The tunnels beneath Crimson Fang snaked like roots, their dark stone walls slick with dampness. Ares followed Irina, his boots squelching on the floor, the air heavy with moss and ancient magic.
Magical torches cast green shadows, their hum vibrating through the stone. The underworld's vastness loomed in his mind, a hidden empire unseen by Ruveria.
Irina led with purpose, her human form, dark hair framing sharp features, moving with lethal grace. Her tight leather coat hugged her curves, a subtle distraction in the dim light.
Ares' mind churned, mapping the tunnels' twists, calculating distances to the surface. The silence pressed in, broken only by the recruits' muffled steps behind.
Rithessa followed, her human guise, bronze skin and amber eyes, striking in its tailored coat. Her presence commanded, even without her third eye's glow.
The air grew denser, the walls pulsing as if alive. Ares sensed the magic's weight, a force older than the kingdoms above.
Irina's map glowed faintly, her fingers tracing landmarks with precision. She moved ahead, her steps silent, guiding them through the labyrinth.
Ares wondered how such tunnels escaped human scouts. Their secrecy was a testament to demonic cunning, a shield against the surface world.
The recruits marched in formation, their human forms awkward but disciplined. Their dulled eyes glinted, betraying the predators beneath.
The tunnel ended abruptly, a smooth stone wall barring their path. Ares paused, his gray eyes narrowing at the dead end.
Irina stopped, her hand near her dagger, posture alert. "This is the gate," she said, her voice calm but firm.
Ares frowned, skepticism sharp in his gaze. "A wall? This leads to the surface?"
Rithessa stepped forward, her bronze skin catching the torchlight. "It's a portal, locked by sigils only high demons can wield."
Her fingers traced intricate symbols on the stone, glowing crimson. The wall hummed, its runes alive with ancient power.
Ares watched, the air thickening with magical pressure. The sigil pulsed, its energy pressing against his skin like a tide.
Rithessa pressed her palm to the wall, and a fiery blaze erupted. A vortex roared, swallowing them in a stream of twisting runes.
Ares' stomach lurched, the magic compressing his body, burning his lungs. He felt stretched, pulled through a river of fire and shadow.
The world snapped back, and he stumbled onto a grassy field. The gray sky loomed, rain-heavy, the air sharp with swamp decay.
Irina caught his arm, her touch firm, emerald eyes concerned. "The sigil's rough on humans," she said, steadying him with care.
Ares coughed, the magic's residue clinging, his body unsteady. He forced himself upright, refusing to show weakness before the team.
Rithessa stood apart, her amber eyes scanning the field. "Slightly off target," she muttered, "but close enough to strike."
Irina's map glowed under her fingers, pinpointing their position. "The supply line's near," she said, nodding toward distant wooden structures.
Ares steadied his breathing, his mind mapping the marshes' muddy paths. His senses sharpened, picking out faint lantern glows ahead.
The group moved forward, grass wet underfoot, reeds rustling in the breeze. The air carried the stench of stagnant water and rot.
Rithessa's recruits followed, their human forms blending with the dusk. Their movements were stiff, unaccustomed to mortal guises.
Ares' mind raced, Perfect Calculation analyzing patrol routes, guard shifts. He recalled his own Alliance plans, their protocols etched in his memory.
The field sloped upward, revealing a cluster of wooden structures. Three guards stood at the entrance, their armor gleaming, too ornate for grunts.
Ares crouched, his eyes narrowing at their insignia. These were commanders, high-ranking, a detail that screamed overconfidence.
He spotted a familiar face—Dren, a guard he'd assigned months ago. Dren's broad frame and scarred hands marked him as a formidable fighter.
Ares' mind churned, Perfect Calculation counting heads: three guards, no scouts nearby. The Alliance's sparse defense suggested they hid his betrayal to save face.
"They haven't announced my exile," Ares whispered to Rithessa. "It'd damage their reputation, so they're pretending I'm still theirs."
Rithessa's amber eyes glinted, her lips curling with approval. "You read them like a map, strategist. What's the play?"
Irina pressed closer, her leather coat outlining her curves, her voice low. "I'm not leaving your side," she said, her tone protective, insistent.
Ares met her gaze, his voice calm but firm. "I'll be fine. If trouble starts, signal the team to flank left, use the reeds for cover."
Irina frowned, her emerald eyes searching his face. She nodded reluctantly, her hand lingering on his arm, warm and steady.
Ares' strategy formed, Absolute Prediction mapping outcomes. Dren's strength could hold off an attack, but deception would neutralize him faster.
"I'll go down, pretend I've been attacked," Ares said, his voice low. "I'll use Veil of Shadows to slip in, convince Dren to secure the supplies."
Rithessa nodded, her human form stunning, bronze skin glowing in the dusk. "Clever. You've earned my trust, strategist."
He outlined the signal—a low whistle, two short bursts—to call the team down. If he failed, they'd strike the guards and take the supplies by force.
Ares crept toward the depot, reeds brushing his legs, mud clinging to his boots. He activated Veil of Shadows, fading into the dusk's embrace.
The guards didn't notice, their lanterns casting weak pools of light. Dren stood tallest, his scarred hands gripping a spear, eyes scanning lazily.
Ares emerged near the entrance, staggering deliberately, his coat torn for effect. "Dren," he gasped, feigning panic, "demons attacked me. They're close."
Dren's eyes widened, his spear lowering slightly. "Caelum? How the hell are you here?"
"I escaped using a trick," Ares said, his voice urgent. "They're after the supplies. We need to secure them now."
The other two guards exchanged glances, their hands tightening on weapons. "Demons?" one muttered, stepping forward, scanning the reeds.
Ares leaned closer to Dren, his tone low, convincing. "I assigned you here because you're strong enough to hold them off. Protect me while we move the supplies."
Dren hesitated, his scarred face torn between duty and suspicion. He nodded, gesturing to the others, "Search the perimeter. Now."
The two guards rushed into the marshes, lanterns swinging, leaving Dren alone with Ares. Ares' heart pounded, his plan hinging on this moment.
He led Dren inside, the depot's wooden walls creaking, barrels of grain stacked high. "We'll lock it down," Ares said, his voice steady.
Dren followed, his spear at the ready, eyes darting nervously. "You sure they're close?" he asked, his voice tight.
Ares nodded, moving deeper into the depot, his hand brushing a crate. He whistled softly, two short bursts, the signal for his team.