While near the borders of the northern kingdom, Leo and the others found a ruined house and made camp inside. The stone walls were cracked, the roof half-collapsed, but it was shelter enough. Briva and Elna took the first watch, leaving Leo and Arthur free to join the gathering.
Leo closed his eyes, and in the silence of his mind he stepped into his domain. One by one, the gathering members appeared around the great table, their silhouettes solidifying until they stood clear and whole. Like always, they greeted each other with slight bows and words of respect before the true meeting began.
Leo was the first to speak. His voice was calm.
"Arthur and I are heading into the northern kingdom."
Marco raised a brow. "Which city? Can I meet you there?"
"Unfortunately, we are going to the far north. From there… we plan to enter the Shadowland."
Alina's eyes widened. Leo caught her reaction and gave a faint smile.
"We may meet in person," he said, "if we can find you."
"That may be for the best," Alina replied, her tone sharp with urgency.
Arthur leaned forward. "Why do you say that?"
Alina hesitated for a heartbeat before answering. "We discovered an ancient elven city. In the ruins, I found a history tome—it spoke of a sealed place within the castle, a vault said to hold an orb… one that belonged to the Goddess of Nature."
Leo froze. His eyes widened in shock. "What did you say? An orb of the goddess?"
"Yes," Alina confirmed, studying his reaction. "Do you know what it is? And what you intend to do with it?"
Leo leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "That orb is no mere relic. It is a fragment of her power. With it… the Creator can begin to bring her back."
The chamber fell silent. For a moment, no one even breathed.
"What do you mean by bring her back?" Liam's voice broke the silence, incredulous.
Leo's eyes narrowed. "The Goddess of Nature fell four hundred years ago, during the war of the gods. But she did not perish."
The weight of his words sank into the gathering.
Liam spoke again, almost in a whisper, his disbelief giving way to awe. "And the Creator… he has the power to restore her?"
No one answered. They didn't need to. The very possibility was terrifying—and miraculous.
For the first time, Liam felt the true scope of the Creator's power. To bring back a god… not even legends claimed such a thing was possible. His heart trembled with both hope and fear. As his name suggested, the Creator was not just a god among gods—he was the God of Gods. The one who might yet save them all.
These questions burned in the minds of the gathering, though each carried different feelings.
Alina's heart fluttered with excitement and fragile hope. Marco's eyes gleamed with pride in the god he worshiped. Arthur, however, felt the weight of it most of all. He understood the scale of power being spoken of—perhaps more than anyone else here. Leo had explained this truth to him before, yet hearing it again in such a moment still struck him to the bone.
"Then… what should we do with it?" Alina asked. Her voice held a brightness she couldn't suppress, a rare kind of hopeful joy.
Leo's gaze shifted to her. "For now, tell me everything that book said."
Alina recounted the contents in detail—the fall of Revendel, the Mad God's whispers, the despair of the people, the bargain that turned into a curse, and finally, the sacrifice of the king and his soldiers. When she finished, silence followed, broken only by Leo's sigh.
"The king was likely never the Mad God's true problem," Leo murmured. "The seal was. He must be waiting for someone—anyone—to break it." His eyes slid to Arthur.
Arthur gave a single firm nod.
"You must prevent the seal from being broken," Leo continued. "Guard it. Wait for us to arrive. We will find the solution together. But it may take time—we have other places to go first."
Alina lowered her head slightly in acknowledgment. "Then… how will you find us when the time comes?"
Leo's lips curved faintly. "I'll tell you when we are about to enter the Shadowland." His tone grew sharper. "One more thing—this Maze of Madness. Anyone know anything about it?"
Arthur spoke up, his voice steady but edged with unease. "It was mentioned only briefly in the oldest records. When the Mad God lures someone there, there is no return. None who enter have ever been seen again. No one knows what it looks like… because no one survives."
Leo turned to Alina. "Did your book speak of it further?"
Alina frowned, recalling the passage. "It said the Mad God promised that in the maze, each day would feel ten times more joyous than in the real world."
Leo stilled, his hand rising to his chin. His expression darkened, thoughtful.
'Ten times more? That sounds like…' He narrowed his eyes, a chill running through him.
The hall had grown utterly silent, the weight of the thought pressing down on all of them.
Then, with a sharp clap of his hands, Leo cut through the stillness. "If there is nothing else, this meeting is concluded."
One by one, the members bowed toward the upper hall. Their forms shimmered and vanished until Leo was left alone in the vast emptiness of his domain.
He lingered, eyes distant, his mind turning over the new knowledge again and again. The orb. The seal. The maze.
Pieces of a puzzle the Mad God had laid long ago… and one wrong move could mean doom for them all.
…
Deep in the Shadowlands, Rokk Doombone, one of the five chieftains, waited patiently for his men to return. His dark green skin looked almost black in the murky night, the scars carved across his chest glowing faintly under the pale torchlight. His muscles were so massive and dense that when he shifted, the sinews of his body creaked and cracked like bending wood. His tusks jutted forward from a jaw made for tearing, and his eyes burned with a hunter's patience.
The orc camp around him seethed with life—hulking warriors sharpening axes on whetstones, others feasting on raw meat, their laughter deep and cruel. Massive tents stitched from beast hides ringed the warband, while crude iron totems, decorated with bones and skulls, marked their territory. These were not a people of comfort—they were born for war, for conquest, for domination. Even the smallest of them towered over most men, their veins pulsing with raw strength and primal fury.
At last, his scouts returned. They were armored in jagged black steel, dented from countless battles but carried proudly as trophies. The first one bowed low.
"Chieftain, we brought back a human." He gestured, and another orc shoved forward a trembling figure in torn clothing.
"He doesn't speak our tongue," the scout added, sneering as though the very idea of it offended him.
Rokk seized the human by his tunic and lifted him as if he weighed nothing. The man dangled helplessly in the air, no bigger than a child compared to the hulking chieftain. His legs kicked uselessly, his face pale with terror.
"He doesn't need to speak," Rokk growled, his voice like grinding stone.
The man whimpered, sweat pouring down his face, words spilling from his mouth too quickly for anyone to understand. He was begging—pleading for mercy with tears streaking down his cheeks.
"Disgusting, weak creature," Rokk spat. His lip curled in contempt.
He turned and began striding through the camp, carrying the human like a broken toy. As they passed, dozens of orc warriors paused their work—blacksmiths hammering crude but deadly blades, hunters skinning beasts, raiders sharpening their spears. They all watched with interest. Some laughed, others roared approval, a few slammed their weapons against their chests in rhythm, like a drum of war. The human's cries only seemed to amuse them further.
Another chieftain sitting by a fire bellowed with laughter. His tusks gleamed in the firelight.
"Rokk, you finally caught one of these animals? Look at it—it weeps like a child!" He laughed again, the sound harsh and mocking, joined by others around him.
Rokk ignored them, save for a low, warning growl, and pressed on into the largest den at the center of camp. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the stink of blood.
There, waiting in shadow, stood his Warchief—one of the most powerful orcs alive. He loomed as large as Rokk, but darker, his frame wreathed in unnatural strength. His presence alone filled the room with a crushing weight, and the scars across his chest glowed faintly with the same dark purple light that pulsed from his hands.
The warchief stood over a human corpse laid out upon a stone table. Tendrils of that purple light snaked into the body, pulling fragments of thought and memory out of it. He turned when Rokk entered.
Rokk dropped to one knee and threw the living human to the ground before him.
"Warchief, we caught one."
The warchief's lips pulled into a cruel smile, his tusks glinting. He stepped forward, towering over the prisoner. "Well done, chieftain Doombone."
He crouched, looking at the man with burning eyes. "And what do we have here?" he asked—not in orcish, but in the human tongue.
Rokk's brow furrowed. "You can speak their language?"
The warchief chuckled, low and dark. "I ripped it from the mind of the last one."
The human's eyes widened in relief. "You… you can understand me? Please, I'll tell you anything—just spare me!"
"Of course," the warchief said smoothly, circling him like a predator. "But first, I have questions. Will you answer them willingly… or shall we use other methods?" He gestured casually to the corpse on the stone table.
The man trembled violently. "I—I'll talk! Anything you want!"
The warchief nodded slowly, his cruel grin widening. "Good… good." His voice dropped lower, like a growl. "But then again… you may lie."
Before the man could plead further, the warchief thrust out a hand. A lance of dark purple energy shot into the prisoner's chest. The man's scream ripped through the den, echoing into the night. Outside, the orcs roared in approval, their guttural chants rising like a storm.
…
After two more days, Leo and the others finally crossed into the Kingdom of the North. A looming border castle stood in the distance, its black spires clawing at the gray sky, but they dared not enter it illegally. Instead, they wound their way through the cold, jagged mountains, taking another day before they came upon Reistara.
It was a village that looked alive only in shape, not in spirit. The people moved through the streets with vacant stares, their skin pale as wax, their steps slow and mechanical, as if strings pulled them along. Not a single laugh, not a spark of life—only the empty shuffle of husks.
Elna's nose wrinkled. Her blue eyes narrowed as she scanned the streets. "I can smell vampires everywhere."
Arthur's hand went to his blade. His voice was low, steady. "Then let's keep our guard up. This whole place feels wrong."
They entered a tavern that stank of stale blood and damp wood. Inside, shadows clung to the walls, though a few candles guttered weakly on the tables. In the corner, a group of pale figures sat gathered, laughing raucously. Their laughter was hollow and cruel. On their table wasn't food or drink—but a man. A living man, bleeding, bound, and barely breathing, as they toyed with him like hunters toying with prey.
Briva's lips curled in a cold smile. "Well, look at that. Our first clue."
As soon as the group noticed them, their laughter ceased. Slowly, deliberately, they rose and stalked across the room toward Leo and his companions. Their eyes glowed faintly red, their elongated fangs gleaming in the candlelight.
"Let's scare them a little," Leo whispered to his friends. "That'll make them talk faster."
One of the vampires, tall and gaunt, sneered as he looked at Elna. "Well, well, what have we here? Never seen you around before, little lady." His voice dripped with mockery as he sized up the others. "And these—" he gestured dismissively to Arthur, Leo, and Briva "—these must be your blood bags. Mind if we join you for a drink?"
His hand reached for Elna's chin, but before he could touch her, Leo's hand snapped out fast, and clamped around his wrist.
The vampire's smirk faltered. "Hah? Who do you think you are, boy?" His face twisted with anger, his fangs sliding into view as he tried to jerk free. "Do you know who I am?"
Leo's eyes hardened, his voice calm but edged with ice. "We have some questions for you."
The vampire snarled, baring his teeth fully. He lunged, his other hand ready to slash, but before anyone could blink, Leo's arm shot forward—straight through his chest.
The vampire froze, his laughter dying on his lips. His blue eyes went wide in shock as he looked down to see Leo's hand in his chest, wrapped tightly around his beating heart.
The entire tavern went silent. Even the drunken moans and cries outside seemed to hush, as though the world itself held its breath. The other two vampires with him instinctively stepped forward—but Arthur was already there, sword drawn, his expression like stone.
Leo tightened his grip slightly, enough for the vampire to feel his heart strain in his chest. "First," Leo said slowly, his voice like a blade pressing against skin, "I now have your heart in my hand. That means if I press just a little… you'll be dead."
Blood spilled from the vampire's mouth as he coughed, his arrogance collapsing into fear.
"Second," Leo continued, "she—" he nodded to Elna— "is my girlfriend. You will apologize to her. Now."
The vampire's lips trembled. He looked at Elna and gave the slightest bow of his head, blood dripping from his mouth.
Leo leaned closer, his tone dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And third—you're going to answer our questions. All of them. Clearly. No games."
The vampire nodded frantically.
Leo slowly pulled his hand free, black blood coating his arm, and the creature collapsed to the ground, gasping. Briva stepped forward, muttering a spell, her hands glowing faint green as she knit his flesh back together. The vampire groaned, pain etched across his face, but he lived.
Leo calmly pulled out a chair, dragged it across the floor, and sat down in front of the trembling vampire. His eyes glowed in the dark.
"Now," he said, wiping his bloodied hand with handkerchief. "Shall we begin?"