Chương 121: The Forges of Vhur

Voragna's death had not made Zayn invincible. It had made him harder to kill. The difference mattered. He had been walking north for hours now, out of the soft lands of the southeast, leaving behind the dead gardens of Gluttony. His black wings remained partially unfurled, folded against his back like two poorly healed limbs. They were no longer the unstable growths that had first appeared among the beastfolk. They held. Poorly. But they held. The membranes were slowly closing over some of the tears.

The inner bones were knitting back together with wet cracking sounds. With every step, a hot pain climbed up his spine. Voragna had left him something. Not true immortality. Not clean healing. Not a blessing. A filthy regeneration. Flesh that refused certain wounds, provided he fed it enough force, enough blood, enough time. Zayn hated admitting it. But it was useful. Elyra walked several meters behind him, a sphere of light held against her chest.

The elven fragments freed from the Maws Gardens floated softly inside it, less agitated since Voragna's death. Perched on her shoulder, Lumeï stared at Zayn's back with suspicion.

"His wounds are closing." Elyra answered quietly,"I can see that."

"It isn't natural."

"Nothing about him has really been natural for a long time." Zayn heard. He did not turn. The scythe, fully reformed in his left hand, snickered.

"That was almost affectionate." Elyra answered coldly,"It wasn't a compliment."

"Where we come from, it passes." Zayn stopped at the crest of a ridge of red stone. Ahead of them, the continent changed its face. Voragna's soft lands vanished behind burned plains. The ground became black, cracked, dry. Giant chains crossed the valleys like the metal veins of a dead god. Farther on, red mountains vomited columns of smoke into an ash-choked sky. And in the middle of those mountains, a light pulsed. Not sunlight. Forge-light. The Forges of Vhur. The domain of Drakhar, Demon General of Wrath.

Even from here, they could hear the hammers. Boom. Boom. Boom. Every strike seemed to hit the entire continent. The mark of Wrath on Zayn's forearm answered. It heated beneath his skin. The scythe opened its smoking eye sockets.

"He's calling us." Zayn looked at the red mountains.

"No." He smiled.

"He hits hard enough for us to hear him. That's not the same thing." Elyra came up beside him.

"Is Elvarin really there?" Zayn lifted a hand slightly. Between his fingers, one of the rings torn from Lorran was still vibrating. Since Voragna's death, one of the traces within it had changed: a red mark, forged into the metal itself, pointed north.

"Lorran said the pieces were circulating. Voragna used what she wanted. The rest was sent where things are turned into weapons." Elyra paled.

"The Forges of Vhur." Zayn closed his hand around the ring.

"Elvarin knows how to work with spiritual remains. Drakhar knows how to turn wounds into war." The scythe murmured,"Lovely working partnership. Very unhealthy." Zayn descended the ridge.

"Then we're going to interrupt their collaboration." The first troops of Vhur found them before the main valley. Not scouts. Provocations. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Twelve demons in red armor, mounted on four-legged war-beasts covered in black plates and sawed-off horns. Each rider carried a burning chain-blade, and on each chest was engraved the symbol of the Forges: a split hammer inside a flame. They encircled Zayn and Elyra without dismounting.

The leader of the group had two broken horns and an iron-plated jaw. The system displayed soberly: [Vhur Captain detected.] [Estimated soul-force: 83.] Zayn studied the others. Between 50 and 70. Not enough. But better than the scraps from the greenhouses. The captain raised his chain-blade.

"Zayn Veylor!" His voice rolled through the valley.

"Drakhar, Lord of the Forges of Vhur, General of Wrath, acknowledges your victory over Voragna." Elyra tensed. Zayn remained still. The captain went on:"He offers you a road to his forges. He offers you a field. He offers you enemies who know how to die standing." The scythe tilted its skull.

"Finally someone who understands hospitality." The captain smiled.

"But before entering Vhur, you must prove that Voragna's blood only filled your stomach." Zayn looked at the chain-blade.

"I'm looking for Elvarin Soreth." The captain's smile widened.

"The little elf who weeps in the fires? Yes. He is there." The valley went silent. Elyra felt her light tremble. Zayn took a step forward.

"Say that again." The captain laughed.

"He screams very well when he's asked to stabilize spirits inside hot metal." The scythe appeared fully in Zayn's hand. The black skull opened its mouth.

"Oh." The mark of Wrath on his forearm burned. The captain finally dismounted.

"There. Drakhar wanted to see whether the rage came quickly." Zayn smiled.

"It does." His black wings opened. Not fully. Enough. The riders of Vhur took their positions. Elyra stepped back, protecting the sphere of fragments.

"Zayn, don't waste your body before the General." He barely turned his head.

"They just spoke about Elvarin."

"Exactly. You have to reach him." The captain charged. Zayn vanished. Not truly. His black wings beat once, launching him forward with brutal speed. The scythe met the chain-blade in a shower of sparks. The captain was strong. Very strong for a mere officer. He absorbed the first clash, spun, and struck Zayn in the side with the burning end of his chain. Flesh tore. The burn drove deep. The regeneration inherited from Voragna tried to close it. Too slowly. Zayn grimaced.

"Not perfect." The scythe snickered.

"Want to file a complaint with the dead woman?" The captain struck again. Zayn parried with the shaft, slipped under the chain, then laid his right hand against the red cuirass. Time in Ruin. The metal aged. The heat runes dimmed. The captain recoiled, but Zayn followed. The scythe sank into his shoulder. Not enough to kill. Enough to lock him in place. Zayn yanked the demon toward him.

"Where is Elvarin?" The captain spat black blood.

"At the heart of the forges. Where your name is already on the anvil." Zayn smashed his jaw with the shaft. Then cut off his head. The riders charged all at once. Elyra threw her light. A bright line barred the path of three mounts. They crashed into one another. Lumeï sprang out, bit a shadow, made one demon stumble. Zayn entered the rest. The scythe cut. The wings struck. Wrath heated. Time in Ruin ate through the chains. Gluttony analyzed the burns to keep the flesh from dying too fast.

The fight lasted less than two minutes. When it ended, the valley was covered in bodies. Zayn stood in the middle of them. His breathing was heavy. His burned flank was closing slowly, black and red flesh stitching itself beneath his torn coat. The system appeared. [Downfall of Envy: partial absorption.] [Soul-force absorbed: +9.] [Current soul-force: 208 → 217.] Zayn exhaled. The density entered him like molten metal. Not enough to erase the gap between him and the Generals.

But enough that the valley felt slightly smaller. Elyra looked at the corpses. Then at his closing wound.

"That regeneration will cost you something."

"Everything costs something."

"You say that like it doesn't matter to you." He walked toward the mountains.

"No." He looked at the fires of Vhur.

"I just choose what to pay for first." The Forges of Vhur were not a city. They were a permanent war given walls. Citadels of red iron climbed the mountains. Suspended bridges linked armed towers. Rivers of molten metal ran through open channels. Everywhere, demons worked, fought, trained, screamed, forged. Here, even demon children wore scars the way others wore jewelry. The news of Voragna had already arrived. And the news of the dead patrol arrived before Zayn did. The outer gates of Vhur opened.

Not to welcome him. To let him see. An avenue of warriors stretched before him, hundreds of demons in armor lined up in two ranks. None attacked him. All of them slammed their weapons against the ground. Boom. Boom. Boom. The same rhythm as the hammers. At the end of the avenue stood a vast forge-amphitheater carved into the mountain. At its center, a colossal anvil bathed in red light. And on that anvil, bound by chains heated white-hot, was Elvarin Soreth. Elyra put a hand over her mouth. Elvarin was alive.

Barely. His body trembled from the heat. His arms were spread. Instruments had been driven into his back, connected to plates of metal covered in elven traces. In front of him, a piece of spiritual light was trapped inside an unfinished blade. He was trying to speak. No sound came out. His throat had been burned just enough to keep him from screaming properly. Zayn stopped. The world around him went silent. Even the hammers seemed distant. Then a voice descended from the top of the amphitheater.

"He is useful. Weak, but useful." Drakhar appeared. The General of Wrath descended the stone steps like a mountain that had decided to walk. Enormous. Black skin fissured with embers. Four arms, each holding a different weapon. Massive horns broken in several places. His almost bestial maw smiled with brutal joy. The system trembled. [Demon General detected.] [Drakhar — Wrath.] [Estimated soul-force: 252.] Elyra stepped back despite herself. The air around Drakhar was not merely hot. It accused.

Every breath seemed to ask every living being in the arena whether they had a valid reason to be weak. Drakhar looked at Zayn. Then the black wings. Then the wounds closing. Then the scythe. His smile widened.

"You ate enough of Voragna to steal a little of her persistence. Good." Zayn was looking only at Elvarin.

"Unchain him." Drakhar burst out laughing. The mountain laughed with him.

"No." The mark of Wrath on Zayn's forearm became burning hot. Drakhar had seen it. Of course.

"Your rage is interesting. But it is not yet worthy of Vhur." He gestured toward Elvarin with one of his weapons.

"This rat gave the forges a method. Spirits bound into metal. Remains that scream inside steel. Weapons that carry stolen memories." Elyra trembled.

"Monster..." Drakhar turned an amused gaze toward her.

"Little elf, here we do not hide wounds beneath clean words. We forge them." Zayn stepped forward. Hundreds of warriors slammed their weapons into the ground. Boom. Drakhar raised one hand. They all stopped.

"Here are the rules." Zayn smiled.

"No." An enormous silence fell. Drakhar halted.

"No?" Zayn raised the scythe.

"I didn't cross the greenhouses, kill a General, and follow a rat into your mountains just to hear another lord explain why his cage is special." The scythe laughed.

"Magnificent summary." Zayn pointed the blade at Elvarin.

"I'm taking the researcher. You can try to stop me." For one second, nobody moved. Then Drakhar smiled. Not offended. Happy. Truly happy.

"There." He raised all four weapons.

"There is a war's answer." The warriors of Vhur howled. The arena lit up. Elvarin, on the anvil, weakly lifted his head. His eyes met Zayn's. He tried to say something. Maybe plead. Maybe warn. Maybe lie again. Zayn did not know. Because Drakhar leapt. The shock of his landing split the amphitheater. Zayn raised the scythe with both hands. The first blow from the General of Wrath hurled him into an iron pillar. The pillar bent. So did his bones.

The regeneration inherited from Voragna tried to knit his ribs back together. Pain exploded. Drakhar advanced slowly, laughing in the red heat.

"Do not die too quickly, candidate." Zayn straightened, blood filling his mouth. His scythe reformed in his hand. His black wings spread behind him. The mark of Wrath burned like a second heart. He smiled.

"I was just about to tell you the same thing." And the Forges of Vhur, for the first time in a very long while, stopped striking their rhythm. They listened. Because the succession had just entered the arena.