Chương 85: The Helemyr Scar

The captain tapped the map. The sound was a crisp punctuation against the stillness of his office. Cal followed the motion, tracking the captain's calloused digit as it settled on a dark splotch on the wall-mounted map of the Virethane Forest. The stain was circular, its edges bleeding into the surrounding green like spilled ink on parchment. I've seen that before.

He'd cataloged every detail of this map weeks ago, fresh from the tournament, before his mind was sent reeling from the revelation of the Sovereign Path. That splotch had been there, unlabeled and ignored, just another anonymous feature on a big canvas of strategic intelligence. Now it had a name.

"This is where you're going, Valorn. The Helemyr Scar." Cal straightened. Hatch stood before the map delivering a tactical briefing, his eyes fixed on the mark as though willing it to explain itself. Morning light from the narrow window fell across the map, illuminating dozens of colored pins, Legion symbols, and ominous, blacked-out sections that implied danger and redacted information. Hatch lowered his finger and turned to face Cal.

"Before I tell you what you'll be doing there you need to understand what it is. Simply put, the Helemyr Scar is a wound on the world. It's also a lesson the Mycari learned the hard way." The captain continued.

"Centuries ago the Scar was the home of a powerful Mistblood family: House Helemyr. They were ambitious, hungry for wealth and status, and they made a pact with a dark forest entity to accelerate their rise." He paused, glancing back at the map.

"The deal was simple. The entity would grant them power, enhancing their abilities to take on more dangerous and higher-paying contracts. In return, they would pay a tithe of death from their victims. For a time, their coffers swelled. They became legends among their people." Cal sighed internally, already seeing where this was going.

"But all things ebb and flow," Hatch said, moving to stand in front of his desk.

"When their supply of contracts diminished their supply of sacrifices did likewise. The entity's demands, however, did not." The man frowned.

"Desperate to keep their power the Mistblood turned on their own clan. They secretly sacrificed their citizens to pay the escalating debt." Catastrophic, hostile liquidation.

"Eventually they couldn't keep up. The pact shattered. The borrowed power broke free of their control and the entity consumed them and their home, tearing a permanent, death-infused wound into the world. What remains is the Helemyr Scar." Cal absorbed the information somberly, cataloging it alongside everything else he knew about the Mycari. A tale of greed and desperation. A cautionary story their elders probably told their children.

He wondered if Narbok had ever heard it, and whether the psychopath had learned anything. Hatch mirrored Cal's stance, settling into a rigid parade rest.

"The Scar is a site of ancient ruins with a fissure that leaks death Mana. The energy reanimates nearby corpses, creating a self-sustaining population of undead. Your mission is a culling operation. Standard, necessary action to prevent the undead from overflowing their territory and threatening the broader forest." Cal latched onto a specific phrase: self-sustaining population.

"High Command chose not to destroy the source," Hatch added, answering the unspoken question.

"The reanimated creatures are a consistent and renewable source of blue spirit stones for the Dominion. Destroying the fissure would be a waste of the valuable resources it provides." Of course. Cal pressed his lips into a thin line. The Dominion had turned the bankrupt assets of a failed and tragic enterprise into a harvesting ground. The Mycari had paid the price for their greed, and now the Dominion harvested the dividends of their failure. Hatch pinned Cal with a stare.

"The mission itself is routine, but your performance is not." He took a single step forward, closing the distance.

"You carry the title of Sovereign Aspirant, Valorn. That title bears significance. It carries… expectations. The Legion has made an exception for you, and the Dominion doesn't tolerate wasted potential. You will prove you continue to be worthy of the freedoms you've been allowed." Cal locked his spine into perfect alignment as he met Hatch's unflinching gaze.

"Understood, sir." The captain's words were a performance review delivered at the point of a sword. Hatch had laid out the terms of his situation in the starkest possible way, showing that the 'freedoms' he'd been allowed were a leash, a conditional privilege granted to a promising asset. Failure meant the leash would be yanked tight, his title stripped, and his body thrown into the Legion's grinder. It could be the end of the Sovereign Path and the end of any hope he had of returning home.

No, I'll meet this challenge too. He gritted his teeth while keeping his mouth closed. I will see them again. Hatch held his unblinking attention for another beat, then nodded.

"Good." He gestured to the corner of the office where a set of basic Legion armor rested on a wooden stand.

"You'll wear the standard kit. As a Legion adjunct to an official operation you represent the Dominion. Get changed." Cal moved to the stand where the armor—standard F-tier steel plate over boiled leather—was polished to a radiant sheen. Beside it hung a heavy cloak of grey wool, thick and oiled against the season's pervasive damp. The chest piece bore the Deadfall garrison insignia: a stylized tree whose roots twisted into the earth and branches reached for the sky.

Stripping off his own leathers, he began the process of donning his new gear. The steel pauldrons settled onto his shoulders, their weight pressing down like a yoke. He fastened the buckles across his torso, the leather straps creaking as he adjusted them. The bracers came next, then the greaves, each piece restricting his movements slightly and forcing him to adjust his balance. Finally, he clasped the wool cloak around his neck like a warm blanket. Enjoying the story?

Show your support by reading it on the official site. Taking the helmet last, he lifted it with both hands and saw the soft padding lining the interior beyond the open visor. He lowered it over his head and reality shifted instantly. Sound became slightly muffled within the enclosed space, while his field of vision narrowed to the eye slit, his own breath a loud hiss filling his ears. The world smelled different now. Polishing oil and the faint metallic tang of steel.

He fastened the chin strap, tugging it tight, and turned to face Hatch. The captain saluted, his expression unreadable.

"Dismissed. Report to the F-tier mustering yard. Lieutenant Berg is expecting you." Cal saluted back, his fist striking the center of his chest plate with a metallic rattle. He turned and left the office, his new armor clinking softly with each step. The mustering yard was controlled chaos. Fifty legionaries filled the space, their faces a mix of excitement, apprehension, and boredom as they clustered in loose groups, checking their gear and exchanging banter.

Cal looked through the crowd, searching for familiar faces. He found them quickly enough. Vane grinned visibly from across the yard, the legionary's broad frame impossible to miss. He stood beside Berrick and Ria, his hands busy tightening the bindings on his bracers. When he spotted Cal his face split into a grin so wide it looked painful, his breath pluming in white clouds against the grey morning air.

"Hah!" He boomed across the yard as Cal approached. Vane clapped a hand hard on Cal's steel pauldron, the impact ringing out like a bell.

"Now that's a proper noise! Finally starting to look like a real legionary, Sov!" Smirking, Cal closed his visor.

"Glad I'm finally meeting your standards." Vane laughed unrestrainedly.

"Can't wait to see it covered in rotter-guts. It's gonna be a beautiful, beautiful mess." Berrick grunted, testing the fastenings on his greaves.

"Don't get it scratched. Hatch'll take it out yer pay." Ria leaned against a post, braiding her long hair with a knowing smile.

"Heard you were coming, Sov. I've already put my coin down." Her eyes glinted as she gave Vane a pointed look.

"On our Aspirant, obviously. Vane's optimism doesn't pay my bills." The big man just chuckled, completely unfazed.

"Pfft. I was just going easy on him last time!" Cal settled into the banter easily, a comfortable pattern built up over the last month.

"I'll try not to let you down, Ria," Cal said, his voice too loud in the sudden silence. Lieutenant Marco Berg had arrived. The man walked with a subtle gravitas that demanded attention without speaking a word. He was built like a whiskey barrel, broad and dense, his leathery face set in a permanent scowl beneath a steel-gray bristle of hair. His black eyes swept across the assembled recruits.

Berg moved down the first line of legionaries, his hand reaching out to tug sharply on the chin strap of every single helmet. He just tugged, occasionally grunting in satisfaction, or adjusting a strap before moving to the next. The tic was obsessive, a ritual born from something deeper than simple regulation. He's seen someone die because of a loose helmet, Cal surmised, watching the Peak F-tier officer work. The lieutenant stopped in front of him.

Rough fingers jerked the leather strap, testing the buckle's integrity before Berg moved on without a word. When the officer finished his inspection he gave a curt nod, jerking his chin toward a makeshift station where a tired-looking quartermaster sat behind a ledger.

"Line up. One at a time, like ya got some sense. Sign the man's ledger, get yer spear." His voice was a wheezing drawl, the result of an old neck wound that made every word sound like it cost him effort.

"You lose it, you'll be payin' fer it 'til yer old and gray. The Legion don't fergit its debts." Vane grumbled good-naturedly as he joined the line.

"They'd make us sign a form to take a piss if they could." Cal followed. The line moved slowly, each recruit signing the ledger and receiving a silver-alloy spear in return. When Cal's turn came, he took the offered quill and signed his name. The quartermaster's pen scratched across the page, recording the transaction quickly before the man handed Cal a spear that felt surprisingly lighter than his own he'd left in Hatch's office. He activated [Spiritual Analysis], feeding a trickle of Mana into his perception.

It gave off a clean note in the spiritual spectrum, a feeling of inherent purity fundamentally opposed to rot and decay, subtle but distinct, like the difference between a mountain stream and stagnant water. He stepped aside, testing the balance of the spear as Berg raised his voice through the yard again.

"Last thing." The lieutenant held up a small vial of dark, oily looking liquid, its thick glass sealed with wax.

"Rotbane. Smear it on yer edges before we engage. Silver kills 'em, this stuff keeps 'em quiet." He surveyed the soldiers, his expression grim.

"We'll pass it out later, but don't yuh be wastin' it. We ain't got enough fer fools. Now… form up." The transformation was instantaneous. The loose lines of at ease soldiers solidified into ten disciplined squads, their boots striking the cobblestones in thudding unison. Cal found his place in Vane's squad, his body slipping into the formation without conscious thought. Left, right, left. Their steps were a percussive drumbeat, a declaration of order and force.

They marched out of the yard and garrison, moving into the streets of Deadfall. As they passed, villagers stopped what they were doing to watch. A merchant paused mid-transaction with his hand hovering over silver coins, and a housewife clutched her vegetable basket with wide eyes. Groups of children scattered from the street, their laughter dying as the column passed. It's like a parade, but… wrong. Cal skimmed the crowd, cataloging the differences. There were no smiles or waving.

No cheerful shouts of encouragement. The villagers watched with a mixture of awe, respect, and underlying fear. This was a notification of force, a reminder that the Dominion's military machine was active and present. One detail snagged his attention: a young boy half-hidden behind his mother's skirt, clutching the fabric in clenched fists. Cal knew that fear.

He'd felt it as Thal, small and frightened, standing in this same street years ago when a Legion column marched past, their armor gleaming and weapons glinting in the sun. That emotional cocktail was something he'd lived: the instinctive knowledge that these men and women were other and separate from the ordinary people of the village. They were the Dominion's fist, their presence both a promise of protection and a threat of annihilation. Now he was on the inside of the machine he once dreaded.

He wasn't a fan of how it felt. Trying to distract himself, he observed the surrounding legionaries. Not everyone shared Vane's eager energy. He spotted a few older faces, men and women with hard lines around their eyes and a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Their expressions were closed; their gazes distant. They were likely the silent veterans of previous culling ops, the ones who'd walked the Helemyr Scar before and returned. Their stillness offered a stark contrast to some recruits' nervous chatter.

As the western gate of Deadfall came into view the gate guards saluted, their mailed fists thudding against their breastplates in unison. The massive wooden doors swung open with a groan of iron hinges, and the column marched through. The gate closed behind them with a resounding boom. Hard village stone gave way to the packed earth of the western road. The rhythmic stomping of fifty soldiers and their entourage faded, swallowed by the quiet hush of the Virethane Forest.

The sounds of civilization—the shouts of merchants, the clatter of carts, the general din of the village—were replaced by the whisper of wind through moss-draped branches and the distant call of a spirit beast. The mission had begun.