CHAPTER 142

  THE JOURNEY TO THE END, BEGINS

  Each participant had been given a private chamber this time. No more communal bunks, no more volunteer camaraderie. Some roamed the courtyards, stealing glimpses of the wasteland. Others sought out the veteran instructors who’d once lectured them on how not to die beyond the barrier.

  Hans, on the other hand, stayed in his room. Maps and sigils spread across the table like open wounds. His supply haul was meagre after the fight with Martys, and worse—something else was gnawing at him.

  A voice.

  It had started whispering the moment he entered the Deadlands’ shadow—the same voice that had bothered him after Caesar’s death, back when the Civil War still bled through his hands.

  Find me, human.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, come on,” he muttered. “As if I don’t have enough to fix already.”

  Find me, the voice pressed, low and amused. Then I’ll answer.

  “And how, exactly,” he said aloud, “Am I supposed to do that, you damned chatterbox?”

  You will. Just come as—

  A knock cut the whisper short. Sharp. Two times.

  Hans exhaled, relief and dread tangling in his chest. He opened the door. “I told you I wasn’t to be—”

  He stopped. “Nodemaster Hera.”

  “Am I not welcome, dear?” Her smile was soft, disarming as always. She carried warmth like a family, and it worked—mostly.

  “No, of course. Come in.”

  He shut the door behind her. For a while, neither spoke. Hera’s presence filled the small chamber, the manalight catching in her blonde hair. She had always treated him with an affection that felt… out of place.

  Now he understood why.

  “You knew,” Hans said quietly. “Didn’t you?”

  Her brow furrowed. “What exactly—”

  He cut her off, voice low, steady. “You knew who I am. What I am. The blood I carry. Not just Parv’s.”

  She froze. For a moment, her composure cracked.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, too quickly.

  Hans stepped closer, shadows crawling across his face. “You’re my blood aunt. Shaerra Clandor. You’ve known all along. That’s why you looked at me like—why you pitied me.” His tone dropped, almost a whisper. “Isn’t it?”

  Hera’s mask broke. “How… how did you find out? Arat swore to keep it. Reina would never—”

  “It does not matter,” Hans said, looking away. “I know.”

  She took a step toward him. “Don’t blame her. She had her own—”

  “Don’t.” He turned, eyes cold. “I told you it does not matter. Especially not tonight, Nodemaster.”

  The title landed like a blade between them.

  Outside, the barrier cracked again—louder this time.

  “We can talk as a family later,” she turned serious, her eyes squinting through the window pane. “I need to repair this thing. But I promise we’ll talk later.” She pressed his shoulders. “It’s a promise. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Family.” Hans scoffed silently.

  Next day.

  The barrier burned faintly red above the crowd—a ceiling of trembling light, bruised by distance. Every year it thinned a little more, every year the demons pressed harder from beyond. And every year, the capable of Genas were sent to thin the tide.

  An event deserving of a graduation test of the prideful Concordia.

  Hans watched the glow ripple across the square, the air dry and metallic in his lungs. Around him, the chosen of Concordia shifted in their armour, bright-eyed, half-afraid, pretending not to be.

  Yet he had something else bothering him; the promise made yesterday night wasn’t fulfilled.

  Despite how much the other party wanted, her responsibility didn’t allow her to be present where her heart was.

  And just like that, today came. Before twilight, where the sun was still away from showing its face.

  Kal, together with Hera, graced them a bit late.

  She—Nodemaster— stepped forward onto the dais. The wind moved around her as if unwilling to touch her. When she spoke, the air itself carried her voice.

  “This year’s Red Demon Trials,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmur like cold steel, “begin at first light.”

  The murmurs stilled.

  “This is not a festival,” she continued, eyes like shards of moonlight over the bunch of test takers. “You are not being sent to chase trophies. You are being sent to keep the line from breaking.”

  As she raised her hand, lines of molten light spiralled above the crowd, weaving into words that hung in the air, shifting like smoke.

  “The barrier weakens,” she said. “And as you all are briefed—To mend it, we harvest the sunstones—the red demon hearts. Their worth is tied to the bloodline they were born to. You’ll find the lowborn ones first: the Infantry, tall, mindless brutes who kill by instinct. And their masters—the Captains, the four-handed ones with wings like knives. Kill them, and bring their sunstones back to the node. That is your compulsory duty.”

  The crowd watched as the glowing words shaped themselves into brief commands—kill, return, survive—before fading again.

  “Do not seek the commanders,” Shaerra said sharply, as if she could read the thought before it formed. “You are not ready. The six-handed ones, the Kings, even the creatures whispered as Halfgods—they are not your prey. If you find one, you run. You mark its position for the scouts and you run until your lungs burn. I will not collect corpses for pride.”

  A shiver passed through the courtyard.

  “You lot seem scared—it’s good. It will keep you alive.”

  She let them breathe a moment before continuing. “But for those who keep their bravado in their front pockets. There are other paths, if you crave risk—the bonus tasks.” Her tone softened, but it was the softness of winter sun: bright and cold. “Some of the Captains keep our kind alive—human, elves, dwarves—as livestock, bred for food. Save them, if you can. Bring them back, and you will earn what no tally of sunstones could grant. There are also the missing—your own predecessors, soldiers and hunters lost to the Deadlands. If you find them, bring them home. Some may still breathe. Some… only need a burial.”

  A murmur rippled through the young ones.

  Hera let them talk, then raised her hand again. “For each task completed, you’ll receive points. Enough points prove competence. Prove competence, and people with power will take notice—mages, knights, Concordia itself. Even the royal army accepts them now as merit. But remember this—points mean nothing if you don’t return to count them.”

  Her eyes swept the rows of faces. “The compulsory tasks are to be completed within six months. You will have to find your own food and water. The nodes will not coddle you. You want power? Earn it under the red sky.”

  A hush fell over them. Somewhere beyond the barrier, a roar answered—a sound like thunder wrapped in hunger.

  “That’s the signal. Red demon trials have started.” Shaerra’s expression did not waver. “Cull the lower herds. Leave the rest for your seniors to worry about.”

  She turned away, her robes brushing the stone like whispers. And with those whispers, the gate that never opens creaked.

  With the slit turning wider, the reek of Deadlands hugged their noses.

  Another familiar thing for Hans, while for the rest. It was their first experience. Some excited, some shivering, while the rest tried to calm down.

  Hans walked alone.

  The others had scattered — some chasing glory, some fleeing from it — leaving only footprints that the dust devoured as soon as they were made.

  He took a quick glance behind. The words still hung in the air long after she left, faint and bleeding light: Kill the red. Bring the sunstone. Survive the season.

  The barrier closed behind him like a sigh. And he was out of the protection of Concordia node.

  “So that’s how it works. Must be same for council node.”

  He recalled what he learned in yesterday’s dinner.

  The rest of the nodes, which participated in this culling times. Clandor, had similar tasks. One can enter through any node and can exit whichever they wished for or whichever offered them more of what they wanted.

  To Hans, the graduation test was secondary, so his steps above the clouds paced, as the blessing of wind flew them high.

  It was much slower than his wings of freedom but enough to get him from one place to the next.

  The air turned—thicker, older, humming with the residue of last year’s scars.

  He remembered the last time he’d stood here. Weaker then, shackled by Reina’s stratagems. The goddess intervened and blew him away, and by chance—or more of her plans—he’d crossed paths with Zilong, the northern sea monster trapped Deep.

  According to the clairvoyant Aredhel, he is supposed to kill him. But he was confident he had changed the fate. Yet he felt, Zilong’s death could very well be on his hands if his plans failed.

  The next destination was an undecided rendezvous. His hands twitched as the Eclipse medallion activated.