The garden was silent.
The oppressive weight of dark energy still lingered in the air, thick and suffocating, clinging to the broken stones and withered flowers like a stain that refused to fade. The fountain lay in ruins. Blood pooled across the white garden paths, drying slowly in the cool night air.
And then—
The air shimmered.
Not violently. Not with sound or flash.
But like heat rising from sun-baked stone, reality wavered—and two figures stepped through.
They appeared as if they had always been there, as if the world had simply forgotten them for a moment and now remembered. No dramatic entrance. No surge of spiritual energy. Just presence.
A woman and a man.
Both appeared to be in their late forties, perhaps early fifties. The woman, Soso, was tall and lean, her posture upright and graceful despite her age. Her skin was deep brown, smooth but marked with the faint lines of someone who had spent decades in deep thought and meditation. Her hair—long, thick, and entirely unbraided—fell past her shoulders in natural coils, streaked lightly with gray. She wore simple robes of deep indigo, the fabric worn but clean, and her eyes were sharp, intelligent, ancient.
Beside her stood Eli, shorter but powerfully built, his frame still solid despite his years. His skin was a shade darker than Soso's, and his hair was a magnificent afro, dense and full, peppered with silver. His jaw was strong, his expression calm but alert. He wore no armor, only a simple tunic and trousers, but the way he carried himself—shoulders back, weight balanced—marked him as a warrior even without a blade in hand.
They had been in the deepest chamber beneath the palace. A place few knew existed. A sanctuary carved into the bedrock generations ago, designed for meditation, training, and waiting.
They had sworn servitude to the former king of Gold Land—a man who understood the value of mystics, who respected the unseen world and the power it held. In exchange for their oath, they were given shelter, resources, and one command:
Stay hidden. Emerge only in times of crisis.
But when King Donkeu ascended the throne, everything changed.
Donkeu had no interest in mystics. He had been initiated as a child—a formality, a tradition—but he had halted at the very early stages, never progressing beyond First Grade Initiate. To him, spirituality was superstition. Gold Land's strength lay in its wealth, its trade, its pragmatism.
He never contacted them. Not once.
And so Soso and Eli remained below, undisturbed, for years.
Until tonight.
When the barrier shattered.
Soso's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the ruined garden. Her Scholar's mind processed the scene in seconds—patterns of destruction, residual spiritual energy, the wrongness that still clung to the air.
"Two sources," she said quietly, her voice measured, calm. "Both Dark Path."
Eli crouched, his fingers brushing the bloodstained stones. He closed his eyes, extending his spiritual senses, feeling the echoes of violence that had occurred here.
"One was controlled," he said, his voice deep and steady. "Disciplined. An Elite, perhaps low Master. Used a pact with a vengeful spirit. The residue is faint but organized."
Soso moved to the shattered fountain, her long hair swaying as she bent to examine the rubble. "And the other?"
Eli's jaw tightened. "Chaotic. Wild. Demonic binding and possession." He opened his eyes, his expression grim. "Dozens of entities. Maybe more."
Soso straightened, her face unreadable. "A warrior?"
"Most likely. But..." Eli paused, his brow furrowing. "There's something else. The signature is... layered. Not just Warrior Route. Scholar? Maybe Ruler?"
Soso's eyes widened slightly. "Multiple routes. At this age?" She gestured to the blood, the destruction. "This level of power... they can't be older than twenty-five."
Eli stood, wiping his hand on his tunic. "A prodigy. Or a spirit-child."
They stood in silence for a moment, both processing.
"An assassination attempt," Soso said finally. "The controlled practitioner was the attacker. The chaotic one was the defender."
Eli nodded slowly. "But who was being targeted? And by whom?"
Soso's gaze swept across the garden, taking in every detail. "We don't know who resides in this wing of the palace. We've been underground for too long. Palace politics have shifted without us."
"But someone here," Eli said, "was important enough to kill. And someone here was powerful enough to stop it."
Soso's expression darkened. "The Dark Path." Her voice carried a note of disgust. "Both of them."
Eli's jaw clenched. "Poison. That's what it is. Power without principle. Strength without balance. The Dark Path corrupts everything it touches."
"It grants power quickly," Soso said, her tone cold, "but it leads only to ruin. The entities they bind, the pacts they make—they think they're in control. But the astral plane always takes its due."
Eli's hand moved to his side, where a blade would have been if he'd brought one. "We need to investigate further. Find out who was here. Who survived."
Soso nodded. "And track both practitioners. The controlled one likely fled. But the chaotic one..." She paused, her Scholar's mind piecing together fragments. "If they bound that many demonic spirits, they'll need to feed them. Soon."
Eli's eyes hardened. "We dive deeper. Tonight."
"Agreed." Soso's voice was firm, resolute. "If the Dark Path has infiltrated the palace, we cannot stand idle. Our oath was to protect Gold Land in times of crisis."
"And this," Eli said, looking at the blood-soaked garden, "is a crisis."
They turned, moving as one toward the palace entrance, their forms already beginning to blur, preparing to slip back into the unseen world.
But before they vanished, Soso paused.
"Eli."
"Yes?"
"Whoever performed the demonic binding... they're dangerous. Extremely so. But if they defended someone here, if they stopped the assassination..." She looked back at the garden. "We need to know why."
Eli nodded. "Agreed. Not all who walk the Dark Path are enemies. But none of them are trustworthy."
And then they were gone.
Vanished as silently as they had appeared.
The Royal Farms — Dawn
The sun had just begun to rise over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of soft orange and pink.
Kofi, a farmhand in his early thirties, yawned as he made his way toward the cattle pens. It was his job every morning to check on the livestock, ensure they were fed, count them, and report any issues to the head steward.
It was boring work. Repetitive. But it was steady, and it paid.
He approached the first pen, scratching his head, still half-asleep.
And then he stopped.
His eyes widened.
The gate was open.
Not broken. Not torn off its hinges.
Just... open.
Kofi frowned and walked closer, his pace quickening.
And then he saw it.
The first body.
A cow. Lying on its side, eyes wide and glassy, mouth open. But there was no blood. No wounds. Just... emptiness. As if something had been drained from it.
Kofi's breath caught in his throat.
He moved to the next pen.
Another body. And another. And another.
Cows. Goats. Sheep. Chickens.
Dozens of them.
All dead. All with that same hollow, drained look.
Kofi stumbled backward, his heart pounding.
And then he screamed.
"HELP! SOMEONE HELP!"
His voice echoed across the farm, raw and terrified.
Within minutes, other workers came running—men and women stumbling out of their quarters, half-dressed, confused.
"Kofi, what—"
They stopped.
Stared.
One woman covered her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
"What happened?" someone whispered.
"I don't know," Kofi gasped, his hands shaking. "I just—I came to check on them and—they're all dead."
An older man, Amara, stepped forward cautiously, crouching beside one of the cows. He pressed his hand to its side.
Cold. Stiff.
But no blood.
He stood, his face pale. "This wasn't a predator."
"Then what?" another farmhand asked, her voice trembling.
Amara shook his head slowly. "I don't know. But I've heard stories... old stories. Legends."
"What kind of legends?" Kofi asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Amara's gaze swept over the bodies. "Stories from before the Great War. About... things that came in the night. Spirits. Demons. Creatures that fed not on flesh, but on life."
Silence.
"That's just superstition," someone said, though their voice lacked conviction.
"Then explain this," Amara said, gesturing to the carnage. "Sixty, maybe seventy animals. All dead. No wounds. No blood. All in one night."
No one had an answer.
Finally, Kofi spoke, his voice shaking. "We need to report this. To the palace. To the king."
Amara nodded grimly. "Yes. Immediately."