Cursed Devourer

The battlefield had grown eerily quiet, the once-roaring flames now crackling softly as they devoured the remains of the orc encampment. The scent of blood, smoke, and sweat clung to the air, heavy and unshakable. The mercenaries moved through the carnage with measured steps, some looting weapons and armor from fallen foes while others checked their wounded.

Malik remained still, standing amidst the ruins of their enemies, arms crossed over his chest. His armor, formed from his own flesh, shifted slightly with every subtle movement, the black scales catching the dim moonlight. His body was clean—untouched by even a single wound—despite having waded through the thickest part of the battle. He turned his head, his gaze flickering to Marithia, who was issuing orders to her remaining men. Her long, golden hair was damp with sweat, strands sticking to the sharp contours of her face. Her emerald eyes were focused, scanning the battlefield with a warrior's discipline.

"We still need to find the noble's son," she announced, her voice carrying over the quiet. "That was the mission."

Malik smiled slightly, tilting his head. "That wasn't part of my mission."

Marithia's gaze snapped to him, her expression hardening. "We had a deal."

He shrugged. "The deal was that I fight and get answers. Nowhere in that agreement did I say I'd go searching for some brat."

The mercenaries stiffened, their bodies tensing at the casual dismissal.

Dorian grunted, his jaw tightening, but he wisely kept silent.

Arin let out an amused breath. "He really is insufferable, huh?"

Marithia's fingers curled into fists. "We're not leaving until we find him."

Malik was about to reply, but then Kairo's voice slithered into his mind, smooth and laced with interest.

"Wait," the dragon murmured. "I sense something."

Malik's smirk faltered slightly, his head tilting in mild curiosity. "The kid?"

"No," Kairo replied, his tone sharpening. "Something inside that tent. A strong mana signature. Dark. Twisted."

Malik's gaze shifted, falling on the large structure at the center of the camp—the chieftain's tent. It stood untouched, the flames of battle seeming to have deliberately avoided its perimeter. The air around it rippled faintly, an invisible force pressing against the senses. That was enough to intrigue him.

His smirk returned.

"Fine," he said, stretching lazily. "Let's check the tent."

The closer they drew to the tent, the more oppressive the air became. There was a weight to it—an unnatural pressure that made even the most seasoned of the mercenaries slow their steps. The air shimmered, warping slightly, the outline of a magical barrier becoming visible against the moonlit sky.

The moment they got within range, the pressure pushed back against them.

Dorian stopped abruptly, his grip tightening around his greatsword. "A barrier."

Marithia took a step closer, extending a hand toward the magical ward, her expression shifting from focused to deeply troubled. "Not just any barrier," she murmured, tracing her fingertips through the shimmering energy. "This is a layered spell—a protection ward woven with old magic."

Malik observed the way her mana interacted with the barrier, his eyes narrowing slightly. The golden glow that emanated from her palm pulsed against the magical defense, yet the ward did not repel her outright. Instead, it responded to her touch as though recognizing something familiar.

"Oh? This just got more interesting," Kairo mused, his voice filled with genuine intrigue. "This isn't just any magic—it's ancient elven spellcraft. A lost art, only known to the oldest practitioners of elven blood."

Malik's lips curled into a slow smirk. "You're saying this delicate little elf knows how to undo it?"

"I'm saying it's rare to find anyone alive who can," Kairo corrected. "Elves are naturally attuned to magic, but this kind? This is something only the eldest scholars and hidden sects would still practice."

Malik's gaze flickered back to Marithia, watching her with renewed interest.

"You know," he said, his voice laced with amusement, "for someone who claims to be just a mercenary, you certainly have a lot of tricks."

Marithia ignored him, focusing entirely on the barrier.

She raised both hands, fingers moving in deliberate, practiced motions, her lips parting as she began to whisper in an ancient tongue Malik had never heard before.

The runes within the barrier reacted instantly, glowing with a pulsating green hue. The elven script weaved through the air, forming symbols of power that flickered with mana older than the forest itself.

The mercenaries watched in awe, most of them unfamiliar with magic at this level.

Malik simply smirked, his mind racing with the implications.

"She's more than she lets on," Kairo mused. "I'd keep an eye on her, if I were you."

Malik chuckled. "Oh, I plan to."

Marithia's magic surged, and the barrier cracked, splintering apart like shattered glass before dissolving into golden mist.

The weight in the air vanished instantly, the oppressive energy dissipating like a heavy fog lifting from the battlefield.

She exhaled sharply, beads of sweat lining her brow, before turning to Malik with a sharp glare. "Are you done staring?"

He grinned. "Not even close."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't respond.

Instead, she took a step forward and pushed open the heavy leather flaps of the tent.

Inside, something stirred.

The moment they stepped inside, the air thickened again, this time with something far darker than a mere protective ward.

The space was lit by eerie green flames, casting unnatural shadows across the tent's walls. The smell of burnt incense and dried blood choked the air, and at the very center—

A young boy, no older than twelve, was bound to a massive stone altar, his body struggling weakly against the enchanted restraints that bound his wrists and ankles.

Tendrils of black energy slithered around him, pulsating like living things, seeping into his skin, feeding on his life force.

And standing before the altar was the true master of this place.

A towering orc shaman, draped in ceremonial robes adorned with skulls, bones, and arcane symbols, stood with his back to them. His massive, clawed hands gripped an obsidian staff, its head adorned with a floating, pulsing orb of darkness.

His deep, guttural chanting had not stopped.

Not even after they had entered.

Not even after his people had been slaughtered outside.

The shaman's voice was a low, droning growl, thick with unnatural power. The sound of it crawled beneath the skin, seeping into the mind like an insidious whisper, a voice that did not belong in the world of men.

Marithia's grip tightened on her sword. "A sacrificial ritual," she hissed.

Dorian's face darkened. "He's feeding on the kid's mana."

Malik's smirk returned, but there was something sharper behind his eyes now. Something cold.

"Ah," he murmured. "I hate that."

Malik may have killed many without remorse, but torturing a child for power was something he couldn't agree with. He would never stoop so low.

The shaman's chanting suddenly ceased.

The silence was deafening.

Slowly, the orc turned, his glowing red eyes locking onto them.

"You have disrupted my ceremony," the shaman rumbled, his voice layered, as if two entities were speaking at once.

The tent shuddered around them, the shadows deepening unnaturally.

"I was content to let you slaughter my kin while I completed the ritual."

His massive hand tightened around his staff, and the darkness in the room throbbed like a beating heart.

"But now…"

He raised his staff, the energy swirling into a dense, suffocating mass.

"YOU SHALL ALL BE OFFERINGS."

With a single motion, he slammed his staff into the ground.

A pulse of pure black magic erupted outward, consuming the entire tent in an explosion of corrupt energy.

The moment the attack surged, the mercenaries reacted instantly, years of battle experience pushing them into action.

Marithia moved first, her golden armor flashing as she blurred toward the orc, her sword glowing with divine light. Her speed was astonishing—faster than any normal human should be able to move. She slashed downward, aiming for the shaman's chest, but—

The orc raised his staff, and a dark barrier materialized, absorbing the blow with an unnatural force. The impact sent a shockwave through the tent, but the shaman didn't even flinch.

Dorian followed, his greatsword slamming downward with bone-crushing power. Sparks flew as his blade struck the barrier, but the shaman barely acknowledged him.

Arin, already preparing her magic, extended both hands and unleashed a torrent of firebolts, the projectiles howling through the air like flaming arrows.

The shaman twisted his hand, and the flames vanished, swallowed by the void of his dark magic.

Rollo, roaring in fury, charged forward with both axes swinging.

The shaman snapped his fingers.

A surge of black lightning erupted from the floor, electrocuting the brute mid-strike. Rollo's body convulsed, his muscles seizing before he was sent crashing into the back wall.

Malik watched, unmoving.

His arms remained crossed, his expression amused, but his eyes flickered with interest as he analyzed every attack, every defense.

The shaman wasn't just strong.

He was methodical. Precise.

And Malik wanted to see just how far the mercenaries could go before they broke.

The battle raged on, the tent shaking with every impact of spell and steel.

Marithia gritted her teeth, sweat glistening on her brow as she pushed herself harder, her magic flaring against the overwhelming power of the shaman's dark arts.

But even she knew the truth.

They weren't winning.

Not against this.

Her pride warred with her reason, but in the end, she forced herself to say the words.

"Malik," she growled, her voice tight with frustration.

He finally looked at her, his signature smirk widening as he understood her intentions.

"I need your help."

His smirk turned into a toothy grin, satisfaction flickering in his gaze.

"Now, was that so hard?"

She refused to answer.

Because the moment she spoke those words—

Malik moved.

And the real fight began.