast just out of reach. The fog seemed to cling to him, thick and envious, reluctant to let him go.

The last knelt with eerie calm. A figure draped in curves too perfect, too dangerous, skin pale as moonlight. Her head was bowed, but strands of black hair slipped forward, spilling like liquid silk to hide her face. Even so, the air around her pulsed with temptation, a subtle pull that coiled into the bones. To look too long at her shape was to feel your thoughts slide away, replaced by a heat that did not belong. Beautiful, but like a blade polished until it gleamed.

They waited in silence. Then, slowly, shadows lengthened across the throne. Something gathered, rising, until a tall figure sat where none had been before. His presence was colder than the fog, heavier than stone. His face was hidden beneath a smooth white mask of bone, eyeless yet all-seeing, and his robes fell like liquid night, spilling into the floor, dissolving into smoke.

When he spoke, it was not one voice but many, layered, weaving together like the chorus of a thousand whispers.

"You have failed."

The three bowed deeper, though none dared to speak at first. The words rolled through the chamber like thunder, making the stone shudder.

"The subjects you command... their growth has stalled. Their sins burn weakly. The world does not tremble yet at their steps."

The air thickened, pressing against them. The first figure, the one of rage, clenched his fists, sparks leaping from his cracked skin. His voice was low, trembling with fury. "They fight. They kill. Yet still, they crawl when they should run."

The thin one hissed, his tongue flicking across his lips. "They crave, they hunger, they reach for what is not theirs. But it is never enough."

The woman finally raised her head. Her violet eyes glowed faintly beneath the curtain of hair. Her voice was silk, smooth but tense. "They desire. They surrender. But the fire does not spread as it should."

The masked figure leaned forward, shadows spilling wider, until the three were smothered in them.

"Then you will force it. There will be no waiting. You will evolve them. Break their shells. Drive them past their limits. Risk their lives, if you must. If they die, they were too weak to begin with. But if they survive... their power will feed this court."

A silence followed. Heavy. Absolute. The choice was no choice at all.

The first struck his fist against the ground, flames bursting from the cracks. "Then I will forge them in blood."

The second smiled hungrily, teeth sharp, eyes gleaming. "I will twist their hearts until nothing is left but longing."

The woman bowed low, her hair spilling like ink across the stone. "I will burn them until nothing remains but desire."

The figure on the throne reclined, shadows curling back, his mask tilting slightly as though in grim approval.

"Go," he commanded. "The Court of the Devil waits for no failures."

And only then did the black fog howl like a storm, carrying away Wrath, Envy, and Lust into its depths.

.....

The royal hall was quiet except for the echo of footsteps and the shuffling of papers. Advisors stood in a half-circle before the throne, heads bowed, their voices lowered in respect as they gave their reports.

One man, gray-haired but sharp in his words, spoke carefully,

"Your Highness, the last battle has ended. We lost many knights... one hundred and twenty in total."

Clinton leaned back against the throne, his face pale from the weight of the war. His fingers tapped on the armrest. "And the others?" he asked slowly.

The advisor swallowed. "Twenty mages... three tanks... and one crew head. He was an elemental specialist."

A silence spread across the room. Even though the numbers were lower compared to the past, every life lost carried its own weight. Clinton closed his eyes for a moment, letting the weight of the report sit heavily on his chest.

"Ooh... that’s sad," he murmured.

The advisor quickly bowed deeper. "No, Your Highness. Compared to the past wars, this is very low. It could be seen as a victory."

Clinton shook his head. His voice was faint but firm. "Still... people died."

The words barely left his lips when a sharp sound broke the silence—thudd! The sound of a body striking the cold marble floor.

"Your Highness!" the advisor cried out, rushing forward. Clinton lay sprawled on the ground, his crown rolling to the side with a metallic ring. His chest rose and fell heavily once... then again weaker... his eyelids fluttered. Panic spread through the chamber. Guards and servants ran in, kneeling beside him, shaking him gently.

"Your Highness, wake up! Please wake up!"

But Clinton’s body remained limp.

---

Far away from the palace, on the other side of the capital, the training halls were alive with the sound of steel striking wood. Evren Stride was alone, his sword cutting through the air with sharp precision. His shirt clung to his body from sweat, each movement pushing him beyond his limits. His breathing was heavy, but his eyes shone with focus.

Then suddenly, the grip on his sword loosened. His knees buckled. The blade slipped from his hand and clattered against the stone floor. His vision blurred, darkness rushing in faster than he could understand.

With no one to catch him, he collapsed, his body striking the ground with a dull thump.

---

Meanwhile, in the northern part of Velmora, the night was quiet. A faint breeze slipped through the window of a solitary chamber. Aric was seated on a wooden chair, a book spread across his lap. His eyes moved slowly across the lines of text, his lips forming words as he read softly to himself.

It was peaceful—too peaceful.

And then, out of nowhere, his breath hitched. His chest seized up, his fingers twitching against the page. His body jerked once before he slid sideways, the chair toppling beneath him.

Crash!

The sound echoed in the empty room. Books spilled across the floor as Aric lay motionless, his eyes closed, the faintest breath leaving his lips.

---

Three different places. Three different men.

And yet, all at the same time... all in the same moment...

They had fallen.