CHAPTER 132: FRIENDS, SNITCHES AND BETRAYAL

Kelvin dodged a spear thrust, his scars tingling as he rolled, syncing with Xerion to unleash a fiery vortex that engulfed a skiff, its crew leaping clear as it burned, their wolves retreating under the serpent’s onslaught, their dune runes flickering as their strength waned.

Vark fought fiercely, his spear weaving fire arcs, his wolves circling to flank Kelvin, but Kelvin’s ice runes cooled the attacks, his fire lance pierced Vark’s armor, forcing him to stagger back, his eyes blazing with hatred.

"You think that you are a hero, right?" Vark spat, his voice venomous as he remounted his boat, his crew rallied behind him, their wolves were limping but snarling.

"The wyrm is ours, and so is its loot. You will burn in those mines, boy, and we will pick your bones clean." Kelvin stood firm, his gauntlet was flaring, while Xerion’s scales was blazing, their bond was unyielding as the crew faltered, their beasts were overwhelmed.

With a final curse, Vark signaled a retreat, the boats’ engines roared as they vanished into the dunes, their headlights faded into the twilight, leaving the pass scorched and silent, the sand was littered with shattered rune fragments and singed wolf fur.

Kelvin’s scars tingled, his confidence bolstered, Xerion’s hiss was fierce with pride, their victory was a testament to their growth since the bunker, their bond was a flame that burned brighter than Vark’s threats, a shield against the fear that lingered in Kelvin’s heart.

The encounter was a stark warning, a reminder that Vark’s Crew still roamed the Red Wastes, their greed was a growing threat to Valebreach, their presence was likely tied to the wyrm’s chaos in the mines, a shadow that deepened the mission’s stakes.

Kelvin’s memories of the bunker was intertwined with the present, his parents’ absence was a void that fueled his defiance, their legacy was a call to protect the town they had loved.

He salvaged a dune rune from the shattered boat, its sandy glow was a potential tool for his mission, its essence was a reminder of the crew’s lingering threat.

As he slipped through the pass with Xerion at his side, the dunes fading behind him, Valebreach’s cliffs loomed closer, their fire essence glow was a beacon of the challenge ahead, Vark’s vow of revenge was echoing in his mind, a promise of further conflict tied to the wyrm’s power.

As dusk painted the dunes in shades of violet and gold, Valebreach emerged from the horizon, a gritty sprawl that was nestled in a valley of jagged cliffs, its mines was glowing with fire essence, their pulses was like the heartbeat of a beast.

The town’s smelters that was roaring with molten fury, their rune-etched chimneys belching smoke that cast long shadows over ramshackle homes, forge-lit workshops, and bustling streets.

The town was alive with miners, their faces was smudged with ash, their voices was hushed with fear of the rogue fire-wyrm, its roars was echoing from the tunnels, collapsing shafts, and threatening the ore trade that sustained Valebreach.

Townsfolk eyed Kelvin’s Veilbane Medal with awe, their whispers was a mix of reverence and desperation, recognizing the Sanctum hero who had ended the Veil but pleaded for salvation from the wyrm’s destruction.

Xerion moved beside him, his scales was flaring crimson and gold, drawing wary glances from passersby, his amber eyes were fierce as he sensed the town’s tension.

Kelvin nodded to familiar faces that were miners who had known his parents, shopkeepers who had bartered with his family, his scars was tingling under their gazes, his resolve was hardened as he navigated the familiar streets and the weight of his mission was settled like a stone in his chest, the mines’ glow was a constant reminder of the challenge ahead.

Kelvin reached his old container on Valebreach’s outskirts, a rusted metal box that was half-buried in the ash, its walls were etched with faded fire runes that was carved by his parents, their patterns worn but warm, a testament to their lives as miners and tamers.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a cramped interior—a single cot pressed against one wall, a worn mining pick that leaned in a corner, a faded family portrait was hung above a small forge, its flames was long cold, its surface was etched with soot-stained runes.

The portrait captured his parents in their prime, his mother’s gentle smile, her bright eyes with rune knowledge; his father’s strong frame, his was grin fierce with the tamer pride, their absence was a void that filled the space with oppressive silence.

Kelvin set his pack down that contains the fire-sealed tome, ores, and runes were clinking softly, and touched the portrait, his fingers trembled as tears welled and memories flooded back: his mother’s voice guiding his hands to etch his first rune, her laughter soft as she praised his effort; his father’s lessons in the mines, teaching him to face beasts with courage, his words steady as he spoke of their family’s legacy.

The collapse that took them was triggered by unstable fire essence, which haunted him, the wyrm’s presence was a cruel echo of that tragedy, its roars was a reminder of the fire that had consumed his world.

Xerion coiled in the corner, his scales was gleaming in the dim light, his hiss was soft but fierce, his warmth was easing Kelvin’s grief, their bond was a lifeline in the container’s quiet space, a shield against the weight of his past.

He unpacked his gear with deliberate care, spreading Mealin’s fire-sealed tome across a rickety table, its leather cover was etched with wyrm lore—tactics for taming their fury, weaknesses in their molten scales and strategies for navigating unstable tunnels.

The pages were detailed water runes to douse their flames, ice runes to slow their movements, and synchronise precision to counter their speed, each word was a guide for the mission ahead, their runes glowed faintly in the forge’s dim light.

Kelvin etched water runes into his gauntlet, their glow was cooling its fire essence, which tested a fire lance outside the container, its flames were controlled but fierce, scorching a practice target in the ash, immediately Xerion’s scales flared in synchronization, their bond was steady as they moved as one.

He fed Xerion wyrm essence, the serpent’s amber eyes glowed as he devoured it, his twenty-foot form coiled tighter, his honor rune pulsed with vitality, his strength a testament to their shared trials.

The preparation grounded Kelvin, his parents’ absence was a void he vowed to fill by saving Valebreach, their memory was a flame that burned through his doubt, their legacy a call to action he could not ignore.

Townsfolk visited throughout the evening, their footsteps was crunching on the ash outside, their faces lined with worry but bright with respect for Kelvin’s Veilbane Medal, its violet and gold surface gleamed in the forge-lit dusk.

A grizzled miner came with his hands scarred from decades in the tunnels and offered fire-resistant ores, their surfaces were shimmering with ice essence, a gift to counter the wyrm’s flames, his voice was rough but earnest.

"You are our hope, Kelvin, ok," he said, sharing rumors of the wyrm’s unnatural strength, its fire essence possibly tied to the Veil’s remnants, a whisper that chilled Kelvin’s blood but fueled his resolve.

A young tamer, barely older than Kelvin had been when he left for the Sanctum, gave him a beast lure, its psychic glow designed to draw the wyrm from the tunnels, her eyes was wide with awe at his Sanctum gear, her words was stumbling as she spoke of his Rift battles.

An elderly smith with her forge, which was once a haven for Kelvin’s father, presented a rune-etched pick, its handle carved with fire runes, a tool to navigate the mines’ collapsed shafts, her smile was weary but proud.

Kelvin thanked them, his voice was steady, their gifts bolstered his arsenal, which are ores, lures, and tools adding to his pack, with their faith strengthening his determination to face the wyrm for his parents’ memory, Xerion’s hiss was a quiet echo of their support, his scales flared as he sensed their hope.

As night came Valebreach, the container’s quiet space was shattered by the hum of engines and the snarl of beasts outside the ash was trembling under the weight of approaching skiffs.

Vark’s Crew ambushed Kelvin near the container, their sleek rune-etched vessels skidding to a halt, their headlights casted harsh beams across the rusted metal, illuminating the faded runes on its walls.

Vark, their leader, stepped forward, a grizzled scavenger with a scar slashing across his face, his leather armor etched with crude fire runes, his eyes glinted with greed and malice, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

His crew of five rough men wielded rune-etched spears, their tips were glowing with dune essence that flanked him, their beasts, Level 6 Rare Sandfang Wolves, snarling, their fur bristled with dune runes that pulsed with sandy energy, their fangs bared, their eyes were glowing with hunger.