thief of fate-Chapter 87: Chaos is approaching

Evening was breathing its last breaths above the grand battlefield. The three kings stood — Taril among them — looking down where the ground was thick with screams, sweat, and clashing blades. Dozens of fighters of all ages took turns on the battlefield, showing what strength they had left in the final round of the day.

King Taril looked down, his arms folded behind his back. He said in a low voice, barely audible amid the noise:

"If time could go back, I would say we had witnessed greater than this..."

Illyria laughed sarcastically, lifting her chin with a touch of pride, and said:

"Don’t be like an old man mourning his glory days, Taril. They lack experience... but they have the spark."

Yaram responded while seated calmly, his eyes fixed on the battlefield where two young men clashed with notable skill:

"Illyria is right... the spark is there. But a spark alone doesn’t start a fire unless someone directs it. How many of them will turn to ash before discovering who they are?"

The three fell silent for a moment. Below, a nimble girl circled around her opponent before delivering a swift strike to his neck, and he collapsed, exhausted.

Taril whispered:

"Fast... smart. If she were under my training, I’d have taught her to strike once and end it."

Illyria replied in a cold tone that carried an unseen sharpness:

"You like training girls, don’t you?"

Taril scowled lightly, but it didn’t last. He then said:

"I like those who have the resolve to win even if they lose."

Yaram bowed his head slightly, noticing a bulky young man fighting with savage finesse, his eyes gleaming with the madness of power.

"And him?" he said, pointing, "Left alone, he’ll become a beast. But if polished well... he might lead armies."

There was a mix of admiration and caution in his voice. Then he added:

"That’s what worries me. We leave them alone."

Illyria glanced at him with a touch of pain in her eyes.

"If only we had seen the danger at the start."

She knew what her words meant. In her heart, it wasn’t about a tournament or names that would be celebrated later. It was about the loss of an entire generation — seeds scattered in barren soil, hoping to sprout a tree.

Taril leaned forward slightly:

"Do you remember Rain’s fight?"

Yaram smiled despite himself:

"How could I forget? His opponent tore up the ground in rage, yet that boy kept mocking him."

Illyria laughed softly this time, memories filling the space between present and past:

"I bet he’d be killed. But that boy didn’t fight seriously... he fought to show his opponent it was useless."

"And he was young," added Taril, "like these ones... but someone took his hand. That’s why he became himself."

The three looked down again. At that moment, a small girl — barely fifteen — stumbled and fell to the ground, but she immediately rose, her eyes blazing with determination.

Illyria said in a hoarse voice:

"She reminds me of myself."

Yaram was surprised by her confession but did not comment.

"You used to fall a lot?"

"But I never cried once," Illyria answered, "And that taught me to be a queen, not just a fighter."

In the depths of their hearts, they knew what was happening before them wasn’t just a show. It was a scene of souls searching for a reason to endure — a struggle holding more meaning than the crowd could comprehend.

Yaram thought of his daughter, Evelyn. How long would it take for her to trust herself like these? And was this violence a path to self-discovery, or merely a test of survival?

"If I were twenty years younger, I’d ask to supervise them myself," he suddenly said.

"Liar," said Illyria, looking at him mockingly.

"True," he replied with a smile, "But I just wish someone would."

The three fell silent again. The sounds below began to fade; the fighting slowed, and some of those who had fallen did not rise. The wounds were real — the blood, too.

Taril stood upright once more:

"They don’t know this is only the beginning."

"And they won’t," Illyria replied, "Not until they lose the first person they believed in."

"Or the first who betrayed them," added Yaram.

The air had grown colder, and the sky had changed colors — a silent expression of the end of a long day of blood, sweat, and hesitant hearts.

Taril thought:

"How many of them will die before knowing they could have become something else? Something great?"

He felt a weight in his chest. Not sorrow — but an old kind of regret, the kind that never leaves.

Yaram whispered, as if speaking to himself:

"If we had the proper resources... no, a family. To train them not just to make soldiers, but to turn them into leaders..."

Illyria said:

"We don’t need more soldiers. We need those who understand the battle before it starts."

Each of them thought in their own way — of those they’d lost, and those they wished had lived to see this generation. Of who would live to lead, and who would fall without ever knowing they were close to greatness.

Finally, Taril spoke as he looked up at the sky:

"Maybe there’s still time..."

"Or maybe time for them," said Illyria quietly, "But not if we continue just watching."

Yaram lifted his gaze to them, his eyes carrying that old gleam that had always marked him as a warrior who doesn’t die easily:

"Let’s bring some of them to the castles. Take them, reshape them. Three from each kingdom."

Silence settled on the balcony for a moment.

Then Illyria said, as if declaring fate:

"Only three?"

"Let’s start with that," Yaram answered, "Then see who deserves more."

Taril nodded slowly, as if yielding to an idea that came too late.

"If we’re going to change anything, it must be now."

Below, a new boy entered the battlefield. Small, thin, but standing firm. The three kings looked at him in silence — as if seeing the first sprout in scorched earth. And at that moment, each of them knew that something had finally begun to change...

Yaram was still seated, his arm resting on the cold armrest, his eyes following the monotonous battle in the arena. Then, suddenly, one strand of the illusion web he had laid around the place quivered — as if a finger had gently touched the surface of still water.

He blinked slowly. Then muttered:

"Insect..."

He didn’t turn his head. He only closed his eyes and focused. The current of illusion he had woven around the place was made of fine layers — designed to confuse anyone who dared to breach it. But he felt it. That tiny, sneaky thing...

"Fool."

He focused his energy on that spot. He didn’t attack but began to squeeze it — as if crushing an invisible body slowly through sheer mental pressure.

"Do you think you’re the first to try?"

He felt the infiltrating consciousness tremble, as if its owner gasped suddenly. Heartbeats accelerated, the inner voice cracked. Waves of anxiety, panic, and confusion exploded inside that mind.

Yaram murmured, nearly voiceless:

"I feel you now... where did you run?"

Then he smiled. A fleeing inner voice exploded in his mind:

"No... no way... he sees me?!"

He increased the pressure. Began to inject illusory scenes into the infiltrator’s mind — images of death, annihilation, separation from the body. Turned the illusion into a living nightmare. Then suddenly—a scream within the mind.

A faint feminine voice broke within it:

"Stop! Stop! Master... master, we’ve found you!"

Yaram froze suddenly. He didn’t retreat, but he listened.

"Master?" he whispered. "So now you speak..."

Then the connection cut off.

Yaram opened his eyes.

"The Black Moon... You’ve ruined the night, you fools."

.....

Alexis sat on the edge of his bed, his upper body bare, a damp cloth over his eyes. The room was dim, lit only by a narrow slit in the window. The silence was comforting.

Until the knock.

Once.

Then again.

He slowly pulled the cloth away and said flatly,

"It’s open."

A man entered—not tall, not short—dressed in nondescript gray clothes. His face was utterly forgettable, the kind you’d forget a minute later. But his gaze was anything but ordinary.

"Alexis."

The latter raised an eyebrow.

"You know my name. Impressive. Who are you?"

The man stepped closer without permission, stopping two paces away.

"That doesn’t matter. I came with a message."

"From who?"

"Don’t ask," he snapped, then continued,

"Leave this place. Tonight. If you want to live."

Alexis chuckled—softly at first, then louder.

"Oh... one of those nights, huh?"

The man didn’t smile. His eyes were dead serious—nauseatingly so.

"The Master is arriving soon. If he sees you here, you’ll be erased."

"The Master?" Alexis stood from the bed, eyes narrowing. "Who the hell thinks they can order me around?"

The man ignored the question.

"We told you before—this place isn’t for you. Don’t compete. Don’t come close. Don’t speak. Just go back."

"Why?"

"Because you’re no longer part of the plan."

Alexis went silent for a moment, then said,

"Screw you and your organization. Get out of my room before I make you swallow your teeth."

The man didn’t move. He only whispered, as if reciting an obituary:

"No, you’re the one who’ll disappear... if you stay."

Then he turned and left.

Alexis stood still, his mind racing. He felt something approaching—something he knew well, and hated even more.

He muttered under his breath, staring at the closed door:

"If he arrives... then hell will break loose. Perfect."