The Extra's Rise - Chapter 826

826: Infernal Armis (1) 826: Infernal Armis (1) The flight back to Ashbluff could not have felt more different than the way I had left.

When I departed, it had been alone, burdened by oath and grim purpose.

Now I returned with Grand Marshal Meilyn Potan at my side-a living emblem of what had been accomplished.

Her presence was not symbolic alone.

To every soldier, noble, and commoner of the western frontier, it would mean one thing: the Axe King was gone.

Meilyn flew with the quiet poise of someone shaped by decades of aerial combat.

Every line of her body was economical, balanced, measured.

Her navy-blue hair streamed in the wind behind her, but her golden eyes never left the horizon where the spires of the capital were slowly emerging.

She had insisted on joining me to deliver the news herself.

Reports could be forged, rumors twisted, but the word of the Grand Marshal of the frontier could not be questioned.

“Are you prepared?” I asked, breaking the silence between us.

The city was still distant, but its silhouette was growing with every heartbeat.

“The implications of Vorgath’s death won’t stop at the frontier.

They’ll sweep across the continent.” “I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole career,” she said, voice calm, almost reflective.

“The frontier has known nothing but survival.

Now, for the first time in living memory, we can plan for expansion.

The politics are complicated, yes-but survival was worse.” Her words carried weight.

For generations, the western border had lived under the shadow of the Savage Communion’s strongest general.

To stand here now, knowing that shadow had been cut away, was to breathe air no one thought possible.

Even the wind felt lighter as the city came closer, carrying the faint, clean smell of stone after rain and the distant murmur of morning markets.

We descended toward the palace grounds.

The moment we crossed the outer boundary, the new security measures came to life.

Magical wards pulsed, scanning us.

Guards surged into position along the walls, crossbows and mana-cannons at the ready.

Identification arrays swept us in crisscrossing waves of light.

But recognition came quickly; the alarms dimmed, weapons lowered, and the energy bled away.

Latticed shields folded back into the seams of the walls with a soft, metallic sigh.

We were cleared, though the tension lingered like a fading echo.

King Valen was already waiting.

He stepped out from the main hall before we even touched stone, a figure carved from composure and anticipation.

His senses had no doubt tracked our approach long before the alarms.

The man understood what an unexpected return with the Grand Marshal meant.

“Arthur,” he greeted, his voice neutral, his grey eyes sharp.

Then his gaze shifted to Meilyn.

“Grand Marshal Potan.

This is… not what I expected today.” “Your Majesty,” Meilyn said with perfect military formality, bowing, though never losing the steel of someone carrying news of consequence.

“I bring word from the frontier.” “The duel,” Valen said, eyes narrowing on me.

“It’s finished?” “Vorgath Ironmaw is dead,” I answered.

The words landed heavy.

Even Valen, master of composure, reacted-subtly, but undeniably.

The Axe King was not simply another foe.

He was one of the five Cult Leaders, a pillar of the Savage Communion.

His death represented more than a battlefield victory; it was a shift in the balance of the entire continent.

“How?” Valen asked, voice carefully neutral.

He knew the answer mattered more than the victory itself.

“Quickly,” I said.

“He was strong, but it ended as it had to.” Meilyn stepped forward, golden eyes steady.

“The fight lasted no longer than ten minutes, Your Majesty.

Arthur dominated from the opening strike.” “Ten minutes,” Valen repeated slowly, absorbing what that meant.

He studied me, his calculating mind already weaving threads.

“Against one of the Communion’s Popes.

The continent owes you a debt beyond measure.

With the Axe King dead, the frontier can finally breathe.

Arthur, what you’ve done-” “I fulfilled an oath,” I cut in gently, but firmly.

“Seven years ago, I promised Vorgath a duel in exchange for the Grand Marshal’s life.

Today, that debt was settled.” “Even so,” Valen pressed, gratitude flickering through his control, “what you’ve done will save lives uncountable.

The Communion’s expansion is checked, and their chain of command is wounded.” That thought had lingered in my mind throughout the flight back.

The timing could not be more perfect.

“With Vorgath gone, they’ve lost their most capable military Pope,” I said.

“This is the moment to strike their strongholds, before a new leader rises to unify them.” Valen’s expression sharpened.

“You’re suggesting a full campaign?” “I’m suggesting you lead one,” I said, watching both Valen and Meilyn lean forward slightly at the distinction.

“The western armies are in position.

They have the numbers, the supply lines, and the reach.

If they move swiftly, they can dismantle what remains before the Communion reorganizes.” “And you?” Meilyn asked, concern evident.

“Surely your presence could decide battles against their remaining leaders.” I shook my head.

“My work here is finished.

I upheld my oath to the Ashbluff line and to the frontier.

Now I must return home-with Stella.

Other matters wait for me.” We walked into the palace.

The familiar halls felt almost serene after the chaos of recent days.

Guards and servants bowed as we passed, though their gestures carried a new weight.

Before, it had been respect for position.

Now, it was recognition of proof.

The echo of our steps in the stone corridors seemed softer, as if the building itself approved.

“Their strongholds will splinter without Vorgath,” Meilyn said as we entered a strategy chamber lit with maps and mana-lamps.

“Commanders will hoard resources, fight for scraps of authority.

If we strike quickly, before any figure rises to consolidate power, we can ensure permanent fracture.” “Exactly,” Valen agreed, stepping to the great table.

“A campaign of swift, coordinated strikes.

Within six months, their infrastructure could be broken beyond repair.” “You’ll want to start with reliquary caches,” I advised.

“They tether morale and fanaticism to relic access.

Starve a region of those, and half its zealots vanish.

Vary your cadence.

The Communion has always been adept at predicting rhythm.” Valen nodded.

“Two feints for every strike, randomized in sequence.

Meilyn?” “We can field three mobile armies immediately,” she said, already calculating aloud.

“Supply can sustain five if we reduce static garrisons.

I’ll require authority to requisition engines and skycraft.” “You’ll have it,” Valen confirmed.

The three of us shaped the skeleton of the campaign.

Valen oversaw resources and political logistics, Meilyn sketched troop movements and pressure points, and I provided knowledge no report could capture: which Popes listened to counsel, which hoarded power; which banners drew volunteers; which commanders folded fastest.

It was clean, efficient, and oddly satisfying.

Allies who knew their roles, speaking in precise lines.

“When will you leave?” Valen asked finally, eyes still sharp but carrying regret.

“In a few days,” I said.

“Rin must recover fully, and Stella has been more than patient.” “Your daughter is extraordinary,” Meilyn said, sincerity breaking her usual formality.

“Her composure during the border standoff was remarkable.

Few adults hold steady under such pressure.” “She’s had to adapt,” I said, pride mingling with the unease of a father who wished she hadn’t needed to.

“I try to give her as much of a normal childhood as I can.” We pressed further into details-supply routes, naval interdiction, aerial patterns.

Valen adjusted political permissions while Meilyn translated strategy into marching orders.

I filled the spaces with what could not be guessed from intelligence alone.

For a while, it was almost peaceful.

Work that mattered, done well, like building the bones of a safer future.

We spoke of river crossings and winter roads, of grain depots that could be forward-stocked, of messenger relays shifting to coded lanterns to cut interception.

And then it changed.

The air thickened, faint at first, like a subtle shift in pressure before a storm.

Mana currents stirred unnaturally, drawing every sensitive sense taut.

I froze.

So did Valen.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice taut.

“Yes,” I said, extending my perception.

“Something powerful is coming.” The disturbance built steadily, layering on itself, wrong in flavor.

Not of this world.

Through the bond, Luna flared awake.

Arthur, her voice rang with urgency, this signature is not native.

The pulse intensified until the very stones of the palace hummed.

Every enhanced guard on the grounds staggered.

We turned toward the windows just as a streak of blazing light cut across the heavens.

Not a meteor.

Its course was deliberate, purposeful.

It struck fifty miles distant.

The impact sent a shockwave through the land, rattling windows and quivering beams though we were far removed.

Dust trembled in the high light, and somewhere in the city a flock of birds broke into the air all at once, a black smear that scattered and vanished.

“What in the gods’ names was that?” Valen demanded, frustration in his voice.

His senses strained against readings they could not classify.

Recognition swept through me as Luna’s memory rose-ancient knowledge tied to warnings the first Arthur had once shared.

“That,” I said, voice low, “was a Mythical-grade artifact making planetfall.” “Mythical-grade?” Valen said, as though testing the word.

“I was told such things were only theories.

Conjectures in dusty scrolls.” Not theories, Luna said, her certainty absolute.

Infernal Armis.

One of the seven that drift through space-time itself, appearing where the boundaries weaken.

Meilyn’s hand slid instinctively to her hilt.

“What kind of artifact?” she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer could not be anything good.

I fixed my gaze on the horizon.

Even at this distance, my vision caught the great pillar of light rising from the crater.

It shone like a beacon, steady and wrong, calling to every ambitious soul with hunger in their heart.

The air around it rippled in unnatural rhythm, as if the world itself were breathing out of time.

“The artifact of Ruin.”