Chapter 22: The Deep-Dwellers' Call
The intelligence from the freed prisoners became the lens through which Alistair viewed every interaction with the Graxians. He noticed the subtle tension between Grok's loyalists and Varg's growing faction. He saw the reverence with which they handled their blackstone tools, and the frustration when a blade shattered. He had successfully embedded himself in their supply chain, creating a dependency.
But the most intriguing piece of the puzzle was the Deep-Dwellers.
According to Elara, the Graxians avoided the northern crags, a jagged, mountainous region that bled off the main jungle. They spoke of the creatures there with a superstitious dread that was unusual for the brutish clan. Hunters who went in rarely came out, and those who did spoke of things that moved through solid rock, of chilling whispers on the wind.
It was a problem for the Graxians. And therefore, an opportunity for Alistair.
He stood with Thora on the newly completed eastern watchtower, gazing toward the distant, hazy crags. "They're a drain on Graxian resources and morale. A persistent threat Grok can't handle."
Thora followed his gaze. "You think we can handle what they cannot?"
"I think we have different strengths," Alistair replied. "They have brute force. We have the system. We have you." He glanced at her. "And we have a vested interest in ensuring our allies aren't being slowly bled by a threat they don't understand."
It was a pretext, and they both knew it. Securing the northern crags would extend his territory, neutralize a potential threat, and—most importantly—demonstrate a capability that the Graxians lacked. It would be another quiet move in their unspoken war, shifting the balance of power further in his favor.
He assembled a small, elite team: Thora, for her unmatched hunting skills and leadership; Kael, for his sharp eyes and wood-shaping; and Roric, for his steady strength. This was not a mission for a large force. It was a scouting expedition, one that required stealth and precision.
The journey to the crags took a full day. The vibrant jungle gradually gave way to a landscape of sharp, grey rock and stunted, wind-twisted trees. The air grew colder and thinner, carrying a strange, metallic tang. The familiar hum of the planetary ley-lines felt different here—distorted, thrumming with a discordant, low-frequency energy that set Alistair's teeth on edge.
They found the entrance to the Graxians' feared domain as the smaller red sun began to set: a wide, dark fissure in the mountain face, looking like a wound in the world. Bones, picked clean and cracked open for marrow, were scattered around the entrance. Some were recognizably from large jungle animals. Others were thicker, unmistakably Graxian.
[SCAN: GEOLOGICAL ANOMALY DETECTED. UNUSUAL CRYSTALLINE AND METALLIC SIGNATURES. BIOLOGICAL ENTITIES DETECTED WITHIN. CLASSIFICATION: UNKNOWN.]
"Stay sharp," Thora whispered, nocking an arrow to her bow. The hunters fanned out, their movements silent on the rocky ground.
They ventured inside. The tunnel was not natural. The walls were smooth, almost polished, and veins of a faintly glowing blue ore pulsed with the same discordant energy Alistair had felt outside. It was cold, and their breath misted in the air.
They hadn't gone more than a hundred paces when the first attack came.
It didn't emerge from the shadows; it phased *through* the solid rock of the wall. One moment there was nothing, the next, a creature of shimmering, semi-translucent crystal and jagged metal was upon them. It had no discernible face, only a cluster of glowing blue points of light, and limbs that ended in razor-sharp shards. It moved with a horrifying, silent fluidity.
Thora's arrow sang through the air, but it passed straight through the creature's torso with a sound like shattering glass, barely slowing it down. Roric's spear thrust met the same result.
It was intangible.
The creature lunged for Kael, its shard-like fingers aimed at his heart. Alistair reacted without thought. He didn't try to manipulate the earth; the creature was clearly not bound by it. Instead, he tapped into the discordant energy of the place itself, the very power that sustained these beings.
He focused his Admin will, not to command, but to *disrupt*.
He slammed a pulse of pure, ordered planetary energy into the chaotic frequency of the cave.
The effect was immediate and violent. The glowing blue veins in the walls flared brightly. The Deep-Dweller shrieked, a sound not of air but of grinding crystal and tearing metal. Its form flickered, solidifying for a split second. In that moment, Thora's second arrow, already in flight, struck true, punching into its now-solid core.
The creature exploded into a shower of harmless, fading light and dust.
Silence returned, deeper than before.
"They are not flesh," Thora breathed, her eyes wide. "They are... spirit. Made of stone and light."
Alistair stared at the spot where the creature had vanished, his heart pounding. "They're manifestations. Tied to this anomalous energy field." He looked at the pulsing veins in the wall. "This isn't a nest. It's a... a wound in the planet. And these things are the infection."
The Graxians' fear made perfect sense. You couldn't fight a sickness with a club. But Alistair wasn't a warrior with a club. He was a Steward with a system.
The mission had changed. This was no longer just about gaining an advantage over the Graxians. He had stumbled upon a fundamental sickness in his world, a corruption of the very ley-lines that gave him power.
The unspoken war with the Stonetusk Clan suddenly felt very, very small. A much larger battle had just appeared on the horizon.