Chapter 138: Dark Currents

The map of the Carcass Mire lay before Sakavi, spread out for an entire night.

A dim crimson glow of magma rose from the cave’s depths, casting the yellowed parchment in the hue of half-coagulated blood.

Sakavi’s vertical pupils swept across the map, slowly tracing every contour line, every marked symbol, every trace outlined in dark ink.

The map was ancient. He could smell the scent of time on the parchment—a mixture of centuries-old dust, mold, and some preservative herb.

But more importantly, the terrain features marked on the map matched his Long Zhi heritage’s memories of the Scorch Wastes.

Carcass Mire. Ancient battlefield. Dozens of warriors’ bones sunk into mud.

Sakavi’s gaze lingered long on the line: “Suspected location of a large summoning array ruin.”

He lifted his massive dragon head, gazing at the fissure above, veiled in sulfur fumes. Through the crack, the eternal crimson sky of Deep Abyss 72 stretched like a bleeding wound.

The communication array in the corner lay dark. In this demon-dominated plane, cross-plane messaging demanded immense cost and remained wildly unstable. The last communication crystal left by Karava had gone dark for three days.

Sakavi was not in a hurry.

Some pieces on the board are more intimidating when still than when moving.

He closed his eyes again, his massive dragon head resting between his foreclaws. Far off, the lava pools of the Hellfire Volcano occasionally churned, emitting dull gurgles like the murmurs of some giant in sleep.

Meanwhile, ten thousand miles away, in the Graywater Delta, Verna stood at the entrance of the outpost cave, watching the fog churn over the Ash Sea.

Her silver-white hair streamed backward in the sea wind, her dark red pupils reflecting the faint, flickering sails in the distance—supply ships from Norasien Port, come to extract her and her troops.

But today, the sea carried one ship unlike the others.

Smaller, narrower, painted deep gray, nearly blending into the fog. No flag, no insignia—like a dead leaf adrift on the water.

Verna’s left index finger tapped twice against the hilt of her blade at her waist.

Tap. Tap.

“My Lady, the guest awaits in the side cavern,” came the voice of her guard, Vellis, from behind.

Verna did not turn, only gave a slight nod. Her gaze lingered a moment on the gray vessel, then she turned and walked into the cave’s depths.

The side cavern lay beneath the main hall, accessible only by a narrow spiral stone staircase. No bioluminescent moss illuminated it—only a few copper lamps, lit with abyssal oil, cast dim yellow light that turned water stains on the walls into twisted faces.

Livorg sat on a rough stone bench, lounging as if in his own parlor. He retained his green dragon-man form, his emerald vertical pupils glowing faintly in the gloom, a half-smile curling at his lips.

He wore a tailored dark green travel coat, a modest silver brooch pinned at the collar—a disguise artifact capable of blocking detection spells.

“Lady Verna,” he rose, bowing slightly, his motion elegant as a court dancer, “you look… in good health.”

Verna did not respond to his pleasantries. She sat opposite, back against the rock, hands folded on her knees. Her eyes fixed on Livorg like two unsheathed blades.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. “The Duke’s men are watching you.”

“That’s why I came,” Livorg’s smile didn’t waver. “The more openly I appear, the less suspicion I draw. Who would think that Livorg, the Duke’s loyal subject, would appear at your outpost?”

Verna did not smile.

“Speak. What do you want?”

Livorg’s smile faded. He leaned forward slightly, voice lowered: “Karava has left.”

Verna’s expression did not change.

“I know. He was ordered by the Duke to replace me in the Graywater Delta. I’ve withdrawn all my Zhol, leaving only jackal-men behind.” Her tone was flat, as if describing something unrelated to her.

“So you just obeyed?” Livorg’s pupils narrowed slightly. “You surrendered the territory you fought so hard to take?”

“What do you think?”

Verna did not answer directly. From her sleeve, she slid out a black scout badge—left behind by Keno, captain of the Fifth Scout Unit, killed by bone-spined toads on Whispering Shoal.

Her fingertip brushed the indentation on the badge’s back, where an arrow had pierced it.

“Keno served me twenty years,” she said. “When he was surrounded on Whispering Shoal, I received word three minutes later. By the time I arrived, half his body had already been digested.”

Livorg’s smile faded slightly.

“Someone deliberately delayed the message?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Verna returned the badge to her sleeve. “But I know one thing: no one in this world has yet been born who can make me suffer.”

Silence spread through the cave. The copper lamps flickered, stretching and twisting the shadows of the two figures on the rock wall like entwined vines.

Livorg’s smile vanished. He leaned forward again, voice hushed: “Vex has been followed.”

Verna’s gaze shifted slightly.

“Whose men?”

“Unknown. But in this world, only a handful have reason to surveil a legendary blue dragon.” Livorg paused. “Could the Duke be one of them?”

Verna remained silent for several breaths.

“What about Vex?” she asked.

“His family is pressuring him,” Livorg whispered lower. “He hasn’t agreed… but he hasn’t refused either. If the Duke truly suspects him…”

He left it unsaid, but the meaning was clear.

“What are you implying?” Verna turned, her dark red pupils locking onto Livorg.

“I’m implying nothing,” Livorg rose, spreading his hands in an innocent gesture.

“I merely think you should know. After all… your trust in the Duke has never been strong.”

Livorg fell silent for several breaths.

“Lady Verna, some things I shouldn’t say,” his voice dropped even lower. “But lately… the Duke has distrusted many. Vex is under surveillance. Your forces in the Graywater Delta have been stripped. Jisk has been reassigned from Crystal Horn Bay…”

“You’re saying the Duke suspects me?”

Livorg did not answer. But his silence was answer enough.

Verna rose, stepping to the cave’s edge, gazing out at the gray, mist-choked sea. The fog churned like countless gray hands clawing at empty air.

“Livorg,” she finally spoke, voice a whisper.

“Yes.”

“Some pieces, the moment they’re placed on the board, are already doomed to be captured. The only difference is whether the enemy takes them… or one of your own.”

She turned, her dark red pupils glowing like two red-hot iron nails in the dim light.

She stepped forward, nearly face-to-face with Livorg.

“You’re testing me. I don’t like being tested.”

Livorg’s smile froze for an instant, then returned to normal.

“You misunderstand, Lady Verna. I merely… care.”

“Care?” Verna let out a short, icy laugh. “In this world, care is the cheapest currency. Save it.”

She turned away, no longer looking at him.

“You may go. Remember—next time, send word before you arrive.”

Livorg bowed slightly, then vanished into the darkness within the cave.

Verna stood alone. The sea wind poured through the cave entrance, stirring her hair.

A spider crawled from a crack in the rock, climbing her arm, ascending to her shoulder. It paused beside her ear, its mouthparts opening and closing with a faint, almost inaudible rustle.

Verna closed her eyes.

Her left index finger tapped twice against the hilt of her blade at her waist.

Tap. Tap.

Two taps.

Then silence.

“Wait a little longer,” she murmured.

The spider leapt from her shoulder, vanishing into the dark.

And a hundred miles away, on the Mu River Plains, another current stirred.

Virens stood atop the canal embankment, her thorned antlers faintly visible in the morning mist.

Her gaze pierced the gray-white haze, fixed on the deep interior of the plains—where an unnatural darkness pooled, like ink spilled on a gray canvas.

That was the domain of the Shadow Abyss Horror.

These past days, the canal construction had been plagued by their harassment. The Horrors were poor at direct assaults—only persistent, small-scale infiltration.

Overnight, newly repaired embankments would be riddled with gaping holes; night watchmen vanished into darkness, leaving only pools of blood; stored rations woke up spoiled, corrupted beyond use.

Virens’s antlers trembled slightly; vines extended from their tips, probing into the mist—Druidic “Nature Sense,” through which she heard the earth’s voice through plants.

Then she heard it.

Not footsteps. Not heartbeats. Something deeper—like water seeping into sand, like shadow devouring light. The Horrors were approaching—not from one direction, but from all sides, like a net tightening.

“Shalut,” Virens’s voice was quiet but clear, reaching the ears of the boar-man commander behind her.

Shalut had been inspecting a new supply crate. At her voice, he dropped the box instantly, axe already in hand.

“They’re closing the net,” Virens said.

Shalut’s tusks parted slightly, revealing white roots. He did not ask how she knew, nor question the accuracy. On the battlefield, a Druid’s Nature Sense was more reliable than any scout.

“How many?” he asked.

“Unknown. But at least fifty, approaching from six directions.”

Shalut fell silent for a breath. Fifty Horrors—he wasn’t afraid of open battle. But Horrors never fought openly. They struck from darkness, attacked when you were exhausted, lunged from shadows the moment you lowered your guard.

“Order everyone back behind the embankment,” Shalut told his messenger. “Withdraw all outer posts. Shields outside, archers inside. No one moves alone.”

The messenger departed.

Shalut walked to Virens’s side, voice low: “Can you sense where their concentration is thickest?”

Virens’s antlers turned slightly, like twin antennae pointing in different directions. After several breaths, she lifted one forehoof, pointing southeast.

“There. At least twenty.”

Shalut nodded, saying nothing. He turned and walked toward the forming formation, spinning his axe in hand—the blade’s glint flashing once, then vanishing into the mist.

The battle erupted less than ten minutes later.

It did not come from the southeast—the Fear Demons were craftier than Sharut had anticipated. They launched their first assault from the west, where the dam was weakest and the defenders most thinly spread.

Three Fear Demons leapt from the mist, their bodies nearly merging with the shadows; only in the instant of their lunge could a blurred, dark silhouette be seen.

The first Fear Demon bit down on the edge of a Boar-Head soldier’s shield; its crushing bite tore through the iron plating along the rim.

The soldier roared and swung his battle-axe, the blade striking the demon’s shoulder—but it did not cut in. The demon’s fur was slick as if it absorbed all light; the axe merely scraped a shallow blood trail.

The second Fear Demon lunged from the side, targeting the soldier’s exposed back.

But as its claw extended, a thick thorn vine erupted from the ground, coiling around its hind leg. The vine tightened violently; the crisp crack of shattering bone echoed through the mist.

Virensa stood on the high ground, the emerald glow on her antlers flickering faintly. Her expression showed no change—no anger, no fear—only a cold, almost cruel focus.

More Fear Demons poured from the mist. They did not charge like beasts, but moved in organized groups: one group feinted to draw attention, another flanked, another sought weak points in the line.

This was the tactic of a thinking creature.

Du Ge, the Battle Standard-Bearer, gritted his teeth, his axe spinning in his hands, each strike precisely aimed at a Fear Demon’s neck or joint. But these creatures were too slippery—their fur seemed to warp light, distorting the viewer’s perception.

“Shield wall, draw in!” he bellowed. “Don’t chase! Let them come to us!”

The Boar-Head shield-bearers instantly raised their shields to their chests, crouched low, and pressed the shield rims to the ground, forming an unbroken circular barrier. The Fear Demons crashed into it with heavy thuds—but not a single breach opened.

Archers shot through the gaps between shields; arrows hissed through the air and embedded in the Fear Demons’ bodies. But the demons’ vitality was unnaturally strong—they did not fall immediately after being hit, only grew more frenzied.

The battle lasted nearly half an hour.

When the last Fear Demon, dragging a wounded hind leg, vanished into the mist, the worksite was a ruin. Several sections of the dam had been shattered; over a dozen soldiers lay dead; many more bore deep gashes from the demons’ claws.

Virensa descended from the high ground, the emerald glow on her antlers slowly fading. She walked to the corpse of a Fear Demon, bent down, and gently touched its gray-black fur with her antlers.

Then her gaze swept the battlefield and settled on a pile of rubble beside the eastern dam wall.

There lay a young Druid apprentice. His name was Eri; he had served Virensa for less than two years and had only just learned yesterday how to entangle moving targets with thorn vines.

A Fear Demon had slipped behind him in the chaos. His throat had been torn out. His eyes remained open, pupils dilated, his hand still clutching the seed that had not yet grown into a vine.

Virensa stood beside him for a long time.

“They’re probing,” she said.

Sharut wiped blood from his face—not his own, but the spray from a Fear Demon’s shattered skull. “Probing what?”

“Our reaction speed, troop deployment, command structure,” Virensa said, lifting her gaze toward the depths of the mist. “They’re preparing. The next wave won’t be this simple.”

Sharut cursed.

“How long until the canal is open?”

“Twenty days,” Virensa said. “If they don’t interfere.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Yes.”

The two locked eyes in silence for an instant. Then Sharut turned and bellowed at the exhausted soldiers:

“You all heard that? Stop standing around! Bring wood, stone, hammers—unless the canal is open in twenty days, none of you will leave this plain alive!”

The soldiers grumbled and moved.

Virensa stood alone on the high ground, the vines on her antlers twisting idly together, as if weaving some unseen pattern.

She thought of Sakavi.

That lazy dragon was probably dozing in some warm cave right now, dumping all the dirty, exhausting work onto his subordinates. While she, here, chewed mud, fed mosquitoes, and outwitted a pack of wolves that only knew how to strike from the shadows.

“That lazy dragon,” she murmured, her tone holding no anger—only something indescribable.

The wind blew from the depths of the plain, carrying mist, rotting mud, and the distinctive acrid stench of Fear Demon fur.

And in the heart of the Hellfire Volcano in the 72nd Abyssal Plane, Sakavi opened his eyes.

His vertical pupils glowed in the dark, like two molten gold coins.

The communication array remained dark. No word from Karava. No word from Verna. No word from Virensa. Only silence, and the occasional dull gurgle of the lava pool.

Sakavi stared at the beacon for a long time. His vertical pupils reflected the dim red glow within the crystal, like two gold coins slowly burning.

He remembered how he looked when he first arrived in the 72nd Plane. Back then, his soul was whole, his body brimming with power. Now, every breath felt like something gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.

He needed those undead—not out of greed, but out of survival.

If he could not hold his ground here, what he lost would be more than territory. He would be like metal dropped into acid, slowly dissolved by this plane until nothing remained.

Sakavi closed his eyes, his massive dragon head resting between his foreclaws.

“Karava,” he whispered.

No response.

He had forgotten—Karava had been sent to the Graywater Delta. In this communication-dead plane, he could not reach anyone. He could only wait.

The undercurrents had already begun to stir. And he had never been a fish carried by the current.