That night, Kael made his way to the southern town. Compared to the bustling heart of the Elaris City, this place was smaller, rougher, yet alive in its own way.
Lanterns hung from crooked poles, their faint glow spilling across the narrow streets.
Shadows stretched long across cobblestones, broken now and then by bursts of laughter and drunken singing. It wasn’t hard to find the liveliest place at night—every road seemed to lead him toward it.
It wasn’t large, nor grand, but it was the beating heart of the town.
Farmers came after long days in the fields, their hands calloused from the plow.
Hunters dragged themselves in with scratches and scars still fresh from the wilds.
Merchants gathered to boast about coin and bargains, their voices rising above the noise.
And sometimes, wandering adventurers stumbled in, chasing a night’s forgetfulness at the bottom of a mug. Sooner or later, everyone passed through here. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ ɴovᴇl(ꜰ)ir(e).nᴇt
And where there was drink and noise, there was always talk. Careless whispers. Loose tongues. Rumors that traveled faster than the wind.
Somewhere in that flood of words, Kael knew, hints of paths the heroes dared not walk, or even whispers of the devils’ hidden grounds.
Above the doorway hung a battered wooden sign, its paint faded and shaky, the letters spelling:
The Rusty Tankard. (Bar)
Kael paused only for a breath before pushing the door open.
At once, warmth and sound rolled out to meet him. The heavy scent of roasted meat and cheap liquor filled the air, mingling with cheers, laughter, and heated arguments.
The wooden floor groaned under his boots as he stepped inside, hood drawn low to hide his face.
His eyes swept across the crowded room, for information.
Every shout, every laugh, every drunken murmur might carry a clue.
He pulled his cloak tighter, moving deeper into the crowd like a shadow slipping between the light.
He kept his hood up, slipping through the crowd like a shadow. His eyes scanned the room.
At the far side of the tavern, half-hidden in the dim candlelight, sat a man Kael immediately recognized—one of the academy’s professors.
Kael froze for the briefest of moments, his breath catching in his chest.
(What was he doing here? Professors rarely came to such places, let alone alone. But this man was not alone. He was speaking with someone whose face was hidden by the back of a tall wooden chair.)
Kael adjusted his cloak, pretending to be just another traveler passing through.
Slowly, carefully, he drifted closer, choosing an empty seat at a nearby table that placed him opposite the professor.
From there, he leaned slightly, the noise of the tavern masking his intent to eavesdrop.
The professor’s voice was low, urgent, tinged with unease.
"We cannot delay much longer. The academy believes the signs are nothing more than echoes, but I know better. The devils are stirring beneath the ruins. If we wait, we’ll lose our chance to strike first."
A voice replied, deep and smooth, carrying a strange weight that made Kael’s blood run cold. It wasn’t human.
"And what of the heroes?" the figure behind the chair asked. "They are young, untested, but still a blade sharp enough to cut. If they discover our movements too soon, everything collapses."
The professor shook his head, lowering his tone even further.
"No. The heroes will be led elsewhere. Their eyes turned to distractions while we prepared. The invasion must begin before the next full moon."
The other voice let out a low chuckle, dark and resonant.
"You speak as if you’re not already one of them, Professor. Don’t forget—you serve us as much as you serve yourself."
Kael’s jaw tightened beneath his hood. His suspicions hardened. The man speaking with the professor wasn’t a mere ally—it was a demon.
And together... They were plotting the start of the Devil War.
The professor leaned closer, voice almost a whisper now.
"Then tell me... how do we make the first strike?"
The demon’s answer came slow, deliberate, and dripping with malice.
"By striking where the world least expects it. Where no hero dares to look."
Kael’s hand clenched into a fist beneath the table. The pieces were moving faster than he’d imagined.
The professor leaned in close.
"Arcadia’s defenses aren’t as flawless as they appear. The headmasters believe the students are still too young to face a real threat, which is why their guard is lax. If you strike in the middle of their examinations, when their focus is scattered, the chaos will be immeasurable."
The figure across from him, his voice deep, inhuman gave a guttural laugh.
"So the mighty academy of heroes is just a nest of children. Good. Their arrogance will blind them. But you must keep feeding us the details. We cannot afford mistakes."
Kael sat still, every muscle tense beneath his cloak. The professor was betraying his own people, selling out the academy’s future for reasons Kael couldn’t yet fathom.
His hood shadowed his face, but his eyes burned as he listened.
The professor continued, tapping the table in a steady rhythm.
"The council will meet in three weeks. By then, several instructors will be away on missions. If you advance your forces, if you time it well, the academy will be vulnerable. It is the perfect window."
Kael’s breath hitched. He had known corruption lingered within the halls, but this was worse than he imagined.
The demon leaned forward.
"Our brethren are ready. The hideout lies just twenty kilometers from Arcadia. When the signal is given, we will rise. Students, teachers... none will escape."
Kael’s heart pounded. Twenty kilometers. So close. The revelation was a blade cutting through the fog of uncertainty that had haunted him.
Now he had a direction. Now he knew where to go.
But he clenched his fists under the table.
He was too weak. Barging into a demon’s nest now would be suicide. He needed strength, skills and power.
Only then could he move.
The two conspirators spoke on, their words turning into a haze of malice and schemes. Kael could no longer bear to hear them.
Rising quietly from his seat, he tugged his cloak tighter and made for the door. His steps were silent, measured, as if even the wood beneath his boots might betray him.
But just as his hand brushed the door, it swung open with a thunderous slam.
The entire tavern fell silent. Conversation died. Tankards froze mid-air. Every eye turned toward the entrance.