The Hunt for Death

The Call of the Sword

Ultimo had sunk into the Forest of Torments, the ground strewed with dead leaves cushioning the sound of his footsteps. He was not looking for flight, but destiny. Zanag was only a starting point, a cursed cradle that he was delighted to leave behind. The hatred and fear of the villagers were flickering candles that he could blow out with a breath, but he had a greater ambition.

"Idiots... They think I'm looking for freedom. I'm looking for power," he whispered to himself, his voice rough as gravel.

His mind was obsessed with a name, a relic. "Death". The legendary sword, capable of draining the life of a soul in an instant, the only tool he needed to fully release the potential of the Devil who slept in him. The Wise, in their madness, had locked her away from everything, in the depths of their secret archives.

Ultimo didn't need maps or guides. The demonic fragment in him, this dark and primitive essence, reacted to the power of the sword. It was a low vibration, a hoarse call in the cosmos, that pulled him to his source. The sword was not only a weapon; it was the key to his true identity.

He mocked the idea of exile. "That Zanag will rot in his own fear. I have given them a glimpse of my power; soon I will show them the extent of my anger. ”

The Trap Closes

As he progressed, the vibration became stronger. It did not come from a hidden vault, but from a moving source. Ultimo looked up, his nostrils trembling, sniffing the smell of danger and the sweat of men.

He came out of the canopy of the trees and found himself on a dusty track. In front of him, a small convoy: four of the Sages, their ceremonial attire replaced by travel dresses, framed a heavy wooden chest, sealed by chains.

They decided to move it. The sword was there.

The Sages, warned of Ultimo's probable arrival, had prepared. They had not waited for Dargis' mercenaries; they wanted to put their weapon out of reach immediately. But the meeting was too fast.

As soon as they saw him, the Wise Thomas, remembering Ultimo's warning, shouted: "It's him! The Son of the Devil! In position! ”

Ultimo smiles, a smile full of cold joy. "You did the work for me, old people. Thank me for sparing your back. ”

He rushed. Before he had travelled half the distance, one of the Sages, his hands outstretched, uttered a word of power, and a wall of flames instantly rose between Ultimo and the convoy. Fire was not a simple heat; it was saturated with protective magic, pulsating with the pure energy of the earth.

The Weight of the Warning

Meanwhile, in Zanag, Mall was unable to stay in place. Ultimo's sentence echoed in his head like a funeral bell: "They seek to expel the darkness. All they will succeed in doing is to transform a contained shadow into an uncontrollable storm. ”

The Wise men had made their decision. Ultimo was gone. The Dargis were on their way. The city had entered a period of terrifying suspension.

Mall sat on a bench, his back against the cold wall of his house. He had seen hatred in Ultimo's eyes, but he had also felt the weight of prophecy in his words. If the murder failed, or if the young man obtained the weapon, Zanag would not be saved. It would be consummised.

He thought back to Maestro, the other twin, the child who had never worn darkness so openly. Where was he? Maybe he was the only chance for the village. Mall sighed. No, it was too much hope. Zanag's fate was sealed by blood, and he feared that the monumental mistake of the Sages was already being paid for in the forest.

Water and Snake Poison

The wall of fire was only a delay. Ultimo hit the ground with his foot, and the shock wave cracked the earth. He didn't bother to get around the obstacle. It simply increased its own internal temperature, and the fire, seeing a larger heat source, retreated, dissipating in voltes of black smoke.

The Sages, learned men but not warriors, panicked. The Wise Fekir, his face covered in sweat, ordered: "Quick! The ritual of water! ”

As Ultimo charged, the ground under his feet transformed. The water escaped from the earth, rising into magical geysers that twisted and knotted to form icy whips. The Sages hoped that water, the opposite element of Ultimo's demonic fire, could slow his progression.

The young man was in the middle of the Forest of Torments, and the environment was responding to the magical call of the Sages. But it was faster than water. He dodged the whips, his body moving with brutal grace.

Another Sage, using an ancient spell, projected a volley of dark darts. These projectiles were not made of iron, but of dead tree sap saturated with marsh snake venom.

A projectile touched Ultimo's shoulder. He did not feel immediate pain, but a cold paralysis began to spread in his arm. The Sages, working together, managed to exhaust him, to make him vulnerable.

"A poison? " growled Ultimo, his arm heavy as stone. He was more than a man. The beast in him was beginning to wake up, irritated by the physical weakness that the poison imposed on him. "Is that all you have, old people? ”

The fight had just begun, but Ultimo was already cornered, his own power clashing with Zanag's ancestral magical tricks. The fight for the Dead sword promised to be long and bloody.

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