Night smothered Gazaiah—the mighty capital of Mura—in a cloak of darkness thicker than pitch. The air was heavy, cold, and unnervingly still, as if the entire forest had paused its breath in anticipation. Even the crickets dared not chirp. Only the rustling of dry wood under heavy boots broke the silence.
Bakar, the mastodon of Mura, walked with a deliberate slowness through the trees. His massive frame moved like a shadow wrought from iron. Every snap of a branch beneath him echoed like a warning, though none in this forest would dare bar his path. He was not just the king of Mura—he was its storm, its hammer, its relentless will.
Yet tonight, he walked alone.
Far from the fortified palace, deep in secluded woodland, stood a small hut. No guards. No torches. No evidence of civilization—just an unsettling aura that felt ancient, older than Mura itself.
Bakar reached the door, placed a steady hand upon it, and pushed.
The hinges groaned like dying spirits. Inside, dim candlelight revealed four figures seated at the four cardinal points of the room. Their garments were black as bottomless night, their faces painted stark white, and their eyes—blood-red and glowing faintly—were fixed on something beyond sight.
They exuded an impossible contradiction: a presence too light to detect, yet too heavy to ignore—like shadows staring back.
As Bakar entered, he lowered himself slightly in a respectful bow. It was small, but meaningful.
Any servant, soldier, or noble witnessing this would have fainted. The great Bakar—the undefeated war-king of Mura, the living symbol of strength—bowing? Impossible. Unthinkable.
But those who understood how kingdoms truly functioned—the informed, the elite, those who glimpsed behind the curtain—would not be surprised.
For they knew that even kings bowed before the unseen.
The faint, almost invisible pressure that filled this room would have crushed any untrained soul to their knees. These were not mere mystics. These were Enlightened Seers—practitioners who had reached the sixth tier of spiritual mastery, beings who walked the astral planes as easily as mortals walked the earth.
In Mura, as in all of Nubia, the world of flesh was merely the surface. True decisions, true victories, true destinies were forged in places beyond mortal sight.
The air in the hut seemed to thicken as Bakar sat in the center of a circular array of candles. The flames flickered inward, as though the king himself were drawing them closer.
He spoke first.
"Great ones," he said, voice steady despite the oppressive atmosphere, "I come seeking your aid in reaching the Primordial Vein."
A whisper answered him—soft, distant, as if seeping from the walls.
"Bakar…"
Then another voice followed.
"Bakar…"
And a third.
"Bakar…"
Then, with perfect harmony, all four repeated:
"Bakar."
A cold wind howled outside, though the hut had no openings. The candles bent toward the mystics, then toward the king, then steadied themselves.
"You seek passage," the four spoke together, voices layered, "to the deepest vein."
Their tone was eerie, yet carried a wisdom that felt cosmic—ancient, immutable.
"You seek to negotiate with forces beyond your current reach."
Bakar's jaw tightened. His voice was low, controlled. "I am a Second Grade Master Warrior. I have walked the Dark Path further than any king before me. I have bound entities of the Ethereal Drift. I have sacrificed. I have proven my worth."
His eyes burned with cold determination.
"But I cannot fully pierce the Primordial Vein. Not alone. And my conquest of Nubia demands certainty. I need the backing of the ancient ones—those who dwell in the deepest cycles."
The mystics' red eyes gleamed.
"You understand much," one murmured.
"You have climbed far," whispered another.
"But understanding and climbing," said the third, "do not grant you passage."
"The Primordial Vein," finished the fourth, "does not bow to ambition."
A silence followed, heavy as iron.
Bakar's nostrils flared. "Then open the gate for me. You are Enlightened. You walk those realms freely. You can grant me access."
The mystics' expressions remained unreadable, their painted white faces like masks carved from bone.
"We will not," they said in unison.
The words landed like a hammer.
Bakar's hands tightened into fists. His voice dropped into something dangerous. "Why?"
The first mystic leaned forward slightly.
"Because you are not ready."
The second continued. "Your soul is strong, yes. Your will is absolute. But the Primordial Vein is not a battlefield, Bakar. It is a realm where thought becomes substance, where will becomes reality, where the unprepared are consumed."
The third added, "You are a Master of the Second Grade. Powerful among men. But against the entities of the Vein? You are a candle before a storm."
The fourth finished, "To enter unprepared is to invite obliteration. And we will not be responsible for the destruction of Mura's king."
Bakar's jaw clenched. His eyes blazed with fury and frustration. "Then I will find another way."
"No," the mystics said softly. "You will not."
The candles exploded into tall flames as though reacting to the tension. Shadows spiraled along the walls, twisting into unnatural forms. Bakar felt something brush past him—ice-cold and heavy, grazing his spirit rather than his skin.
"There is," the first mystic said slowly, "another path."
Bakar's gaze snapped toward them. "Speak."
The second mystic's voice was measured, deliberate. "We will not open the gate for you. But we will speak on your behalf."
The third continued. "We walk the Primordial Vein freely. We commune with the ancient ones. We can negotiate with entities beyond your reach."
The fourth concluded, "Tell us what you desire. Tell us what you are willing to sacrifice. And we will carry your words to the depths."
Bakar's breathing slowed. His mind calculated rapidly. This was not what he had wanted—but it was better than nothing.
"And the price?" he asked carefully.
The mystics smiled—faint, unnatural curves of their lips.
"The price," they said together, "will be determined by the entity you seek. Not by us."