Chapter 51: A Warriors Return

  The endless dunes of the Torin Desert stretched beneath Vealeth’s weary steps, golden sands shifting under his weight. The sun hung high in the sky, an unrelenting blaze that threatened to sap the last of his strength. His cloak, tattered from weeks of exposure, barely shielded him from the oppressive heat.

  But he would not stop, he couldn't.

  Through the Acronian Sea, he had crossed, battling vicious tides and enduring nights adrift on precarious makeshift rafts. The salt had burned his wounds, the briny wind had chafed his skin, and yet he pressed forward. Through the Sorian Jungle, he had carved his way, slashing through thick foliage, fending off the beasts that lurked in the undergrowth, waiting for a moment of weakness. The humid air clung to his scales, his breath heavy from the countless battles fought just to survive.

  Yet none of it had slowed him.

  none of it had deterred.

  His purpose burned brighter than the pain.

  He had to return to Xenor.

  At long last, he crested a final hill, and the sight of the city’s towering walls greeted him. His legs trembled from exhaustion, but he willed them to move.

  His throat was parched, his stomach hollow, but his heart thundered with anticipation.

  He had returned to claim his prize.

  During the Trial of the Copper Fang, he had fought through countless warriors, pushing past limits he hadn’t known existed. He had battled orcs, elves, Dwarves, beastkin—warriors from every walk of life, and even one human.

  He had placed second.

  His only loss had been to Marcus Elder.

  And that single defeat had changed everything.

  Before that fight, Vealeth had believed power was granted, not earned. He had lived under the doctrine of the Followers of the Black, an enigmatic faction that promised strength beyond mortal comprehension. He didn't believe in their gods and goals, but he believed in the power they could bestow.

  He had trained under them. Fought for them. Killed for them.

  But when it had mattered most, their gifts had failed him.

  He had lost.

  Not to a wielder of arcane forces. Not to a beast infused with divine wrath.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  He had lost to a man who wielded nothing but his fists.

  The loss did not shatter him.

  It freed him.

  He had severed his ties with the Followers of the Black, fully aware that doing so had marked him for death.

  But he did not care.

  For the first time in his life, he would forge his own strength, his own legacy.

  And now, he had returned to claim the weapon that would mark his first step toward true power.

  Vealeth pushed through the Adventurer’s Guild’s entrance, the cool air inside sending a shiver through his overheated body.

  The receptionist looked up, startled. Her quill hovered midair, as if frozen in shock.

  "Vealeth! I—I thought you were… gone."

  A low chuckle escaped his throat, his voice rough from thirst. "Not yet."

  "Your commission has been waiting for two weeks," the receptionist continued hastily. "I’ll call the smith—wait here."

  Vealeth leaned against the counter, his muscles aching from the simple act of standing still.

  Minutes later, Quell Kelcrest, the renowned dwarven blacksmith, strode into the hall, wiping his hands with an oil-stained cloth. His sharp eyes raked over Vealeth’s battered form before he grunted.

  "Took you long enough," Quell muttered. "Thought you might’ve gotten yourself killed."

  Vealeth straightened, his tail flicking behind him. "Had something to take care of."

  Quell exhaled through his nose. "Well, come on, then. It’s ready."

  He led Vealeth through the forge’s corridors, the heat of molten metal thick in the air. Sparks danced from anvils, the rhythmic clang of hammers filling the space. The scent of burnt steel and sweat mingled together, familiar and grounding.

  When they reached Quell’s private showroom, Vealeth felt it—a presence. Something powerful.

  Quell grinned, placing a firm hand on a cloth-draped stand. With a dramatic flick, he revealed Vealeth’s commission.

  A sword and shield.

  The blade gleamed like polished dawn, its edge impossibly fine, the runes along its fuller barely visible beneath its surface. The shield, crafted with intricate draconic engravings, radiated both stability and might.

  Vealeth took a slow step forward, eyes locked on the weapons before him.

  Quell crossed his arms. "Didn’t take you for the sword-and-board type. Thought you were a greatsword man."

  Vealeth’s hand hovered over the shield, tracing its design with reverence.

  "Before," he murmured, "I fought only for myself. But now…" His grip firmed as he lifted the shield. "Now, I have people I wish to protect."

  Quell regarded him for a long moment, then let out a gruff chuckle. "Then you chose well."

  Meanwhile, at Ralkar’s Training Grounds, Marcus, Vira, Arixa, Boruk, Ragn, and Thalron caught their breath. Their sparring session had pushed them beyond exhaustion, but none of them regretted it.

  Thalron wiped sweat from his brow, his spellblade’s mana-infused glow dimming. "That grimoire of yours is… lethal," he admitted, nodding at Vira.

  She smirked, flipping the ancient tome shut. "Still adjusting. But the way it refines my casting? Worth it."

  Boruk and Ragn sat on the training pit’s edge, examining Marcus’ gauntlets.

  Boruk ran a thick finger over the strange, dark metal, frowning. "I’ve never seen a material like this before. It’s like steel… but stronger."

  Ragn nodded. "It’s not dwarven, orc-forged, or elven. Where the hell did it come from?"

  Marcus flexed his fingers, feeling the raw energy pulsating through the gauntlets.

  "Dungeon loot," he said simply. "Not sure who forged them. But I know one thing…" He clenched his fists, the air around his knuckles distorting from the sheer force contained within.

  "These things hit hard."

  Arixa scoffed. "Like you needed an excuse to hit harder."

  Marcus grinned. "You love it."

  Arixa rolled her eyes but said nothing. Yet her lingering gaze on him spoke volumes.

  The group parted ways for the night, exhaustion settling into their bones.

  As Marcus stepped away from the training grounds, a sudden unease crept over him.

  Something was coming.

  A storm.

  Vealeth was bringing it with him.