Before our hero found the last stele, things took a strange turn in Raden Village.

“Can’t you hear it?” A short man croaked hoarsely as if possessed by evil spirits, his belittling bearing lost to the events that had made him a living joke. “My soldiers are taking good care of your spawn, you senile fossil! Very good care!!

Hear those heartrending screams from afar? The roar of your newborn, I tell you! How they dwindle away in the flames of war, writhing in pain under ice-cold steel, desiring a quick end as they suck on their thumbs in their mothers’ breathless bosoms.

Ah, the curses, such dreadful remarks. The most beautiful symphony–––sweet melody demeaning justice from a once-beloved great-grandfather who forsook family and chose the wrong path by not giving up.

By turning your back on them, still lingering on that crude chair, a pile of dripping, bloody bones glued to your arse... Not yet kneeling and begging for forgiveness? Tell me, isn't enough of your kin’s blood already oozing from your clothes?”

Sometimes loud and roaring, at others hushed and low, the shrimp’s hellish whispers from nightmarish depths worthy of a top-notch antagonist should’ve invoked uneasiness among plenty of other negative emotions.

They should have brought pangs of guilt and doubt, nagging endlessly at the immediate decisions. Yet he smiled still, unfazed as if all he’d heard were some buzzing noises of a nasty fly that wouldn’t keep still no matter what. Much to the elder’s despair.

‘Darnation, that’s a breathing rock!’ He’d the nagging suspicion there was nothing that could change the outcome–––no matter how much he roared! To think, at first, it went so smoothly.

Though having been welcomed by the fossilising donkey in this very cathedral for some inexplicable reasons, the human hadn’t gifted the orc as much as a second glance, before going for the kill.

While his head was full of how hard a blow this assassination would inflict upon the enemy’s morale, a hasty foot behind closed temple doors had been all he needed to set to feel like sinking into bottomless despair.

Then… there was no then other than shame rearing its ugly mug! Only now and much too late did he understand why his infiltration went so smoothly. It had been a trap meant just for him.

A set of coincidences that alone were harmless, but once his inclinations were part of the equation, would become deadly. A dose of poison slowly nibbling away at his alertness, that was the empty alleys before. No guard, no obstacle.

Blind confidence so had it, his plan had been easily seen through and perfectly countered. A strategic feat he never expected from rural country bumpkins.

Knowing, though, was but the smallest part of the problem, for Elder Shadow couldn’t accept it–––no matter from which angle he approached the situation.

A dreaded master of the noblest race, the nightmare of a prefecture… was led astray by an inferior fool, a wizened, senile orc too old to even stand up without outside help?

Luckily, the mighty elder knew not who’d truly set him up, who was the one responsible for directing the actors towards his life’s greatest humiliation–––else no one really knew if his heart wouldn’t just rupture on the spot.

The ancient orc, on the other hand, knew the entire truth. Yet why should he utter an explanation? Their fate wouldn't change just because. Both were puppets, if one so will, both had been toyed with.

One knowingly, the other less so. The final outcome, the orc knew of it in greater detail than even the mastermind did. If old age taught the creature something, it would be how inevitable fate was–––how brutal destiny could be and how small they were in the grand scheme of things.

As any struggle became meaningless, the orc smilingly awaited the prophesied moment, the starting signal ringing doom’s bell. As for Elder Shadow’s obvious taunts to tempt him into rash actions so easily exploited, even a random child of his tribe could guess his thoughts.

They weren’t veiled at all, and just as insignificant as the misinformed man himself was. The ancient orc literally gave a damn, much to someone’s utter exasperation. “But of course, I can mention this and more, you won’t understand anyway.

How can stupid creatures like an orc understand the glory of basking under humanity's splendour? You'd rather slaughter each other with hopeless zeal for some tribal fantasy to come true. Ptui!”

Since threats seemed useless, Shadow could only defame ancient traditions to provoke an answer, his very last hope. The dwarf-sized man knew well that if there was one thing these barbaric, indigenous tribes couldn’t stand at all, it was besmirching holy tradition.

The only reason he didn’t dare cross that line earlier was his fear of the uncontrollable, the landslide following his words. The almost instinctive change that’d inevitably happen to said folks’ bearings: Murderous bloodlust.

Yet with danger came opportunity, which was something he understood better than most! But again, bitter-tasting disappointment was just around the corner.

The furious man's silent counterpart donned the same goddamn smile the human had learned to despise so much. Adding insult to injury was the darn, never-changing expression of pity on the fossil's rugose face.

It continued to be the same ugly mug since his interception more than 4 hours ago! It was as if he was the same as a bug strenuously crawling out of reach of the swatter–––or not even that!

Maybe dust dancing in the air! And if that was not enough of a blow to his wounded ego, time passed discreetly without even one darn underling rushing to his rescue. Not even Third Elder! What was he up to anyway?

Dancing tango with orcish women? Worse still and completely out of any of his tactical considerations, judging by the faint, distant noises, his soldiers were held occupied and in place.

As a result, the despairing elder wondered several times whether he had led first-class soldiers into battle or starving conscripts hailing from the slums. 'What the hell did the clan raise them for?! Swinging weapons around like a farmer does his plough?'

Had he known the extent and quality of Elder Rockfist’s personal coaching, he’d have never taken additional risks, nor would his underlings include a mere half of the entire force. ‘If I ever get out of here, that one will hear beautiful chimes!

And they won't be wedding chimes!’ Though it remained a mystery to whom of the two he referred to. Even with the knife in his possession giving valuable feedback, he’d not even seen the totem’s shadow before ending up captured.

No, that was too underwhelming a word! Elder Shadow launched a never-ending tirade of curses addressing the vilest of things, to no avail–––going so far as to call the Devil by various names and demeaning countless generations of useless wastes of space.

If the scouts had done a better job and hadn’t conveyed exactly what this toothless creature desired, if he'd been wiser and not irresponsibly split up his troops, if others used their brains to think not the little toe... things should’ve played out differently! ‘If, if… if. Easy victory, my ass!’

He repeated endlessly in his mind, roaring madly. That ridiculous claim was what had been instilled in them, the ignorant strangers from faraway lands they were–––since childhood no less. It took away sound reasoning in favour of unscientific paradigms!

An unquestioned sense of superiority, which now came to painfully mock the conflicted man. Now that he partially saw through the fog, Elder Shadow realised that with or without lamias they would've had the advantage anyway.

For that bunch simply couldn’t arrive in time had his clan promptly engaged their entire force in battle. Blitzkrieg should’ve brought immediate victory as well as bought precious time to prepare for the next confrontation.

Yet their tactics were already set in stone, the direction taken unchangeable. Greed was a potent driving force, useful in motivating and keeping morale high.

Excessive greed, on the other hand, drove many people into hopeless situations, and Elder Shadow was no exception either! With each passing second, he became more and more concerned about the entrusted forces.

Servant wastrels aside, every additional death meant one less elite and invaluable efforts gone to waste! The Balen could only keep so many gifted warriors hidden in the dark.

Needless to highlight, this force was the culmination of many years of hard work, their insurance and heart-blood in one. Even if they were to secure a pyrrhic victory in the end, wouldn’t the gains fail to make up for the losses? If they ever had that chance.

“Listen,” the collected orc finally graced his prisoner with a bit of attention, yet only by spilling words Elder Shadow could puke from, “we are weaker than you clumsy tramps from civilised lands. A fact,” the orc chuckled jovially as if what he had to say wasn’t a negative observation but an opportunity instead.

“With the many years under your belt and knowledge of worldly affairs, have you ever wondered why each generation successfully repels mankind? You aren’t the first one to come here, nor will you be the last.”

The ancient orc plunged deeper into the cosy warmth of the expensive fur coat wrapped around his pot belly, his soothing wise smile turning into intolerable mockery in the elder’s bloodshot eyes. “Unity. This is the answer. Just take our tribe.

Neither the strongest in this valley nor the cleverest by far. Neither in possession of plentiful resources nor connections to speak of. Our physique is brawny but lacks agility and velocity. We are not a blessed race nor do we excel in a particular field. But...”

As the burning glow in his eyes grew increasingly mysterious, the orc gestured outside with a sweeping movement as he continued. “Be it young or old, we know how to pull on one string.

Otherwise, Mother Nature is the first to break our necks and there are others you’d fight against.” His explanation left an uncomfortable silence in the wooden cathedral. Only distant clashes between two feverish forces were heard every now and then.

Elder Shadow eventually regained his icy bearing. Now that he knew the orc would not react to any psychological trick, there was no need to continue making a fool out of himself.

For the creature possessed what Shadow never discovered in his turbulent life: Trust. An eternal calm based on confidence that even without his meddling, the villagers would make the best decisions, catch opportunities as they came and emerge victoriously where it truly mattered.

A few deaths and some disabled warriors would not break their collaboration, nor would the afflicted family members suffer disproportionately. Elder Shadow, on the other hand, had no such solace.

Age-old internal discord, everlasting competition for better status, a greater say in how things were run and more resources had bred traitorous thoughts profiting only the conceiver.

Blatant disregard for potential consequences had brought the Balen to the point where anything closely resembling trust was the product of wishful thinking or favourable political manoeuvres to influence their image conceived by the masses.

“So that’s why I have to hang here.” He muttered an answer at long last. “Hmhm,” the ancient orc showed a horrible row of brown-yellow teeth, presumable a wide grin, “and because you mention this now, it reassures me you really do hang in the air, covered in wet cloth scraps like a small bird in a spider’s webbing.”

The cutthroat elder closed his eyes in bitter defeat. What a terrible enemy they were pinned against! Whatever he said had the same usefulness as pebbles bouncing off a thousand-year-old tree, and the few things he thoughtlessly mentioned in between gave dangerous insight into his thought process.

So, wasn’t it just better to keep silent and pray? “I must apologise for the rude hospitality.” Continued the orc while sighing as if he truly felt sorry from the bottom of his heart. “But I have reason to fear you appreciate no chair in your mental state.

The chips at stake are just too important to me. Family, you understand?” Yet Shadow did not. Nor did he come to any likely conclusion as to why such words ran off the tongue of a mere lowlife creature.

After he'd said his piece, the orc gave an apologetic smile to the tangled ball of yarn atop a lofty perch with only the head sticking out. Elder Shadow spat contemptuously in reply since he had to suppress what he truly thought.

If the fossil kept his terrible conceptualisation off him, he’d break the wet straps down into dust particles in no time. What use had everyday shackles to the likes of him?

Yet–––again–––he could not, as the orc was probing him at irregular intervals he simply couldn’t foresee, limiting all options he might've had. Shadow was about to cry. “Now, now. Don’t fight so hard. Soon it shall be over. Soon, fate… soon.”

The orc’s smile stiffened, his wide eyes looking eastwards–––seemingly far beyond the boundaries of time and space, which lost all meaning before his inquiry.

Later, focus returned to them and a loving as tender expression radiated off him as he looked through the open front doors at the ever-changing outside world. His wrinkled hands slowly caressed the seemingly brilliantly shining, cosy cloth.

“So… he found it. Uh-huh. With that, the young ones shall break their shackles and fear nothing.” He tilted his head to one side, giving the impression he was done with worldly affairs, only awaiting the destined signal.

Quietly, so quietly that even he couldn’t hear his own words clearly, the wise orc whispered, “summoned by destiny to wade through fate... the wretched game toying with our free will is necessary but is it also just?”

Meanwhile, Elder Shadow, who still hung like a hellish butterfly in a spider’s webbing, voluntarily cut all his senses off, as he could endure no longer. Like that, he planned to spend the rest of his time as a prisoner, while outside–––slowly but surely–––both forces’ fate was taking shape.

In most likelihood, the elder never expected his slumber to be of very short duration.

Many miles further east, Linlin coughed thunderously for no reason at all, rubbed his nose in surprise and tended to the unstable stele as if nothing had happened. Just now, it almost blew up in his face because of his lapse in attention.

The pure energy within was still frightening, even after God-only-knows how many centuries passed and him constantly syphoning energy away at that.

After so many hours of enriching his bioenergy levels, he could safely state that it resembled much of a ticking bomb, which had been sealed with masterly sophistication lost to the ravages of time.

And yet it was only one node out of three, and the weakest at that, if he was to trust his senses! Then again, logic decreed the sealing formation was much older than Azariah, with a story behind it he frankly didn’t want to uncover.

'Who knows, perhaps this thing is even older than Seer Mikaantyar?' 'Does the queen know about it?' 'It'd be ridiculous if she did not. The real question is: What else is kept a secret?' The only other piece of information he had was that the stele might come to blow up in his face.

According to both personalities' understanding, the might in that statement could be reasonably stuck off, as it was almost a certainty.

That was all. The longer his contact with the so-called stele, the firmer the Master Strategist's belief the ancient wonder was a… prison of some kind.

This only increased the number and severity of possible undesired endings, but it changed not what must be done. The mission came first.

No matter the consequences, the mission's importance was beyond discussion. The mission ranked higher than Linlin's life. Queen Azariah could very well take it from him just as easily as the ancient orc could.

Only by solving the conundrum splendidly had Linlin a reasonable chance for survival. Even the System with all its shenanigans and warnings could not change the agent's conviction.

( う-´)づ︻╦̵̵̿╤── (˚☐˚”)/ Integrity -2.7 (Overcapacity Low-Level) ( う-´)づ︻╦̵̵̿╤── (˚☐˚”)/ Integrity -2 (Smouldering Desire) ( う-´)づ︻╦̵̵̿╤── (˚☐˚”)/ Integrity -0.2 (Overcapacity Bioenergy)

Somehow, the darn thing had decided his outburst back in the camp where his family jewels were at stake was an innermost desire for revenge the old seer had warned him about.

This came to be after a considerable amount of time had passed, spooking them out of the blue. It was... a major source of instability. One coped with it only by fully solving the underlying problem that gave birth to the unwelcome event.

Although, the jarring mechanical voice repeated the same content each odd hour–––disturbing him for good–––Pansy was more concerned with the shenanigans hidden within the stele and less with their latest discovery: Bioenergy, apparently, could not exceed certain safety parameters.

Once he thought about it in greater detail, Pansy easily guessed the reasoning behind that statement. There was a limit to cell activity just as there was a limit to all forms of energy it contained. If the latter could no longer be safely stored, then mayhem befell the body from within.

Only by making use of the excess energy could the sorry fate of uncontrolled mutation or speedy degeneration of cell activity be avoided. Upgrading skills would help in this regard, but... Pansy had planned the scheme meticulously down to even the timetables.

Therefore, be it any spooky surprise left behind by ancient inventors or the very real danger of mutation... there was no time to address those fears. If any survivor of the three races turned up and the last stele was not yet taken care of, then their fate wouldn't be pretty.

After all, their play was good, but glaring loopholes still existed once Linlin lost the protection of an unassuming bystander and turned into a suspect. Put differently, both personalities banked on Azariah's promise of reinforcement.

The earlier the stele crumbled to pieces, the sooner she could come, the better it was for them. Whatever sequela there was could be slowly mended afterwards. If... the other's acted according to the cues given to them, that is.

'If Azariah's mean, she can refuse to aid. If the ancient orc has plans of his own, he can easily put an end to our scheming in scarily numerous ways.'

'This way, we... can only hope?' 'For the best. I have a thousand reasons why they should get rid of us, but we better focus on the task at hand.' '...'

Even if all the possibilities mentioned were a far cry from the truth, there was still one thing Linlin knew with absolute certainty: The countdown for the next fainting session neared in big strides. It might not be today, but tomorrow for sure.

If by then anyone showed up, Linlin's fate would be up to that creature. So Linlin returned to the stele, continuing with stealing valuable energy with the help of the strange claw.

At least half of which flowed through his dangerously swollen arms got directly transmitted to the ants embracing his back. Doing so helpfully reduced the bioenergy buildup in his body, making it more bearable and less acute.

To get this sort of help, he strangely needn’t ask twice, before they had understood his intentions and had arranged themselves orderly behind him, peacefully awaiting their turn.

Except for the vigilant patrols, everyone else was queued and on rotation. This went on for a long while. Suddenly, a shockwave disrupted his painstakingly built-up control over the stele and speedily sent unprepared Linlin flying backwards.

Were it not for the army to watch his back and–––above all–––absorbing some of the impacts coming in seemingly never-ending waves, he’d have exploded into a bloody mess upon touch with literally any random bush or tuft of grass, no doubt.

Pansy’s interest was immediately aroused and, ruining the agent's attempts at first checking how their body fared, he sprung to their feet and began to closely analyse the partially exposed hidden mechanisms in hopes to find any desirable clue of the disturbance’s source.

Where one personality hoped to strike while the iron was still hot, the other let loose an unreasonable string of swear words, distressing and confusing all ants in reach.

The Master Strategist found out quickly what should be considered the origin–––as a certain part of the mechanism flickered faintly as if to ebb away the next moment.

But he had no time to laugh. An instant later, the connection suffered a terrible blow and Linlin turned into a shooting star yet again.

Our schizophrenic hero was by far not the only one feeling the negative impacts of a faraway event. If at all, he got off lightly, which neither the group directly involved with a helpless village nor those foolish enough to keep themselves busy with the orcs could claim.

Borrowing the ancient orc’s words, the destined countdown… had ended.

End of Part II