Chapter 45
Victor Rudd decided to in force the Agency law regarding the dispute on who shall have claim over the rift and many that entered because they can based on the rift mission rule of 100 participants not fully understanding the true mission, entered with ego and arrogance, Alexa and the three sanctioned group beside Obsidian Seraphs who exited the rift as soon as they were able to gather enough man crystals from the now burnt dead blood tree,
Meanwhile, the Dark Ones, who had sensed the overwhelming killing intent, gathered their forces under their king.At the top of an emerald throne sat Aeliryn Flameleaf's uncle, the self-proclaimed king, Finduilas Flameleaf, resting arrogantly within the vast Tree Castle , a towering seat of power.
This colossal tree fortress had once belonged to the original rulers of the land: the Springgan race.
For thousands of years, King Angiwen Darksprout and his people ruled this massive, majestic realm in peace. Their forests bloomed, their rivers ran pure, and all races lived under natural harmony.That peace ended when the Dark Elves arrived.
They attacked the Springgan homes with fire and poisoned the land itself. Their corruption spread through the soil and roots, weakening the Springgan race until they were forced into chains, made to work as slaves beneath the very ground they once cultivated.
More than a million Dark Elves had come to this land.
At first, they were openly welcomed by King Angiwen Darksprout. Even the Lizard Tribes, who had sworn camaraderie to the Springgan king, acknowledged them when Angiwen declared equality among all races under his rule.
But the Dark Elves did not come seeking peace.
But the Dark Elves did not come seeking peace.
They came with hidden blades and smiling lies.
At night, their alchemists poured black poison into the sacred roots of the Springgan Worldgroves. The soil turned bitter, and the rivers began to rot. One by one, the Springgan grew weak, their bark-like skin cracking, their sap running black instead of gold.
When the Springgan could no longer stand, the Dark Elves struck.
King Angiwen Darksprout was dragged from his emerald -throne in chains of thorn and iron. His crown of living vines was burned before his eyes. The Tree Castle, once a sanctuary of wind and birdsong, was seized and reshaped into a fortress of shadowed leaves and emerald stone.
The Sylvaren, children of antler and leaf, were the first to resist.
Under moonlit canopies, they charged with horns carved from living wood, their hooves shaking the forest floor. But Dark Elf archers filled the sky with poisoned arrows, and the Sylvaren fell among the roots, their glowing blood feeding the corrupted soil.
The Mirefolk rose next from the drowned lowlands.
From fog and fungus they emerged, bodies woven from reeds and bone, voices whispering through swamp mist. They tried to reclaim the poisoned rivers, drawing corruption into their own bodies to cleanse the land.
For this mercy, they were hunted.
Dark Elf fire turned their wetlands into steaming graveyards. Their spores were burned, their young sealed beneath tar and stone. The swamps fell silent.
Thus fell the natural order.
The Springgan became slaves beneath the earth.The Lizardmen became hunted spirits of the night.The Sylvaren became myths whispered by poisoned rivers.
And the Mirefolk… vanished entirely,until only dead remnants remained rotting husks tangled in reeds,bones wrapped in fungus,silent proof that a whole race had once livedwhere now only corrupted water flowed.
And upon the emerald throne of stolen leaves sat King Finduilas Flameleaf, cloaked in stolen green and crowned with a dead forest's pride.
From his Tree Castle, he watched the dark banners rise.
"The land remembers," he said coldly. "But it will obey."
Far below the roots, in chains of bark and sorrow, Angiwen Darksprout still lived.
And in his veins, the forest still whispered of pain and revenge
But now, a new threat had entered the stolen domain. It did not come clad in armor or riding beasts of conquest. It came in the fragile form of humans.
They did not arrive as invaders. They came by accident, wanderers who crossed forgotten trails, drifting caravans that slipped through broken ley-lines, hunters who followed wounded prey too far into the deep green. Step by step, without knowing it, they crossed into lands that no longer belonged to nature but to shadow and stolen roots.
Humans were not foreign to this realm. They had been born within it just as they were born on Earth. Yet unlike the humans of Earth, who had evolved, learned, built towers of stone and steel, and mastered the art of war, these humans had remained unchanged. They lived in scattered villages of mud and wood, huddled against the forest's edge like frightened animals. They feared thunder as divine wrath and worshipped rivers that had long been poisoned. They believed sickness was a curse, fire a spirit, and death a wandering god that could be bribed with bone and prayer.
Their lives were bound to superstition, their minds chained by fear of the unknown. They did not know the history of the Springgan, nor the betrayal of the Sylvaren, nor the extinction of the Mirefolk. They did not know that the ground beneath their feet had once been a kingdom of living bark and golden sap. All they knew was that the forest was forbidden, that its depths swallowed hunters whole, and that strange lights moved beneath its canopy when the moon was thin.
At night, shadows walked between the trees.
To the Dark Elves, these humans were not travelers or settlers. They were not neighbors or allies. They were witnesses, beings who could speak, who could remember, who might one day tell the world what had been done to this land. A single human who escaped with truth was more dangerous than an army.
And witnesses could not be allowed to live.
Thus began the quiet hunts.
Caravans vanished along moss-covered roads. Villages woke to empty homes and bloodless corpses. Children were taken in silence, never screaming, never found. The humans blamed spirits, curses, and angry gods, never knowing that their killers wore crowns of leaves and eyes of emerald fire.
And so the stolen forest gained new victims, while beneath its roots, in chains of bark and sorrow, the old king still listened to the soil.
The forest remembered. And it was waiting.
When the earth itself was torn open and the twenty-foot-wide, ten-foot-tall frog creature they called Gorn, the Rotting One, was uprooted from its hill, the echo of that act traveled through root and mana alike. The creature had not been a simple beast. It was something bred, crafted by dark knowledge and cruel patience. Its purpose was to devour all living things, harvest their life energy, and convert it into mana crystal fruits, grotesque growths that fed the Dark Elven war economy.
It was King Finduilas Flameleaf himself who had created Gorn.
Thus, when Omega cut down the Blood Tree and slew the creature beneath it, the shock of that deed reached the Tree Castle like a tremor through the veins of the land. At once, Finduilas understood what such an act meant. If something powerful enough to kill Gorn now walked his forest, then war would soon follow.
Yet when Aeliryn Flameleaf arrived and reported what had happened, how a single warrior had cleaved the Blood Tree as though it were paper, how Gorn had been dragged from the earth and destroyed, the king did not rise in fury.
He laughed.
Finduilas reclined upon his emerald throne, amused by the tale. To him, the idea that one being possessed such strength was absurd. He believed the intruder must have wielded some forgotten relic, some ancient artifact of terror and illusion. He had studied such objects all his life—devices forged not to grant true power, but to install fear, to bend perception and make enemies believe in impossible might.
"I know these tricks," the king said coldly. "Relics that make legends where none exist. Toys of old wars, meant to frighten armies into retreat."
In his mind, the threat was not Omega himself, but the tool he carried.
And so, instead of fear, the Dark Elven king felt only contempt.
He did not yet understand that no artifact had killed Gorn.
The forest had chosen a hand.
And war had just been announced.
Aeliryn Flameleaf stood at the foot of the emerald throne, her fists clenched, her silver-green eyes fixed on the king who sat above her. "You are making a mistake," she said, her voice sharp with urgency. "You are underestimating the enemy."
Finduilas Flameleaf leaned back against living crystal and leaf, his crown of emerald bark gleaming in the torchlight. His lips curled into an amused smile. "An enemy?" he repeated. "A single wanderer with a borrowed relic does not make an enemy. It makes a story."
Aeliryn stepped forward. "What happened to Gorn was not illusion. The proclamation you sent on the Fifth Day—declaring the eradication of all intruders, has already been received as an insult to their kind. You did not merely threaten them. You challenged them."
The king's smile faded into a cold line. "Good," Finduilas said. "Let them feel insulted. Let them feel fear. On the Third Day, every soldier under my banner will march. I want every human in the forest slaughtered. I want their heads on pikes along the root-roads. Let the land itself learn what defiance costs."
Aeliryn's breath caught. "Uncle, listen to me. You did not see him. You did not stand where I stood. The way he moved… the way the forest recoiled around him… this was not the strength of a man holding an artifact. It was something older. Something awake."
Finduilas rose from his throne, his shadow stretching across the living walls. "You mistake fear for wisdom, child."
"I mistake nothing," Aeliryn said, her voice breaking. "I felt it. Not power alone, but age. As if the land itself remembered him. As if the trees knew his name."
The king turned away from her. "Your task is to obey, not to imagine monsters where none exist."
Aeliryn dropped to one knee. "Then let me go to him. Let me see with my own eyes what he truly is before you spill a forest's worth of blood."
Finduilas waved her away. "There is nothing to see. Only prey."
And so the decree was sealed. On the Third Day, the hunt would begin.
Far below the poisoned canopy, where roots knotted into prisons and stone drank old sap, King Angiwen Darksprout stirred in his chains. The forest whispered to him, not of fire, not of Dark Elves, not of blood. It whispered of something… vast.
Through the pain in his bark-bound body, Angiwen felt a presence moving above the soil. It was not merely strong. It was not merely dangerous. It was not even truly alive in the way beasts were alive. It felt endless, older than crowns, older than races, older than the war that broke his people.
The Springgan king closed his hollow eyes, and for the first time in centuries, the roots did not speak of sorrow. They spoke of recognition. "This is not a weapon," Angiwen murmured into the dark. "This is not a hero."
His chains trembled as the forest pulsed. "This is something that remembers this reality before us all."
And far above him, beneath stolen leaves and emerald thrones, the Dark Elves prepared for war against something they did not understand.
The Delta Rift had never seen such folly. Reporters, corporate magnates, politicians, and the staff of high-profile media conglomerates poured into the scarred landscape, their eyes alight with ambition and hunger for recognition. They came seeking glory, ready to make headlines with a new "miracle" weapon, a living legend they had already named Omega. They believed themselves untouchable, their power measured in money, influence, and the ability to bend others to their will.
They thought they could sway him. They believed that the right words, the correct threats, or the right offers of wealth and authority would bend Omega to their whims. Suited men and women strode confidently into the ash-strewn valleys, cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward, and politicians brandishing speeches like swords. They spoke of loyalty, opportunity, and obligation; they promised favors, contracts, and places in history, all illusions meant to manipulate.
But Omega did not move like a man. The air around him shivered, thickening with a force they could neither see nor measure. When they raised their voices, demanding allegiance and respect, the ground itself responded. Cracks spread across the rift's floor, stone and roots twisting as if the land itself recoiled at their presumption. A low hum rose in the air, not sound but presence, vibrating through every bone, every thought, every nerve.
Then Omega acted. It was subtle at first, a flick of the wrist, a shimmer in the air, and suddenly, the world seemed to bend to his will. Objects twisted, shadows lengthened into impossible shapes, and the very sky darkened as if he had swallowed the light. One by one, the so-called powerful were thrown to their knees, clutching at the air, their screams swallowed by a force they could not comprehend.
Those who tried to flee found themselves rooted in place, as if gravity and fear were the same. Their cameras and devices melted in their hands, their polished suits shredded by invisible claws. The politicians and reporters who had come seeking to command a legend were now commanded themselves, not by law, not by money, but by the raw, absolute reality of Omega's power.
For the first time, they understood: no contract, no office, no fortune could protect them here. The Delta Rift had its own rules. And Omega did not negotiate.
Trembling, panting, and broken, the intruders finally ceased their pleas. They could not sway him. They could not manipulate him. They could not survive him. The ambition and arrogance that had brought them here were now ashes scattered across the land, a lesson etched in fear and silence. Omega simply watched, his presence a storm of inevitability, as the foolish and proud finally understood that he answered to nothing, and feared nothing.
Omega left without haste, casually walking toward the north, his presence almost swallowed by the shadows of the rift. Behind him, the three Cleaners ignored the swarm of reporters, corporate representatives, and politicians, moving with the cold efficiency of those who had no time for distraction. Meanwhile, Victor Rudd, with the support of a disciplined military unit, secured the now-abandoned Dark Elf village. Orders were strict and unyielding: no raw materials could be gathered from the rift without proper authorization. Only those legally sanctioned and approved to take on mission requests were permitted to enter, ensuring that the fragile remnants of the area, and the dangerous artifacts it contained, remained under controlled supervision.
Victor Rudd moved with deliberate precision, his every step measured, his gaze sweeping over the abandoned Dark Elf village. He enforced the Agency's policies with an iron resolve—no negotiation, no compromise. Rogue scavengers who tried to gather resources without authorization were intercepted immediately. Those who resisted were detained on the spot, not out of cruelty, but out of duty. Greed held no sway over him; he had seen what it cost. His father had died in the First Rift Calamity, a casualty of foolish ambition, and Victor had sworn never to repeat that mistake. The memory burned in him like a compass: discipline above all, obedience to the Agency's law above temptation.
He had not reached this point alone. Director Robertson Suleiman had taken him under his wing after Victor awakened with a rare power of assessment, the ability to read the strength and nature of other awakened beings. It was during this time, in a brief but unforgettable moment, that he had sensed Magnus. In that instant, Victor had glimpsed an endless void of raw power radiating from Magnus, a force that had no origin but himself. Even the Director, a man rarely surprised, had regarded Magnus differently, as if some invisible connection bound them. Victor understood then that Magnus was no ordinary person. The power was infinite, uncontainable, and terrifyingly alive.
Now, entering the rift, Victor assessed the scene. Civilians had been reckless, wandering too far after seeing Omega move through the area, and many had fled in terror after witnessing countless monsters slain or disappearing under unknown forces. Fear and chaos rippled through the remnants of the population, and it was Victor's responsibility to restore order. He took command decisively, issuing clear instructions to any who lingered: leave immediately, submit to Agency processing, and obtain proper authorization for any mission.
Meanwhile, the Cleaners continued their work, methodically clearing the rift and completing the quest. Victor coordinated around them, ensuring the civilians did not interfere, while also surveying the terrain for any further threats. His mind remained vigilant, aware that the rift's anomalies could shift at any moment. He understood one thing clearly: the power that had been sensed here, Magnus's, was far beyond the ordinary, and any careless act could ignite a disaster far greater than any he had encountered before. Authority, control, and discipline were the only shields against that unknown magnitude, and Victor intended to wield them without falter.
The rogue scavengers did not come as desperate civilians. They arrived organized, armed, and confident they could ignore Victor Rudd's authority. They claimed the rift's spoils as their right, arguing that the monsters were already dead and the land abandoned. Victor did not reply. He raised a hand, signaling two squads hidden in the ruins to move.
These were not ordinary Agency soldiers. They were loyal to something far older than law, bound by oath to the 12 Elders. One of them was Patrick O'Rourke, the Irish patriarch. At eighty-eight, Patrick had survived harsh winters, political purges, and the fall of nations. Now, through Magnus's blessing, he had regained the strength and form of a man in his prime. His bloodline, too, had been touched by the same power. To them, this was not myth. It was a promise fulfilled.
The soldiers who now emerged from the shadows had families saved in the same way. Mothers healed. Sons restored. Wives pulled back from death. They did not follow Magnus out of fear or propaganda, they followed him because their lives still existed only because of him.
Victor's squads stepped forward silently, moving through collapsed elven buildings and twisted roots. Their patches bore strange call signs, agent013, 014, 024 codenames tied to Elder Viktoria Drexler and Elder Arturo Reyes. these people they all had seen Magnus's power firsthand, how his authority and power could flow through any were , as broken and dying bodies and heal them with out even physically near them, Their loyalty toward the benefactor was not fear. It was honor.
When the un known scavengers, including civilians and politicians and their aids and minions raised their voices and arrogantly even took up weapons to forcibly claim the area as their own , , the response was instant. Legs were swept, arms pinned, rifles knocked aside. In seconds, the fight was over. No one was killed. The scavengers were bound, disarmed, and dragged before Victor.
Victor looked down at them with cold eyes. "This rift is under Agency control," he said. "You do not take what you do not own."
They spat curses about power, privilege, and secret masters. Victor did not reply. Behind him, the soldiers stood silent and unmarked. They did not speak Magnus's name. Their loyalty was unseen, sworn in private, guided by the same whisper all elders had once heard: Serve him from the shadows.
As the scavengers were taken away, they did not realize they had been stopped not by law alone, but by bloodlines saved by something far older than the Agency. Something that ruled not with flags or thrones, but with gratitude.
And far beyond the rift inner domain ,while traveling Magnus did not need to command them. They were already his. Alexa and the other cleaners went out also and followed Magnus suggestion nd understand the place and gather as much information as they could,
The three remaining Cleaners, the Horizon Guard, the Silver Owl, and the Noid Reapers, took their time moving through the abandoned Dark Elf village and surrounding forest. They methodically explored the area, gathering intelligence, searching for any trace of the land's original inhabitants. Every ruin, every scorched root, every shadowed corner was cataloged, examined, and reported. Their goal was clear: to understand the rift's new reality, and to discover whether any remnants of the Springgan, Sylvaren, or Mirefolk still lingered.
Meanwhile, the Agency's military personnel were steadily herding the rogue scavengers back toward the open clearing near the rift's opening. This was no chaotic chase; it was careful coordination, ensuring that none of the unsanctioned civilians, corporate operatives, politicians, or rogue Cleaners could disrupt the operation. In the Agency's system, all of these intruders were officially designated as "scavengers." They had come for personal gain, ignoring protocol, and this was not the first time such reckless behavior had occurred. Now, with the rift having stabilized into a usable environment for research and operations, the Agency had no patience for their greed.
Victor Rudd oversaw the entire operation with unyielding discipline. He moved like a force of nature himself, pushing the Agency's control over the situation with quiet authority. Every step, every tactical placement, every directive was precise. The Dark Elf village and surrounding areas had been officially placed under the jurisdiction of the three Cleaners, giving them authority over both exploration and defense.
The rift itself, on the Earth side, was already under strict supervision, and Victor's reports ensured that the situation would remain contained. Word had already reached the Agency's Director, Robertson Suleiman, who intended to visit personally after receiving the latest updates.
The scavengers had been predictable, politicians seeking influence, corporate representatives searching for valuable materials, reporters chasing stories, and unsanctioned Cleaners pursuing fame or profit. But their motives were irrelevant to Victor. They were now contained, labeled, and understood.
The Agency had studied and observe these behaviors for months and they would no longer be tolerated. because unlike before the rift had nothin inside , now the rift had changed. It was no longer a barren or unstable anomaly. It had become a real environment, alive and structured, capable of sustaining life and energy. And with that, the consequences of intrusion had shifted from inconvenience to danger.
Victor surveyed the clearing one last time. The three Cleaners groups moved with methodical grace, the military kept the scavengers in line, and the rift itself pulsed faintly, a reminder of forces beyond their control. This was no longer a playground for opportunists. It was a battlefield, a laboratory, and a living threat, all at once. And under Victor Rudd's watchful eyes, the Agency's authority would remain absolute. The scavengers' days of reckless intrusion were over.
The scavengers began to realize just how tightly the Agency had them contained. Panic spread quickly through the group as Victor Rudd's squads moved in with silent precision, corralling them toward the open clearing near the rift. Some tried to flee, darting through twisted roots and collapsed structures, thinking they could outmaneuver the security forces. But the rift was no longer the abandoned, quiet place they had assumed it to be.
They did not account for the creatures that still lingered. Hidden in the shadows, in broken tree trunks, in the undergrowth, the predators of the rift watched them. These were not monsters bred by human imagination, they were ancient, cunning, and fearless. They did not recoil at screams, nor did they hesitate when striking. The scavengers, who had assumed the area was cleared and safe, quickly learned their mistake.
Screams shattered the air as the first of them fell, dragged into darkness before anyone could react. Others froze in terror, unable to move as talons, claws, and shadowed forms struck from every side. Weapons fired, but bullets hit nothing but leaves, branches, and air. Chaos erupted. Those who had relied on confidence and greed found themselves powerless against the real dangers of the rift.
Victor Rudd's squads advanced steadily, indifferent to the panicked cries. The Cleaners, already aware of the creatures' presence, moved with cold efficiency, ensuring that survivors could be corralled or neutralized without interference. One by one, the foolish intruders paid the price for underestimating the rift. Their ignorance had made them easy prey, and the forest, and its hidden guardians, did not forgive mistakes.
By the time Victor surveyed the clearing again, the chaos had subsided. The remaining scavengers were subdued, trembling, and aware for the first time of the rift's true danger. The Agency's authority had been enforced, but the rift itself had reminded all who entered that it was alive, unpredictable, and deadly. Foolishness here was not just punished, it was fatal.