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Magus Reborn Volume 3 Epilogue 2
🕑 Added 2025-03-09 17:39:43 +0000 UTCEpilogue 2
A man walked up the stairs carved into the rock of the mountain, his steps silent as torches flickered on the wall. The labyrinth of corridors, each winding deeper into the heart of the cave, had long since become his home. He could smell the scent of ‘home’ in the damp earth and stone. For a century, this had been his sanctuary—a web of stone and shadow. Yet, today, he was not here for comfort. He had a destination, a duty that could not be delayed.
As he ascended, figures passed him by, their faces half-hidden by cloth masks, eyes glinting with respect. They bowed without a word, an unspoken acknowledgement of his status. He paid them no mind, his thoughts firmly set on where he was heading. Blessings, even to the loyal, were not given freely, not today. His journey was urgent, and time was slipping away.
He quickened his feet.
The spiraling staircase seemed endless as it wound upward, the stone steps cold under his bare feet, the flickering torches lighting only a portion of the way. When he reached the top, he was greeted by two guards standing before a massive stone door. Without hesitation, they bowed, recognizing him instantly, and opened it for him.
The scent hit him the moment he entered. It was intoxicating, rejuvenating, a reminder of his long existence. The dark corridors stretched before him, walls, floor, and ceiling all soaked in a thick, oppressive aura of dead mana. The air around him felt thick with the weight of this forsaken power, each breath he took filled with the essence that made him feel alive in ways that nothing else could.
The dead mana clung to his skin like a comforting shroud, an old friend that healed more than it harmed. The farther he walked, the more the sense of vitality filled him.
That was why he loved it here. Every cell of his being thrummed whenever he visited.
He walked deeper into the blackened passage, drawn to the heart of this place, where the largest concentration of dead mana pulsed like a heartbeat. The power here was overwhelming, almost suffocating, yet it was precisely what he sought. It was a fountain of dead mana, and he reveled in its embrace. It was the closest he had ever been to true healing, to the restoration of something that had been lost long ago.
He continued forward, the silence of the cave stretching on around him, until he finally emerged into an opening. The ceiling was high above, a jagged hole in the rock allowing the sunlight to pour in, filling the cavern with a wash of pale light. But the man did not see the sunlight. His gaze was locked on the center of the cavern.
A creature lay sprawled in there, occupying nearly all of the vast space. It was a dragon, magnificent in its sheer scale, its body black as the void itself. Every inch of its form seemed forged from the very dead mana that saturated the cave. Its wings were folded neatly against its body, the tips almost touching the farthest reaches of the cavern, and its horns were so large they seemed to stretch up toward the hole in the ceiling, reaching for the very sky.
Their master. This was the hope that burned within their hearts. The creature lay motionless, but its very presence reverberated with power, with a force that could shake the world. A god, yet to descend upon the realm, waiting for the right moment to emerge. It was more than a creature—it was the embodiment of an ancient cycle, a being of unimaginable power that could alter the fate of the world.
As the man stood before the dragon, contemplating its majestic form, a voice broke the silence. A low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the air like distant thunder.
He turned swiftly to see who was approaching him. The newcomer’s height reached easily eight feet, and his robe trailed along the ground, dark and flowing like liquid night. As the man opened his mouth to speak, the light flickered off his sharp, elongated fangs. The man’s eyes narrowed, recognizing the blood drinker for what he was. Dravros.
“Xantheus,” Dravros said. “You’re late. We’ve been waiting here for ten minutes.”
With a swift movement Dravros extended one of his hands, fingers tipped with sharp claws, and pointed toward two figures in the distance.
On the far side of the cavern, a woman sat atop a large boulder, her posture relaxed yet regal. Her large, leathery wings, pale as alabaster, stretched out behind her, giving her a presence as vast as the cavern itself. Her sharp features were softened only by the grace of her movement, though her eyes gleamed with an unsettling mix of wisdom and cold. One wouldn’t know if they should be fascinated or scared by her.
Next to her, a massive figure stood, easily over ten feet tall. A titan-like beast, with skin as white as marble, and the musculature of a creature carved from stone. His arms were thick with bulging muscles, and he held a massive axe in his hand, its blade shining—sharp.
Xantheus surveyed the duo, then shifted his gaze back to Dravros.
“Two people are missing,” he said.
Dravros’s lips curled slightly, the fangs glinting in the dim light. “They won’t be coming. You know how they are,” he said with a flick of his hand.
Xantheus nodded, his steps carrying him toward the center of the cavern. “I get it. Careless. Can't leave their places. Useless. At least one of them, according to the reports I’ve received.” He paused, eyes narrowing, as he looked at Dravros. “But I’m surprised you’re here. I heard you lost one of your adopted children recently.”
Dravros’s face fell. “Anyone not strong enough will ultimately die,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Only one being is eternal, and we all serve him.”
Xantheus’s gaze sharpened, and he replied coldly, “Good way to hide behind your faith in your failure.”
“It wasn’t mine,” Dravros snapped, his fangs showing as he spat the words, “It was Regina’s.”
Before Xantheus could respond, the woman sitting on the boulder spoke up, cutting through the tension in the air with her sharp voice.
“If you all are going to fight, then why are we here?” Her eyes narrowed as she glared at the group. “You’re disturbing the great one with your nonsense talks.”
Dravros raised an eyebrow. “It’s not my fault this man”—he pointed a clawed finger at Xantheus—“is always in the mood for trouble, Selenia.”
The titan-like beast merely grunted at the conversation, a low, guttural sound that carried a hint of annoyance, but said nothing.
“It doesn't matter,” Selenia said. “Now that no one else is needed, we should start what we came here to discuss.”
Both Xantheus and Dravros nodded and the group finally walked towards the dragon, surrounding its colossal claw. Selenia sighed, her wings rustling softly as she spoke again, her voice filled with quiet despair. “I feel like the future we all envisioned is just getting farther and farther away from us.”
There was a brief silence as they all considered her words. The air in the cavern felt heavy with unspoken doubts, and the dark power that lingered seemed to pulse in time with the beating of their hearts.
“We need to do better,” Selenia continued, her gaze fixed on the dragon’s claw, “to spread our lord’s influence everywhere.”
Xantheus nodded slowly. “I believe we are doing good enough. Vanderfall is already falling, and no one will be able to do anything about the plague. Their army is already destroyed and no other country would dare touch it until it starts engulfing them too.” He paused, his thoughts lingering on the political turmoil outside. “Unfortunately, we can’t push it to Lancephil much. Just at the edge of it. Regina wants her idiot son to be a hero. I still don’t understand why she can’t just take the kingdom after killing her husband.”
Dravros’s lips curled into a thin smile. “The civil war isn’t good for anyone. We need a puppet there, someone who can take every criticism for us. Her son is good enough for that and she needs the public to get on his side before she could try anything. Nobles might in charge, but commoners are numerous.”
Xantheus frowned but said nothing. The discussion had veered into dangerous territory, but Dravros was right—Regina’s son was a means to an end, a pawn in a much larger game.
But even Dravros’s cold pragmatism couldn't hide the growing uncertainty among them all. They could feel it, as if the very earth beneath their feet was trembling in anticipation of something—something they couldn’t control, no matter how much power they had amassed.
Xantheus stood still for a moment, letting the tension in the air settle, before speaking, “We don’t have to do everything ourselves, and in the end, it’s Regina’s matter. But it’s Maleficia’s matter as well. The throne should have been ours by now.”
Before Dravros could respond, Selenia, her wings slightly fluttering as she shifted, spoke up. “I agree with Xantheus,” she said, her gaze meeting Xantheus. “But I am also willing to give Regina more time. Either way, the plague can be left alone now. With Vanderfall gone, we can focus on other countries.”
Her eyes turned to the titan-like beast standing nearby. “I’m sure Bracker has done well subjugating the monster tribes back in the Zarran plains.”
Bracker, the massive monster, finally opened his mouth, his voice deep and gravelly, like boulders grinding against one another. “Yes, they’ve decided to follow the lord,” he said, “and soon, we can launch our crusade on the whole world.”
Xantheus raised a hand, signaling for calm. “You are being impatient,” he said. “Before anything, we need to deal with our biggest problem. Don’t forget what the prophecy has said. Until we get rid of the Elder Tree, nothing is going to work.”
The Elder Tree—an ancient force whose roots ran deep into the fabric of the world itself. They all knew the prophecy well. Until it was dealt with, their plans would falter. And that was why everyone was silent for a good second; they were all thinking the same.
Finally, Dravros spoke. “The tree will fall without us interfering.”
Selenia shook her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with impatience. “Too much time waiting for our lord. I can feel him. The dead mana bubbling inside him. He wants to open his eyes, show the world his strength, and capture it to rule it. But it’s us who need to prepare the world for his arrival.”
Xantheus exhaled slowly. “So, you called the meeting to make us go after Sylvastra and kill the Elder Tree?”
Selenia’s eyes glinted with determination. “It’s not really just a tree we can chop down, you know,” she said, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “But it’s taking too much time. By now, we should have had Lancephil and started our crusade against the other kingdoms. It’s not just this continent. There’s so much more on the other side of the world. Since things are faltering, we need to take the matter into our own hands. I’m sure we can find a way to Sylvastra, even with the fog around it.”
Xantheus’s eyes darkened as he processed her words. “I can do something about it,” he said. “But it’s going to take time.”
Dravros’s lips curled slightly. “What doesn’t take time?” he muttered, then paused. “If we want to do it, it’s going to take a lot of effort. We’ll have to take more of the servings from our lord.”
Selenia’s expression softened. “I doubt the lord is ever going to mind. He’s here to give everything to his followers, to make us feel loved like a father.”
Bracker spoke up. “Or mother,” he added, a strange understanding in his tone. “The lord ain’t bound by gender.”
Xantheus regarded them all, sweeping over the group, before he nodded slowly. They were right. The lord did not care for such trivialities as gender, and their faith in him was unquestionable. They all served him, and he would provide. But the task ahead was not an easy one, and time was no ally.
“We move forward,” Xantheus said, his words laced with finality. “Prepare yourselves. We have a great deal of work to do, and our future is hanging in the balance.”
Everyone nodded in agreement, their focus fixed on the colossal form of the dragon, Malefic. The beast sprawled in the center of the cavernous room, its black scales gleaming ominously. Their eyes traveled over its massive body, from the deadly claws that curved like the sharpest blades, up to the intimidating face and down to its closed wings. But as their eyes moved across its form, they landed on something unsettling—just beside its heart, a small hole in its chest.
The hole was a grotesque sight. Parasites, writhing like living shadows, squirmed inside the opening, each one appearing as though it were a separate entity, battling for space within the dragon’s body. It looked as though something else—something alive—was stirring beneath the black, mana-infused shell of the beast.
A grim silence followed, each member of the group staring at the sight, before Xantheus stepped forward. His cloak flowed behind him as he approached the dragon’s chest, his hands outstretched. With deftness, he reached into the opening, his fingers brushing against the blackened flesh before grasping one of the parasites firmly in his hand.
A chilling grin spread across his face as he held the wriggling creature, its form shifting and thrashing in his grip. The others watched.
"With our lord’s blessing," he said as he stared at the parasite, "killing the tree won’t be hard."
***
Khalid kneeled, his body tense as sweat trickled down his back, the heat of the desert sun making his skin feel like it was being scorched. His eyes remained fixed on the sand beneath him, the grains swirling in the wind that whipped at his face. He stifled a cough, careful not to break his composure. His tribe had been proud once, fierce in the desert, but now, they knelt here, alongside the others, hoping to blend in, to remain unnoticed.
Every movement was calculated, every breath controlled, so as not to attract any unwanted attention. He stayed low, trying to make himself as small as possible.
Footsteps echoed in the distance, growing closer with each passing second. The vibrations in the ground made his heart race, but he stayed still, watching the sand swirl around his knees. A large foot, the color of the desert sand, passed by just inches from him, and he could feel a shiver run down his spine. His breath caught in his throat, but he did not allow himself to falter. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, though a wave of dread washed over him.
More footsteps followed—massive, thudding steps, accompanied by the noise of others walking in unison.
The sound grew louder, closer, until it was impossible to ignore. Then, a gruff voice barked, booming across the sand, "Rise up, face me."
Khalid hesitated for just a moment, but then slowly raised his head. He kept his gaze low, just enough to see the hulking forms in front of him. His heart skipped a beat at the sight, even though he had seen it countless times before.
Standing before him were beings that could not truly be called human, monstrous and authoritative. Creatures larger than seven feet, their bodies filled with tattoos and piercings, their bare skin the color of sand. He couldn’t bring himself to focus to read the tattoos–but they were there. They wore little—just cloth wrapped around their legs—and skull caps adorned their heads, giving them a barbaric, untamable look. These were the Duneborn Orcs, more beast than man.
The Duneborns’ eyes gleamed with cruel amusement as they looked at the kneeling humans.
Some laughed, their guttural voices harsh and incomprehensible, cracking jokes in their own tongue that sounded like growls and snarls. Behind the orcs, the other humans stood.
They did not kneel like the others; they stood tall, proud of their betrayal, and sneered at the humans who had been forced into submission. The sight of them made Khalid’s blood boil with anger, but he held it in check. He could not afford to let it show, not here, not now.
In the center of it all, one of the orcs stepped forward, a large figure whose presence commanded the entire desert. His skin was a deeper shade of sand, his muscles rippling with power. His face was a grotesque mask of scars, and his eyes burned with an unsettling intensity. This was Zethar. His voice, when he spoke, rumbled across the sand like thunder, sending a jolt of fear through Khalid’s chest.
"Humans," he began, his voice booming across the sands as he spoke in their tongue. "I am pleased to see that you have gathered here at our first summons, prostrating yourselves before us, the mighty Duneborns. For far too long, your tribes have been under our rule, yet we have begun to notice a troubling trend. You have started to treat us—your new masters, your overlords—as though we are mere pushovers.
Last month’s tribute—your food, your pelts, all your precious goods—barely sustained us. We were forced to hunt for prey ourselves just to survive. And now, the Overlord of the Dunes, Khorvash, and Belkhor, the Eternal One, are angry with you. We can not starve our Overlord. You stand here today to explain yourselves.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd of kneeling humans, their bodies stiff with fear. Khalid looked at the fellow tribe leaders around him, but no one spoke. They all stood frozen, unwilling to be the first to anger the orc.
Zethar’s voice dropped as he growled. "If you fail to explain yourselves, we will return to hunting. And this time, you will be our prey."
Khalid’s heart raced as he heard the growl in his words, the threat enough to make him shake. lHe could feel the fear in the air, but none of the other tribe leaders dared to make a sound. Then, just as the silence stretched on, one brave soul finally spoke.
It was Jahir, the newly elected leader of the Havari Tribe. The man was young, his green eyes hardened, his hands clenched at his sides. He met Zethar's fiery gaze without hesitation. "The reason behind it, mighty Duneborn, is that your taxes have been far too much. We humans rely on milk and meat to survive. The amount we eat is far less than what your kind consumes. Every year, we give you the bulk of our cattle, and our lands have become barren from your demands."
Jahir took a deep breath, knowing that his words were a thin line between life and death for his people. "Many of our tribes have already seen their people die of starvation, and many more are close to death. We can’t survive with what you ask us to give. If we give everything, there will be nothing left for us, and soon, the tribes will cease to exist. How are we supposed to pay taxes when we are starving? We need to hunt just to feed ourselves."
Zethar’s eyes flashed with anger, his lips curling into a cruel sneer. "Is that our problem?" he spat.
Jahir stood his ground, his body stiff, but showing no defeat. "If you claim to be a minion of the overlord of the desert, then you need to understand the realities of our survival. You can’t expect us to continue paying the taxes you demand when we are dying from hunger."
Before he could finish, Zethar cut him off with a bone-chilling laugh. "We believe in one thing, human—taking taxes. Taxes that you pay so we don’t kill you." His eyes glinted with malice as he stepped forward, towering over the human leader. "Our Overlord, mighty Khorvash, doesn't care if your people die. You humans breed so quickly; if your tribes die, we will simply breed more of you like cattle and eat you when we grow hungry."
The words struck like a heavy blow, and Khalid could see the other leaders around him trembling, some of them glancing nervously at the sand beneath their knees. Jahir tried to hold his ground, but the depth of the orc’s words and the crushing power of the situation bore down on him.
Zethar sneered again, looking around at the kneeling humans. "Your people are nothing but livestock to us. Do not forget your place, human. Pay your tribute, or there will be nothing left to save you."
The crowd remained silent, but the fear in the air was palpable. Khalid felt his heart thundering in his chest, and though he wanted to speak, to say something more, he knew the risk was too great. The orcs were not interested in negotiations; they only understood power, and in this moment, they held all of it.
"What we want is simple," he sneered. "The same things we’ve asked for before. If you can’t give it, you will lose your life."
The words were sharp, and as they hung in the air, Jahir opened his mouth to protest. "That’s—"
But before he could finish his sentence, the orc moved. Khalid’s eyes widened in shock as the orc launched himself through the air toward the man who had just spoken. In an instant, Jahir pulled a dagger from his side and tried to dart out of the way. But it was hopeless. The orc was too fast, too strong.
A bracelet on the orc’s ankle flared with energy, and wind surged around him, propelling him forward. The man barely had time to react as the orc’s massive leg slammed into his chest, knocking him to the ground. There was no time to fight back. A single punch from the orc sent a spray of blood and flesh into the air, and the tribe leader’s body crumpled under the brutal assault.
Khalid froze, his breath caught in his throat as the orc continued to beat the man, pulverizing his body with each strike. The other humans scrambled out of the way, their faces pale with horror, as the sound of the beating echoed across the sand. The chilly sound of bone cracking and blood spurting filled the air.
The orc didn’t stop until the man’s body was a mangled mess, half of it unrecognizable.
With blood still dripping from his fist, Zethar raised his hand high, his rage-filled eyes sweeping over the terrified tribe leaders kneeling before him. "Does anyone else have any problems?" he asked.
No one dared to speak. No one moved. The silence was deafening, broken only by the ragged breathing of the men and women who had witnessed the brutal execution.
Khalid’s heart hammered in his chest as he looked at the lifeless body of the man who had been killed for daring to speak up. Jahir had barely been known to him, but in that moment, he realized the man had been his age. Maybe even younger. The same age as his brother, Ansel.
A pit formed in his stomach as pure terror filled him. He wasn’t a Mage. He wasn’t a Sand Knight. He was just a man, weak and powerless, kneeling before a monster. A part of him wanted to scream, to rise up and fight back, but he knew it would be useless. The orcs were too powerful. They had all the control.
As Zethar moved towards the platform, continuing to shout more threats about food and tribute, Khalid’s head dropped. His eyes lingered on the bloodied corpse of the man who had tried to stand for the tribes. He felt his heart ache and bile rising in his throat. For a moment, he thought about his own brother, Ansel—how he had fled the desert when he had the chance.
Khalid gave a silent prayer, his voice barely a whisper in the wind. Ansel, I hope wherever you are, you’re safe. The Ashari desert tribes... they’ll die off soon, but I hope you keep living. Happily.
Tears welled up in his eyes, but he kept them from spilling, knowing there was no one here to share his sorrow. The tribes were lost. There was no hope left for them. Only fear, and the crushing weight of the orcs’ rule.
***
Volume 3 is over!
Comments
Mark
IIRC he is that trader who subsequently became the head of Kai's 'watchers', so his secret police and spies.
Kevin Jalop
Who is Ansel again?
Silver Beard
Pretty tragic ending; not clear how the Tribes will tie into the story though.
ThoMiCroN
Nobles might be* in charge, but commoners are numerous.”
