WorldCrafter - Building My Underground Kingdom-Chapter 164 - The Nephirid Capital, Vorth Karuun

164: The Nephirid Capital, Vorth Karuun

164: The Nephirid Capital, Vorth Karuun

The roar of the colosseum was deafening.

A thunder of feet stomped the blacksteel stands.

Nephirid of every caste filled the air with war cries, their voices rising like fire-fed wind.

“TZAREK!”

“TZAREK!”

“TZAREK!”

The name echoed through the obsidian arena like a drumbeat of war.

Down below, under the burning sigils of the combat dome, two figures stood locked in a deadly standoff.

One, a towering Nephirid warrior with coal-gray skin, veins pulsing with molten orange.

His spear gleamed with runic carvings, flickering as if alive.

Every breath he took sent dust rippling across the stone floor.

He was a captain of the Ash Legion.

Across from him stood Tzarek.

His upper body bare, revealing layers of battle-hardened muscle twisted with burn scars and sigil brands.

He held no weapon, only two crimson fang daggers.

His eyes were narrowed.

Calm.

Focused.

A gong boomed above.

“BEGIN!”

The challenger dashed forward, spear stabbing straight at Tzarek’s throat.

But the crowd barely blinked before Tzarek vanished.

Gasps exploded through the stands.

CRACK!

he reappeared behind the captain, a blur of smoke and heat.

One dagger raked across the back.

Sparks flew.

The challenger roared in pain, spinning around, lashing out with the butt of his spear only to meet air.

Tzarek was already gone again.

Then blood.

A line opened across the challenger’s thigh.

Then his side.

Then shoulder.

The crowd screamed, half in awe, half in frenzy.

“TZAREK!

TZAREK!”

The challenger tried to retreat, too slow.

A dagger plunged into his wrist.

He dropped his spear.

Tzarek slammed his foot into the opponent’s chest, pinning him down, the tip of a fang-dagger pressing against his throat.

Silence fell.

Tzarek didn’t speak.

Didn’t shout.

He only flicked the blood off his blade, turned to the crowd, and raised one fist.

The stands exploded.

“TZAREK!”

“TZAREK!”

“TZAREK!”

He turned his gaze to the fallen Ash Legion captain, eyes cold and final.

“You lost,” he said flatly, voice echoing through the stunned arena.

“From this moment on, your squad answers to me.”

Then he turned, walking off into the tunnel shadows, not sparing the captain another glance.

Among the Nephirid, strength was law.

It didn’t matter who you were, what clan you came from, or how long you’d led.

The strong ruled.

The weak obeyed.

If one had the power, they could challenge anyone, even the Ash King himself, for the throne.

But no one dared.

Because the Ash King wasn’t just a monarch.

He was a myth, No one remembered how long he had reigned, only that he always had.

Nephirid lifespans is longer than humans by tenfold, and the stronger the Nephirid, the longer they lived.

By that logic… the Ash King might be eternal.

And while you could challenge him, the price of failure was annihilation.

Lose, and your death would be the kindest outcome.

He would erase your bloodline from the clan records.

Fabricate crimes.

Dismantle your legacy.

Ensure no one ever dared speak your name again.

Draeven knew that better than anyone.

He’d watched his kin be dragged into ruin.

Not because they lacked strength, but because the Ash King had no interest in fair battles.

He used poison.

Traps.

Lies.

He would offer you a handshake with one hand and slide a blade through your ribs with the other.

And when it was done, he’d silence the truth and drown the world in his version of it.

That was the king they followed.

And one day, Draeven would burn it all down. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

The cheers still echoed faintly in his ears as Tzarek walked through the stone-paved streets, twin daggers sheathed across his back.

The Nephirid capital, Vorth Karuun buzzed with life, the kind that reeked of smoke, ambition, and blood.

Towering structures carved into the very mountain itself cast long shadows over the lower districts.

Mana lanterns pulsed with dim violet light, illuminating banners bearing clan crests and trade sigils.

Vendors shouted through the haze.

“Roasted emberfang!

Fresh and hot!”

“Wyrm bone charms!

Ten scales apiece!”

Tzarek ignored them all.

He passed a blacksmith hammering molten steel into a serrated glaive.

Passed a pair of guards arguing over patrol routes.

Passed a drunk slumped against a wall muttering about debt to the Ash King’s tax.

Finally, he stopped before a crooked sign dangling above a cracked iron door.

The sign read, “The Drunken Ember.” The door groaned as he pushed it open.

Inside, the bar was dim.

Heat pulsed from the walls natural magma veins underneath kept the room warm year-round.

The scent of burnt bark ale and blood sausage filled the air.

Nephirid warriors leaned over tables, dice clattering, laughter booming.

The bartender, a heavyset woman with one horn broken off and a scar across her jaw, spotted him immediately.

“Well, look what the pit dragged in.” She smirked, wiping a mug with a singed cloth.

“Still alive, Tzarek?”

“Barely.” He took a seat at the counter and nodded.

“Give me whatever burns twice.”

“You never change.” She poured something thick and black into a jagged mug.

Steam rose off it in tendrils.

Tzarek took a sip and exhaled.

“Perfect.”

A moment of quiet.

A few glances from other patrons, but no one dared approach him.

Not after the colosseum match.

Not after what he did to Bulkai.

Tzarek tapped the counter.

“I’ll be going down.”

The bartender’s face sobered.

“You sure?”

“I didn’t survive that fight to waste time.”

She nodded once, then reached under the bar, pressing a sigil embedded in the stone.

A low rumble vibrated beneath their feet.

“Don’t break anything.”

“No promises,” he said, standing.

Behind the bar, a section of wall shimmered and slid open with a hiss of displaced mana, revealing a staircase descending into shadow.

Faint torchlight flickered below.

Tzarek walked forward without hesitation, the scent of dust, iron, and secrets greeting him as he passed through the hidden doorway.

One step.

Then another.

Than he finally reached another door, the moment he pass it his appearance change, he’s not a nephirid.

“My beloved how’s it?” Elvira asked with a warm smile on her face.