The Resurrection Of The Demon Lord

A squad of six elite officers from the Royal Police Force, led by Captain Drelis, stepped over fallen branches and scorched bark as they entered the outer edge of the Forest of Death. Mist clung to their boots, but even the fog seemed thinner here — as if something had burned away its presence.

"Spread out," Drelis ordered, adjusting his helmet. "We look for magical residue first. Anything out of place."

Runic detectors began to pulse. The blue glows turned violet — then red.

"Sir," called a scout. "You're going to want to see this."

They converged on a clearing torn open by battle. Craters pockmarked the ground. Trees had been cleaved in half or incinerated. Shattered obsidian masks lay half-buried in ash. Strange markings — ancient cultic runes — were charred into the earth in a half-melted circle.

But no bodies.

"Obsidian Reign," whispered one of the younger officers. "But… they're dead, aren't they? Wiped out after the Rift War."

"Clearly not all of them," muttered Drelis grimly. "Something fought them. And won."

There were signs of wild elemental backlash — scorched Aether lines. Static air. Cracked stone. But no traces of Squad Z. No Kairo Vale. Not even footprints.

"No sign of the contestants?" asked the officer.

Drelis shook his head. "Whoever was here… they didn't want to be found."

He took one last look at the runes — and the strange violet smear etched into a rock. Like corrupted Aether blood.

"Pack it. We report to the Commanders. Let's go."

Meanwhile…

The Tournament Square buzzed with survivors of Round One. The atmosphere had shifted — less like a celebration, more like a battlefield aftermath. Tired eyes. Bloodstained uniforms. Fewer laughs.

Suddenly, the crowd silenced as the loudspeakers crackled to life.

Elara stepped onto the central podium, her voice enhanced by magic.

"To all combatants who remain — congratulations. You have survived the first trial of the 5K Tournament. The Forest of Death has tested your instincts, your courage… and in some cases, your morality."

She let the silence linger.

"The second round will begin soon: the Dungeon Trial. A three-day descent into the Forgotten Catacombs beneath the arena. Your only mission — survive, retrieve the hidden relics, and escape."

"You will be grouped randomly. No allies. No squads. Only strength, wit, and fate."

She paused — then added, more darkly:

"Let this serve as a reminder: This tournament is not for the weak-hearted. It is to determine the strongest in the continent. And only one will rise."

With that, the screens dimmed. Murmurs filled the square. But amidst the noise, Nizara felt eyes on him again.

Nizara walked alone toward his dorm, the chill wind brushing against his bandaged arms. But then — a sudden snap of pressure behind his neck.

Blackness.

When he awoke, he was tied to a reinforced chair, both wrists bound with Aether-cuffs, surrounded by surveillance glyphs.

Three guards stood at attention. Elara and Seraphina loomed before him.

Seraphina was the first to speak.

"You destroyed surveillance pylons in an off-limit zone. You left tournament boundaries. You disabled security spells. And you lied about your movements."

Nizara said nothing.

Elara stepped forward. "We tracked residual Aether in the Forest. Cult symbols. Mask fragments. Do you know what that means?"

Still, silence.

"What were you doing out there?" Seraphina demanded. "Who else was with you?"

Nizara's eyes opened — sharp, glowing faintly with Aether.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Elara leaned in. "Try us."

No reply.

Seraphina sighed. "You're not leaving this room until we get answers."

"Then we'll be here a while."

Suddenly, his fingers twitched.

Crack—

A surge of Storm Aether exploded from within his bindings — not raw and wild, but controlled, refined. The cuffs shattered. One of the guards lunged — Nizara shifted his shoulder and knocked him flat without even rising.

The second came with a sword — lightning arced up Nizara's arm and discharged in a controlled pulse, short-circuiting the man's armor.

He stood slowly, calmly, towering despite his silence.

Elara raised a spell, but Seraphina motioned for her to lower it. "Let him speak."

Nizara looked them both in the eye.

"You put eyes on me because you're afraid. But fear won't stop what's coming."

He stepped forward.

"And when it does — your surveillance, your speeches, your rules… they won't matter."

The storm flickered across his shoulders like a cape as he turned toward the exit, unchallenged.

His parting words chilled the air:

"I'm not the one you should be watching anymore."

And just like that, he was gone — leaving behind silence and a faint scent of ozone.