Chapter 34

  Grok, without a word, stepped through the doorway marked with the dagger, the ominous symbol seeming to pulse with a faint, inner light. Behind her, as expected, the heavy stone door slammed shut with a resounding boom, enclosing her in this new, strangely vibrant chamber. Her new surroundings were a stark contrast to the cold, damp dungeon she had just left. This space was a cacophony of hurried whispers, the smell of hairspray and cheap perfume hung thick in the air, mingling with the distinct scent of sawdust and greasepaint. A palpable, almost frantic energy permeated the atmosphere; she was clearly in a backstage area of some sort, a chaotic hub of theatrical preparation.

  Grok blinked, her eyes struggling to adjust to the bright, artificial lights that blazed down from above, a stark difference from the flickering torches of the dungeon. She was standing amidst a jumble of costumes, hanging from racks, alongside a chaotic collection of props – swords, goblets, and strangely shaped objects whose purpose she couldn't even begin to guess. Half-finished set pieces leaned against the walls, revealing the rough wood and hasty construction behind the illusion of grandeur. A flurry of activity swirled around her. Harried individuals, their faces streaked with makeup and their clothes a bizarre mix of fabrics and styles, rushed past her, muttering about missed cues, forgotten lines, and the rapidly approaching curtain.

  Before Grok could even begin to process what was happening, a woman with a clipboard and a headset, her face etched with a mixture of stress and barely-contained excitement, motioned to two other women hovering nearby. They swooped in on Grok, efficiently pulling a voluminous, crimson dress over her head, ensuring her arms made it through the correct holes with practiced ease. The clipboard woman, without pausing for breath, started fluffing the elaborate ruffles of the dress vigorously, seemingly oblivious to Grok’s bewildered expression. “Five minutes, get to makeup! Five minutes to curtain!” she shouted in Grok’s general direction, her voice barely audible above the din. “Where have you been? Lucky’s already in place!” The woman punctuated her pronouncements with sharp gestures before darting off between racks of clothing, disappearing into the swirling chaos.

  “Curtain?” Grok managed, her voice a low growl, completely out of place in this frantic, theatrical atmosphere. It was a sound more suited to a battlefield than a backstage.

  Grok found herself being manhandled by a whirlwind of frantic hands. She was unceremoniously pushed into a chair in front of a brightly lit mirror, the harsh glare of the lights reflecting back at her. Through the mirror, everything was reversed, but she could just make out a poster for a play called “The Fall of Doombringer.” The only other things she could decipher, due to the reversed lettering, were the two names emblazoned across the top: Grok and Lucian "Lucky" Chance. A sticky, sweet-smelling substance was smeared across her face, followed by layers of powders and paints in shades she had never seen before in her life. A scratchy, bright red wig, seemingly constructed from some unholy combination of wool and wire, was jammed onto her head, nearly obscuring her vision. The dress's corset was pulled so tight she could barely breathe, the stiff fabric digging into her skin. Strange arms pulled and pushed at her, adjusting the dress, the wig, the makeup. Grok’s only instinct was to scratch the irritating itch on her skin and escape the whirlwind of activity.

  “Go, go, go!” The clipboard woman reappeared, seemingly out of thin air, hissing like an agitated serpent. She shoved Grok towards a narrow opening in the backdrop, a dark slit in the fabric that seemed to lead into another world. “You’re on!”

  Grok stumbled through the opening and into…a blaze of blinding light. She blinked, her eyes struggling to adjust once more, this time to the intense glare of stage lighting. She was on a stage. A large, elaborately decorated stage, bathed in the harsh glow of spotlights that seemed to pierce her very soul. The air crackled with an almost palpable energy, a strange mix of excitement and tension that vibrated through the floorboards and into her bones.

  There, standing in the center of the stage, bathed in the adoring light, was the most breathtakingly handsome elf Grok had ever seen. He was tall and muscular for an elf, with flowing silver hair that shimmered like moonlight on water, and his eyes sparkled with an almost mischievous glint. He wore a costume fit for a king, a rich tapestry of deep purples and dark blues, adorned with intricate embroidery and gleaming jewels. He exuded an aura of effortless charm and charisma, a natural magnetism that drew the eye and held it captive.

  “Grok, my dear! You're finally here!” He said, his voice smooth and melodious, resonating with a practiced theatricality. He flashed her a dazzling smile, his perfect teeth gleaming in the spotlight. “We were beginning to think you had abandoned us.”

  Grok stared at him, completely bewildered by the situation, the bright lights, and the elf’s unexpected greeting. “Abandoned…you?” she finally managed, her voice still a low growl, a stark contrast to the elf’s smooth tones.

  The elf chuckled, a rich, warm sound that seemed to fill the entire space. “Don’t be coy, my dear. You know the scene. Act Three. The confrontation!” He gestured dramatically towards a series of elaborate props arranged around the stage. Grok recognized some of them – depictions of a large, familiar white castle, its towers and battlements rendered in painstaking detail. “The fate of the Doombringer hangs in the balance!”

  Grok, with absolutely no idea what he was talking about, simply repeated his words, “The Fall of Doombringer.” The elf, seemingly oblivious to her confusion, or perhaps choosing to ignore it, launched into a dramatic monologue, his voice ringing out across the stage with practiced theatricality.

  “The tyrant has ruled for far too long!” he declared, his voice filled with theatrical passion, the words echoing through the empty theater. “His iron fist has crushed the spirit of the people! We, the brave few, must rise up and overthrow him!”

  He turned to Grok, his eyes gleaming with an almost manic intensity. “Your line, my dear!” he whispered conspiratorially, his breath warm against her ear. “Tell me why the Doombringer must fall!”

  Grok, grasping at straws and desperate for any clue as to what was going on, decided to play along with this bizarre performance. After all, this theatrical production, however strange, might offer some insights into the reasons her people were being bought and discarded so easily. “Because…because he is a tyrant!” she growled, channeling her inner barbarian, the guttural sound echoing oddly in the otherwise silent theater.

  The elf beamed, his smile widening, seemingly genuinely pleased. “Excellent! Magnificent! You see? You know your lines perfectly!” He resumed his dramatic monologue, his voice rising and falling with practiced inflection, weaving a tale of oppression, rebellion, and betrayal, a narrative that sounded vaguely familiar, yet utterly disconnected from anything Grok had ever experienced.

  As the elf spoke, his voice filling the empty theater, Grok began to notice something strange, something unsettling. He seemed to be…everywhere. One moment he was standing beside her, his face inches from hers, the next he was perched precariously on a balcony high above the stage, then behind a throne, his silhouette outlined against the backdrop, then wielding a sword in a dramatic duel against an unseen opponent. It was as if there were multiple versions of him on the stage, each playing a different role in this bizarre pantomime.

  Then it all clicked in her head. Illusions. The elf was using illusions, some kind of magic she didn't understand, to portray all the characters in this strange play. He was a one-man show, a master of deception and theatrical trickery. Now, she just needed to figure out how to get the information she wanted and, if necessary, defeat him.

  Grok’s eyes scanned the “audience” for any sign of movement, any hint of life. But as she looked closer, she realized something even stranger, something that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. The audience wasn't made up of people at all. They were training dummies. Hundreds of them, arranged in neat, orderly rows, their blank, unseeing faces staring up at the stage, their painted eyes fixed in a perpetual, vacant gaze.

  This wasn't a play, not in the traditional sense. It was some kind of performance, a charade. But if they weren't the audience, then who was the target for all this elaborate effort? Who was meant to witness this strange spectacle?

  The elf, seemingly oblivious to Grok's scrutiny of the dummy audience, was nearing the climax of his performance. He drew a gleaming dagger, its polished blade catching the light, reflecting the harsh glow of the spotlights. “The time has come!” he declared, his voice ringing with dramatic intensity, the words echoing eerily in the empty theater. “Doombringer must pay for his crimes!”

  He lunged towards Grok, the dagger flashing in the air, a blur of silver against the backdrop. But Grok, her senses honed by years of combat, her reflexes sharpened by countless battles, saw the attack coming. The realization spread across her face like wildfire – this was not part of the play. This was a genuine attempt on her life.

  The elf’s charming facade dropped, revealing a cruel, predatory glint in his eyes, a flash of malice that had been hidden beneath the mask of theatricality. He was an assassin, not an actor, and this performance was a prelude to murder.

  As the dagger plunged towards her back, aimed at the space between her shoulder blades, Grok reacted instinctively. She dropped her hip, twisting her body, grabbing the attacking wrist with surprising speed and strength, using the elf’s own momentum against him to execute a swift and brutal takedown. The elf, caught completely off guard, his attack turned against him, found himself slammed onto the stage floor with a resounding thud, his dagger clattering away, skittering across the polished boards. Following his momentum she flew through the air, pulling his arm up towards her chest, while simultaneously slamming her two powerful legs around his head, locking her feet at the ankles in a vice-like grip.

  “Alright, pretty boy,” Grok growled, her voice low and menacing, the sound resonating with raw power. “Let’s talk.”

  The elf, his voice choked and strained, his face pressed against the hard stage floor, managed to gasp, “I…am…Lucky…Chance.”

  “Lucky?” Grok scoffed, tightening her grip slightly. “Is that your name? Or just another one of your tricks?”

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  “My stage name,” he managed, his voice strained, as Grok loosened her thighs ever so slightly, allowing him a sliver of hope, a breath of air before the inevitable. “Everyone calls me Lucky. My real name is Lucian, Lucian Chance.”

  “Well, Lucky,” Grok said, tightening her grip on his hand and twisting it slightly, hearing the bones in his arm pop and creak, nearing their breaking point. “You just tried to kill me. That doesn’t seem very lucky for you.”

  “It was…a mistake,” he gasped in pain, his face contorted in agony. “Part…of the…play.”

  Grok didn't believe him for a second. She asked a question she already knew the answer to, a test of his honesty, a way to gauge the depths of his deception. “Who is Doombringer?”

  Lucky hesitated, his eyes darting around the stage as if searching for an escape that wasn't there. Then, he said, “He’s the leader, the one in charge.”

  “In charge of what?” Grok asked, her voice a low growl.

  “Everything,” Lucky said, his voice trembling slightly. “This whole planet, our adventuring group. He is a member of the Council, after his father died, leaving the Doombringer name and organization to him.”

  “Why attack me specifically?” Grok growled, her eyes narrowing, sensing that he was still evading the true answers.

  “Eliminate any unforeseen variables,” Lucky gasped through the headlock, his words punctuated by the increasing pressure on his windpipe.

  “Spell the whole plan out for me,” Grok said, her voice dangerously soft. “Be plain, as you only have so many more words left to say in this world.” She punctuated her threat with a subtle, almost imperceptible squeeze of her legs, a reminder of the power she held over him.

  “We kill your group,” Lucky hissed, his face now flushed with a mixture of pain and fear, “kill Doombringer, become council members, kill the rest of the council, and rule with an iron fist. There are far too many contracts and treaties when power is the only thing you need to rule.” The anger in his voice was palpable, a stark contrast to the charming persona he had displayed just moments before.

  “Who hired my clan for the invasion?” Grok asked, her questions flying at him, each one a hammer blow. “And who exactly in Clan Zotto did you negotiate with? Also, what did you promise them?”

  “Torvin is our combat general,” Lucky explained through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible. “He led that project. Hrothgar of Clan Zotto was our contact. He was to keep half the Cadium acquired, but we were going to betray him and take it all for ourselves.”

  “Who is controlling the skeletons in this city?” Grok asked, her growl deepening. “Who is oppressing the people here?”

  “I am in charge of the city,” Lucky pleaded, his voice rising in desperation. “Every decision is made for our citizens’ safety.”

  “What about the humans you forced to give their own life force to enchant parts in the factory?” Grok asked, her anger welling up in her chest, a burning rage threatening to consume her.

  “They were unruly,” Lucky said, his voice flat, devoid of any remorse. “They would not fall into line and fit in with our Utopia.”

  “I’ve heard all I need to know,” Grok said, slightly relaxing her legs, giving him a sliver of false hope.

  “Thank you!” Lucky said, his bloodshot eyes filled with a desperate hope.

  Grok squeezed her legs with brutal finality, the sound of snapping bone and spraying blood echoing through the empty theater. His head exploded like an overripe melon, splattering her crimson dress with thick, warm blood and gore.

  “Justice for the fallen,” Grok whispered, her voice barely audible above the ringing in her ears. She took his entire body into her inventory, a strange, detached feeling washing over her as she did so. A pop-up box appeared in her vision, its words stark and impersonal: “Your group has slain a carrier of Cadium. How would you like to distribute the 5 Cadium acquired?”

  Pierce stepped through the doorway marked with the skull, the stone grinding shut behind him. He found himself in a surprisingly small, wood-paneled office. It wasn't the grand chamber of a dark overlord he'd envisioned, but rather a cozy, if somewhat cluttered, space. A large, polished wooden desk dominated the room, piled high with stacks of paper that threatened to topple over at any moment. Behind the desk sat a man who, to Pierce’s surprise, looked more like a harried accountant than a fearsome Doombringer.

  Silas, a human with slightly disheveled brown hair and a perpetually distracted expression, was shuffling through the paperwork, his brow furrowed in concentration. He wore a simple tunic and trousers, a far cry from the imposing armor Pierce had expected.

  Pierce cleared his throat. “Silas Doombringer?”

  Silas looked up, startled. He blinked a few times, as if trying to place Pierce. “Ah, yes. You must be…Pierce, I presume? One of…Grok’s associates?”

  “That’s right,” Pierce said, stepping further into the office. He pulled up a comfortable-looking leather chair and sat down across from Silas. “I wanted to have a word with you.”

  Silas nodded, pushing the stacks of paper to one side, creating a precarious tower. “Of course, of course. What can I do for you?”

  Pierce leaned back in his chair, taking in the room. It was an odd mix of the mundane and the magical. The paperwork on the desk spoke of mundane business transactions, while a workbench in the corner was covered in strange contraptions and glowing runes. “I’ve been hearing some…interesting things,” Pierce began, “about your…operations.”

  Silas looked confused. “Operations? You’ll have to be more specific. We have quite a few…projects…on the go.”

  “Let’s start with Earth,” Pierce said. “The invasion. The human captives.”

  Silas blinked again, his expression genuinely puzzled. “Earth? Invasion? Human captives? I had a report sometime back with Earth on it, but it was a probing fact finding mission, not an invasion.”

  Pierce frowned. “Surely you’re aware of the…city…full of human captives? The ones too frightened to even resist?”

  Silas shook his head. “No. I…I don’t handle those…details. Torvin and the others…they take care of…those sorts of things.”

  Pierce stared at him, incredulous. “You’re telling me you, the Doombringer, have no knowledge of the invasion of Earth?”

  Silas shrugged, a slightly embarrassed look on his face. “Well, it’s not exactly my area of expertise. You see, my father…he handled all that. He passed away a few years ago, leaving me…well, everything. The city, the business…and his personal…twenty cadium.” He seemed to brighten slightly at the mention of his father.

  “And what exactly is your area of expertise?” Pierce asked, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. This guy was nothing like the terrifying necromancer he’d imagined.

  “Cooking,” Silas said with a wistful sigh. “I’ve always loved the culinary arts. Unfortunately, I’m…not a very good cook myself, so I like to invent products to fix that deficiency.”

  Pierce blinked. “Cooking?”

  Silas nodded. “Yes. But I do have a knack for…other things. Like…necromancy and invention.”

  Pierce raised an eyebrow. “Necromancy?”

  Silas shrugged again. “Yes. It’s…a family thing. I can…create and control undead. But I mostly just use it for…chores. Cleaning, laundry…that sort of thing.”

  “Chores?” Pierce repeated, his mind reeling. This powerful necromancer used his abilities to do laundry?

  Silas nodded. “Yes. It’s very efficient. Though, my adventuring party…they encouraged me to…expand my horizons, so to speak.”

  “Your adventuring party?” Pierce said feeling like he was shocked into just repeating the last words the man in front of him said, while trying to steady his thoughts and come up with better questions.

  Yes, Torvin, Mirage, Vivienne, and Lucky. They’re my closest friends. They saw the potential in my…talents. They convinced me to…create more undead. A lot more.”

  “And after your father died?” Pierce asked.

  “Well,” Silas said, “my father always taught me the importance of delegation. So, I delegated. I entrusted most of the running of the city and the business to my friends. They’re much better at that sort of thing than I am. I just…sign the paperwork. They take care of the rest.”

  Pierce was starting to get a clearer picture. Silas was a figurehead, a puppet ruler more interested in his own hobbies than actually running his empire. His friends, the four henchmen, were the ones pulling the strings. And they were clearly up to no good.

  “So,” Pierce said, gesturing towards the workbench, “this is your…real passion?”

  Silas’ face lit up. “Absolutely! I love inventing things. Especially kitchen gadgets. I want to make the magical home cook’s life easier.”

  Pierce walked over to the workbench, examining the strange devices. “These look…complicated.”

  “They are!” Silas said proudly. “This one, for example, takes ambient mana, condenses it with runes, and injects it into mundane raw food, turning it into magical food!”

  “Magical food?” Pierce repeated, fascinated.

  Silas nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Imagine, a steak that grants you super strength, or a salad that makes you invisible! The possibilities are endless!”

  He picked up one of the devices, a small, metallic box covered in intricate runes. “This is my latest masterpiece. I’m calling it…well, I haven’t come up with a good name yet. My working title is Forti-nator, but that sounds too industrial.”

  Pierce chuckled. “It does a bit.”

  Silas frowned. “I know, right? I’ve been racking my brain trying to come up with something…catchier.”

  He began to explain the intricacies of the device, his voice filled with excitement. He talked about the challenges he’d faced during the development process, the countless failed prototypes, the…explosions.

  “Explosions?” Pierce asked, a hint of concern in his voice, but noticing many of the internal pieces of the device from the factory floor.

  Silas waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, just minor setbacks. I learned early on that pre-cooked food is a no-go. The taste is absolutely fowl. And…well, let’s just say testing on live subjects…didn’t go as planned.” He winced slightly.

  Pierce decided not to dwell on the “live subjects.” “So, this factory you mentioned…it’s producing these…Forti-nators?”

  Silas nodded. “Millions of them! I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see what people create with them!”

  Pierce realized that Silas was completely oblivious to the true nature of his “empire.” He was a brilliant inventor, consumed by his passion, while his friends were using his creations and his name to further their own nefarious agenda. He felt a strange pang of pity for the man.

  “Silas,” Pierce said, “I need to talk to my friends. Is there any way to…raise the stones blocking the exit?”

  Silas blinked, as if surprised by the request. “Of course! I can have the stone pillars raised. They’ll be here in no time.”

  He reached for a small, ornate lever on his desk and pulled it. A low rumbling echoed through the room, and Pierce could feel the ground vibrating beneath his feet.

  “The pillars are rising now,” Silas said. “That was one of my early inventions, mostly meant to keep my father from bothering me while I invent things.”

  Pierce nodded. “Thank you, Silas.”

  Silas smiled. “No problem. Now, about this name for my device…what do you think of…Mana-Chef 5000?”

  Pierce suppressed a sigh. He had a feeling this was going to be a long conversation. He just hoped he could get to the bottom of what was really going on before it was too late. He had a feeling that Silas, despite his obliviousness, was in more danger than he realized, and Pierce was starting to feel like he needed to protect the man from his own friends.