Jinn BLADE
Chapter 103 | Whispers

"What the hell...?" murmured an older man, his voice hoarse and low, white and silver hair falling over his brow—the same color as Vendrael and Jirael’s.

It was Fengren, the patriarch of House Ezekal, father to both.

He moved forward slowly at first, but when his eyes caught the sight of Zendrell standing near two motionless bodies lying on the ground, something in him broke.

His heart began to pound out of rhythm, his breath shortened and grew shallow as panic surged through his chest.

With no hesitation, he broke into a run, his legs trudging through the deep snow as he rushed toward them, each step heavier than the last.

When he finally reached Zendrell’s side, he fell to his knees, his eyes wide with disbelief and pain.

"V-Vendrael...?" he choked out, unable to accept the sight in front of him.

There lay Vendrael, the pride of the family, the shining hope of House Ezekal—the one meant to carry the name forward.

But now he lay still, his body already cold, his skin pale beneath the fading light.

His son was dead.

"WHAT HAPPENED!?" Fengren cried out, his voice filled with grief and fury as it echoed through the silent aftermath of the battlefield.

Zendrell, still burning with fury and anger, turned sharply to face him. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw clenched tight.

"We’ve been betrayed," he said bitterly. "Garian and Jirael... they’ve embraced dark eidra."

Fengren stared at him, stunned.

His mouth hung open as he tried to make sense of the words.

Then his expression shifted—disbelief turning to a grim, helpless frown.

"Damn it all!" he cried, his knees giving out as he collapsed beside his fallen son.

He wrapped his arms around Vendrael’s lifeless body, clutching him tightly as if the warmth of a father’s touch could bring him back.

His cries rose into the air, raw and broken, filled with grief so heavy it made the surrounding soldiers lower their heads in silence.

Anger and sorrow mixed in his voice, making each sob feel like a thunderclap.

Another figure soon approached the scene, his steps cautious, his robes fluttering gently in the wind.

He was dressed in intricate clothing lined with silver thread—an unmistakable sign of his high rank.

"H-High Scholar Berkolex... how could this be..." the man whispered in disbelief, eyes falling upon the aged scholar’s lifeless body lying next to Vendrael.

It was a scene of loss—two great figures fallen, their bodies still beneath the gray sky.

On that day, two cherished pillars of the empire—Vendrael the archer and Berkolex the scholar—had been lost to the hands of the corrupted.

Yet even in that moment of despair, the empire had not lost everything.

Through the chaos and death, they had gained something vital,

knowledge of the next fragment of Askara.

An orphan of the Muradryn.

Hundreds of years had passed since that fateful moment.

Time moved forward, yet revenge, fury, and the need for retribution still echoed in the hearts of many.

The loss of both Vendrael and Berkolex had left scars too deep to forget, and those wounds continued to fester, carried across generations.

Among those still bound to the past was Zendrell.

He had taken a solemn oath that day—an oath to hunt down the traitors that had led to that disaster.

Garian, now known by a name that instilled fear across countless systems, Malgareth.

That name echoed like thunder through the galaxies, spoken with dread, hatred, or twisted reverence, depending on who remembered him.

Malgareth had built an empire of his own, a dark and corrupted force that spread like a disease across the stars.

Planet by planet, he extended his influence, gathering strength, conquering armies, turning leaders to his cause.

He was driven not only by revenge against Zerafhon but also by an insatiable hunger to become unstoppable.

He believed that the fragments of Muradryn—the ancient shards left behind from a forgotten time—would grant him power unlike any the universe had seen.

If he could gather them all, no force, no empire, no god or mortal, would be able to stand in his way.

Beside him stood Jirael, no longer the same woman she once was.

Like Garian, she had surrendered to the corrupted eidra, allowing it to twist her body and mind.

Her wounds had long since healed into something unnatural, and now she followed Malgareth not only as a companion, but as an equal.

Together, they scoured the stars in search of the fragments.

They burned through libraries, interrogated ancient beings, and laid waste to cities that refused to give up their secrets.

Jirael commanded a team of scholars, loyal acolytes of the corrupted eidra, who worshiped her and Malgareth as if they were divine.

These scholars were not bound by ethics or restraint.

They pried open the knowledge of forbidden worlds, excavated buried ruins, and awakened forces best left untouched.

All in the pursuit of the fragments.

All in service of a future where the corrupted eidra reigned supreme.

Though centuries had passed, and the galaxy had changed, the war that began with the fall of Vendrael and Berkolex had never truly ended.

It simply transformed—carried now through shadows, across planets, in the hearts of those who remembered, and those who were still yet to understand what had begun that day.

Yet something began to stir from within Malgareth.

It was subtle at first—a whisper, low and drawn, almost like a hum at the edge of his awareness.

But it grew louder with time, persistent, unrelenting, and filled with a language older than time itself.

It was the voice.

The same one that had been guiding him since the beginning of his transformation.

It did not speak with warmth or comfort.

It was cold, ancient, and full of authority that made even Malgareth, with all his power, pause in solemn attention.

This voice was not just a guide.

It was a force, a presence, buried deep within the unknown corners of the universe.

It was the one pointing him toward fragments of powerful eidra, whispering the names of lost systems, forgotten planets, and long-buried secrets that only it seemed to know.

It led him like a hunter’s instinct, unshakable and always precise.

But over time, Malgareth realized something unnerving.

He was not the only one being guided.

The voice did not belong to him alone.

It spoke to others—dark beings scattered across the stars, each with their own hunger, each with their own purpose.

Some Malgareth met through conflict, others through uneasy alliances.

All of them were puppets, touched by the same whispers slithering through their minds.

One such being was Ikrax.

Ikrax was unlike anything Malgareth had seen before.

Towering and grotesque, its form seemed to constantly shift, as if reality itself struggled to contain it.

Known by many names, but feared most for one—Void Eater.

This ancient corrupted beast had devoured hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of powerful eidra warriors, stripping them of their essence and growing even more twisted with every soul consumed.

Stories of Ikrax were told in hushed tones by scattered civilizations that barely survived its wrath.

It was not only powerful—it was nearly eternal.

But what disturbed Malgareth was not just Ikrax’s power—it was its kin.

Ikrax had bred countless offspring, spreading its corrupted lineage across galaxies.

Its children, though smaller, were nearly as monstrous, and they too whispered in the voice’s name.

Entire systems had fallen to their swarms.

The stars themselves dimmed where they passed.

And yet, Ikrax did not attack Malgareth.

It spoke.

The voice had given Ikrax the means to communicate—not in words spoken aloud, but through the mind, where echoes carved through thought like blades.

Through that link, Malgareth learned of Ikrax’s intent.

The Void Eater wanted an alliance.

Not of friendship, but of mutual gain.

Power.

Ikrax offered Malgareth a proposal, to join him in scouring the universe, hunting down the most powerful eidra-bearers, draining their strength, and consuming their essence.

Each soul devoured would not only bring them closer to unmatched strength, but would also, in time, earn them something more.

A reward.

A promise made by the voice that bound them all together.

But Malgareth had different plans.

He didn’t just want to follow the voice or wander the stars hunting for power like Ikrax.

He had a vision far greater, and one he intended to bring into reality with his own hands.

He wanted to build an empire—not just any empire, but one born from ashes, born from vengeance, where Jirael would sit beside him as his queen.

His goal was to raise the Empire of Zerafhon to the ground until nothing of its golden walls or proud name remained.

From its ruins, he would construct a throne of corruption, of death and rebirth twisted by dark eidra.

Because of this ambition, his followers had given him a title.

One that spread across distant systems in whispers and symbols etched in ruin.

"The True King."

The one destined to bring down the empire they viewed as tyrannical, oppressive, and blind to the truth.

They believed Malgareth would bring justice, not with mercy, but with fire.

From the blood and bones of Zerafhon’s mighty warriors, he would raise a kingdom that could never be undone.

Still, the empire was no stranger to war, nor to the corruption that festered in distant galaxies.

Since ancient times, it had survived countless invasions, having been forged in endless battles against other species and corrupted beasts alike.

Its foundations were hardened by time, built upon the legacies of warriors who had defeated horrors many believed unstoppable.

The strength of Zerafhon was not just in its armies, but in its unyielding will.

The high commanders and council scholars of Zerafhon were aware of Malgareth’s movements, his actions tracked through distant observatories and deep-space scouts.

But they did not see him as a threat—at least, not yet.

Compared to Ikrax, Malgareth was still a shadow of what true terror looked like.

The Void Eater had left galaxies empty in its wake, while Malgareth had only begun gathering his army.

They saw him as a child in comparison, one fueled by anger, but still small.

Yet among the learned—those like Berkolex and the remaining High Scholars—there was caution.

Quiet murmurs among the halls of study spoke of something far more dangerous than Malgareth himself.

Something deeper, older, and far more intelligent.

They believed Malgareth, Ikrax, and others like them were not acting alone.

That they were being moved, directed, perhaps even created for a purpose not yet revealed.

A puppetmaster hidden in the void.

But this theory was still only that—a theory.

And the only way to prove it was through further research.

More studies.

More experiments.

The scholars needed answers, and to find them, they turned their eyes to the Maw’s Deep.

The Maw’s Deep had long been a place of mystery and fear.

It was a sector shrouded in corrupted fog, infested by beasts that could tear through entire fleets.

No empire dared enter it lightly.

But the scholars of Zerafhon believed something vital was hidden there.

An artifact, ancient and forgotten, one that held the power to subjugate corrupted beings no matter how strong they were.

If it could be recovered, then perhaps the rising tide of corruption could be turned back.

But Zerafhon was not the only one seeking it.

Information gathered from spies within the rival empire, the Seraphim, revealed that they too were looking for this same weapon.

The Seraphim, like the Zerafhon are large in number and powerful, driven by their own ideals of order and purity.

If they acquired the artifact first, the balance of power across the known universe could shift drastically.

Thus, the race began.

Even with the danger, Zerafhon committed resources, forces, and its brightest minds to venture deep into the maw.

Still, unknown to both empires, something unexpected would soon appear.

A wild card neither of them had foreseen.

Not a corrupted, not a beast, and not a soldier.

A boy.

A slave.

Jinn.

A boy who carried the will of the Muradryn within his blood, a lineage thought long extinguished.

A boy whose fate was tied not to an empire, but to something far older.

He too heard a voice.

But it was not the same one that whispered to Malgareth and Ikrax.

His came from one of the Orphans—ancient remnants of the Muradryn who had survived through the ages, bound to the fragments of their race’s final hopes.

And soon... both Zerafhon and Malgareth—no, the entire universe would know his name

*End of flashback