CHAPTER 504: LATE

Nysha and Ashwing stepped closer as the Matriarch took a single step back, clearing the way.

Kael spoke quietly, arms crossed.

"One last thing, Prince."

Lindarion looked at him.

Kael’s expression was unreadable.

But his tone carried weight.

"If you find the source of the fractures... don’t confront it alone."

"I’m not planning to."

Kael nodded once.

Then stepped aside.

The path south unfurled before them—a narrow corridor of woven runes leading down into the lower forest, disappearing into mist.

The air changed instantly—

heavier, warmer, humming with something like sand and old magic.

Ashwing hopped onto Lindarion’s shoulder.

"This is it then," he whispered, claws tightening.

"South. Desert. Monsters. Bad decisions."

Nysha smirked. "You forgot ancient gods."

"Don’t remind me."

Lindarion took the first step onto the runic pathway.

The forest whispered in response.

Branches swayed despite the still air.

Leaves rustled in a language older than anything written.

The Matriarch’s voice followed him:

"Walk with purpose, Prince of Eldorath. The desert hears every footstep—

and the enemy you hunt...

is no longer sleeping."

Lindarion didn’t look back.

Not when the last lights of Tirnaeth faded.

Not when the shadows deepened into violet mist.

Not when the hum of instability pulsed beneath the earth.

He kept walking.

Toward the desert.

Toward Luneth.

Toward his mother.

Toward Dythrael.

Toward Vharakos.

Toward everything waiting to rise.

The south swallowed them whole.

And with that step—

the journey into the shattered sands began.

The shift was immediate.

One moment, Lindarion walked beneath violet-shadowed boughs, the air cool and humming with dark-elven wards.

The next—

The forest’s breath stopped.

The temperature spiked.

The air dried.

The wind turned from whisper to hiss.

They crossed an invisible threshold.

And the world changed.

Ashwing recoiled immediately. "Hot! TOO HOT! HOW IS THIS HOT!? I’M FIRE-ALIGNED!"

Nysha shielded her eyes with one hand, the other reaching instinctively for her dagger. "This... isn’t natural."

It wasn’t.

The sand that lay before them—an endless expanse stretching beyond sight—glowed faintly, as if reflecting sunlight that no longer existed. It shimmered in waves, not of heat, but of mana.

A desert formed of arcane resonance, not earth.

Lindarion knelt and touched the sand.

It pulsed beneath his palm.

Not warm.

Not cold.

Alive.

His system reacted instantly.

[Environmental Warning: Mana Concentration exceeding safe threshold.]

[Analysis: Desert composed of crystallized aether residue.]

[Source: Cataclysm-class event—approximate date: First Era.]

Ashwing swallowed. "A desert made of old dead magic. Great. Very safe. I love it here."

Nysha looked around slowly. "The Tirnaeth records said the south was dangerous. They never said it was... broken."

"It’s not broken," Lindarion murmured.

"It’s remembering."

A breeze swept across the dunes, but it carried no sand—only drifting shards of glowing dust that rose and fell like dying stars.

Far in the distance, something flashed.

Not lightning.

A fracture.

A rip in the air, thin as a hair, flashing gold and violet, humming like a string being plucked.

Nysha froze. "Is that—"

"Yes." Lindarion’s eyes narrowed. "A mana fissure."

"These weren’t supposed to open for another century," she whispered. "Not naturally."

"They aren’t opening naturally," Lindarion said. "Something is waking them."

Ashwing groaned. "Please tell me it’s not Dythrael."

Lindarion remained silent.

But the silence itself was an answer.

They began moving, following the obsidian shard’s faint pull. Not north, not east—

straight toward the fracture.

Nysha walked at Lindarion’s left, scanning the dunes with an alertness born of necessity.

Ashwing flew ahead, wings flickering with irritation as the air itself pushed back against him.

Lindarion walked at the front, each step sinking into the mana-sand with a soft thrum. His white hair glowed faintly in the shimmering light, golden eyes reflecting the desert’s unnatural hues.

Minutes passed.

Or hours.

Time warped in places like this.

The sands began to ripple.

At first, Lindarion thought it was wind.

But the pattern was too rhythmic.

Too deliberate.

Nysha drew her blade. "Underneath."

Ashwing dove back to Lindarion’s shoulder and hissed. "Something’s coming. Something big."

The system pulsed with warning.

[Subterranean entity detected.]

[Classification: Sand Warden.]

[Origin: Demi-Human Era.]

[Status: Hostile.]

Lindarion barely had time to draw his sword before the dune ahead erupted.

Sand blasted upward in a geyser of golden shards.

A massive creature burst from the ground—

all obsidian plates and glowing runes, its body serpentine, its head armored like a living battering ram.

Its eyes were hollow.

Not dead, empty, as if something had hollowed out thought and left only instinct.

Nysha snarled, stepping forward. "We can take it if we—"

"No," Lindarion said quietly.

The creature lunged with a roar that wasn’t a roar—just raw mana vibrating violently, like a broken flute.

Lindarion stepped forward.

Just one step.

His aura sharpened.

Not expanding—focusing.

Ashwing blinked. "Wait, you’re not actually—"

Lindarion raised his hand.

Not his sword.

Just his hand.

The Sand Warden struck.

Its head—massive enough to shatter a house—collided with an invisible force that bent the air around Lindarion’s palm.

He didn’t budge.

A ripple of gold pulsed outward.

The creature’s momentum stopped.

Stopped.

The Warden writhed, pushing with titanic force—its runes flaring so bright the desert reflected in pulses—but Lindarion’s expression didn’t change.

He looked down at it like a teacher correcting a child.

"You’re not alive," he murmured. "You’re a memory given form."

Nysha stared. "Lindarion, what are you—"

"Ending its pain."

He flicked his wrist.

Not a blow.

Not a slash.

A dismissal.

The air cracked.

The Warden’s body froze.

Its runes shattered like brittle glass.

The entire creature dissolved into mana dust that scattered across the desert.

Silence followed.

Ashwing’s jaw hung open.

Nysha’s eyes were wide, pupils thin.

"...you pushed it," Nysha breathed.

"With one hand."

Lindarion exhaled, slow and steady. "The south is worse than I thought."

Ashwing shivered. "If that was the warm-up, I want to go home."

They continued.

The desert ahead shimmered not with heat—

but with mana scars.

With old wounds.

With the remnants of gods.

And as they approached the first fissure, Lindarion felt it:

A gaze.

Cold.

Patient.

Ancient.

Something was watching him through the crack in the world.

Something that remembered the scent of his bloodline.

Something that whispered—

"You’re late."

Lindarion stopped walking.

Nysha froze.

Ashwing stiffened.

"...you heard that too, right?" Ashwing squeaked.