From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman
Chapter 115: The Path of Ash

Chapter 115: The Path of Ash

The light from the bone gate faded behind them, swallowed by root and stone.

Leon led in silence, sword now strapped across his back. It didn’t hum anymore. Didn’t glow. It simply waited. Like everything else in this cursed place.

The path twisted downward.

Narrow turns and low arches forced them to duck and shift their gear. The walls breathed with them, warm and wet like living bark. Strange sigils pulsed briefly along the sides, vanishing as quickly as they came. Tomas muttered curses beneath his breath, each one sharper than the last.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to.

The air was growing thinner.

Hours passed. Or maybe just minutes stretched long. When the tunnel finally opened, it gave way to a cliff—high, sheer, and open to a valley that didn’t exist on any map.

Below them, black stone bridges crisscrossed a basin of ash. At the far end stood a structure taller than the Ash Court, less a building and more a spire torn from the bones of giants. Fires burned along its base. Not warm fires. Contained ones. Cold, blue, and deliberate.

A camp.

Mira crouched low and traced the edge with her eyes. "That’s not Reclaimer work."

Leon nodded. "That’s a faction. A military one."

Tomas sat down against a rock. "Wonderful. We climb through ash ghosts, throne curses, and bone tunnels only to run into another group that wants to kill us."

"No," Mira said. "They’re waiting."

Leon studied the camp below.

They were.

A flag flapped above the tallest tent. White thread on black silk—three intersecting roots, bound at the center.

Leon’s jaw clenched. "The Binding Sigil. That’s royal."

"You recognise it?" Tomas asked.

He nodded once. "It’s the seal of the First Circle. The Ashbound Order."

Mira stood. "Then they know."

Leon exhaled slowly. "They know the seals are breaking. And they came to claim what’s left."

Tomas rose to his feet. "So what’s the plan?"

Leon didn’t answer at first.

Then he turned from the cliff and scanned the ridge. "There’s another path down. We won’t go through the front."

"We’re going to sneak into a military camp now?" Tomas asked, incredulous.

"No," Leon said. "We’re going to end this arc on our terms."

He shouldered his pack and moved.

Mira followed. Then Tomas, muttering something about ’last words’ and ’bad ideas.’

They moved through brush and shadow, following a barely visible trail that led around the outer wall of the valley. The closer they got, the louder it became—hammer on steel, barked orders, the distinct churn of disciplined men preparing for war.

Leon stopped at a ledge that overlooked the rear of the encampment.

Below, a large canvas tent sat guarded but unwatched for the moment.

It bore no crest.

Only silence.

Leon crouched. "That’s where we go in."

"And what’s inside?" Mira asked.

"Answers," he said. "Or probably enemies."

"Probably" Mira said.

Leon reached into his cloak and pulled out the shard—the one from the mask.

It no longer pulsed.

But when he held it up toward the camp, the air shimmered faintly.

"They’re looking for this," he said. "They’ll know I’m coming."

Tomas looked down the hill, then back at Leon. "Then let’s not keep them waiting."

Together, they began the descent.

And behind them, the crown they had left still hovered. Watching. Waiting. Still unclaimed.

But not forgotten.

Because the arc wasn’t closed yet.

Not until someone tried to take it. The descent wasn’t fast.

Every stone felt placed to twist an ankle. Thornroot jutted from the dirt, slick with old sap and faintly warm. Leon led them in silence, knees bent low, keeping to the slope’s shadow. Mira followed with her hand on her dagger, eyes never still. Tomas brought up the rear, less quiet but steady.

Halfway down, a watch horn blew from the camp.

Not loud. Not urgent.

A single note.

Short. Measured.

Leon paused, back against a thick trunk of scorched bark. "That’s not an alarm," he whispered. "It’s a shift call."

"They’re rotating?" Mira asked.

Leon nodded. "Changing patrol routes. Good."

"Unless they spot us on the changeover," Tomas muttered.

They waited two breaths longer, then moved again. Near the bottom, the terrain changed—ash turned to packed gravel, the trees thinned, and dark iron torches lit the outer perimeter with that same cold-blue fire. The camp didn’t feel temporary. It felt permanent.

A war camp for people who didn’t plan to leave.

Leon pointed toward a gap in the palisade. "There. Between the supply crates. Move on my count."

They slipped down the last incline, hit the outer wall, and ducked behind the crates. The smell here was different—iron, oil, and salt. Military. Dispassionate.

A soldier passed not three feet from their hiding spot.

Armour black. Crestless. Expression unreadable beneath a half-visor helm.

But he didn’t stop.

Leon exhaled and motioned forward. They slipped into the alley between tents, moving with quiet urgency. No one stopped them. The camp was too large, too disciplined. People weren’t expecting trouble from the inside.

They reached the unmarked tent.

Leon paused at the flap. "Be ready."

He slipped inside first.

The others followed.

Inside was not what they expected.

No weapons. No maps. No prisoners.

Just books.

Stacked in high, uneven towers. Parchment. Crates of warding chalk. Open scrolls with old rules. A glowing basin of ink sat at the centre, pulsing faintly in rhythm with something beneath the floor.

Mira moved first, stepping around a stack. "This is... research."

Leon approached the basin. The ink shimmered silver-black, with threads of red like veins twisting through it.

A journal lay beside it, open.

He picked it up.

The handwriting was sharp, aggressive.

"The crown has not moved since the pulse. The fragment confirms resonance with the Ash Path. Subject Zero failed to bind, but Subject One might still survive full contact. Interference expected from outer cohort. Advise immediate retrieval of shard before next seal ruptures."

Tomas stepped closer. "Subject One?"

Leon turned the page.

Another note.

"Ashwind anomaly observed. Crown behaviour still erratic. Interrogation of captured Woundbearer remains unsuccessful. Leon Thorne presumed dead. Remnant activation delayed but not deterred."

Leon stared at the words.

Mira moved to his side. "They were watching the entire time."

"No," Leon said quietly. "They planned this before we ever arrived."

A voice spoke from behind.

"Yes. And you’re late."

They turned.

A man stood at the entrance. Mid-thirties. Clean shaven. Robes lined with silver root embroidery. No armour, but his presence felt heavier than steel.

His eyes locked on Leon.

"You weren’t supposed to survive the second crown."

Leon stepped between the others. "Who are you?"

The man offered no name. "I’m the one sent to collect what you’ve disrupted."

He looked to the shard in Leon’s hand.

"Give it to me. And I may spare the rest."

Tomas moved, but Mira caught his arm.

Leon didn’t blink. "You’re part of the Ashbound Order?"

The man didn’t deny it.

Leon raised the shard. "Then you know this won’t obey you."

"I don’t need it to obey," the man replied. "I only need it to open what it needs to."

Leon took one step back. "Then I’m afraid you’ll have to try."

The man lifted his hand.

Roots tore from beneath the ground.

Not vines.

Spinal. White and sharp. They lashed toward Leon like striking snakes.

Mira raised a barrier rune, just in time to deflect the first whip. Tomas ducked low, flinging a dagger toward the man’s chest—but it stopped mid-air, held by invisible force, then twisted mid-flight and returned to the ground at Tomas’s feet.

Leon gritted his teeth.

The sword at his back responded.

Heat swelled in the pit of his stomach.

He stepped forward.

The man hesitated.

Just for a moment.

And that was enough.

Leon drew the blade in one swift motion. It didn’t glow. Didn’t roar. It simply spoke.

To the air.

To the shard.

To the roots that tried to bind him.

Everything in the tent pulled toward it.

Scrolls scattered. Ink hissed. The basin shattered in a blast of silver light.

And the man cursed—not in pain, but in fury.

"You’ve marked yourself now," he said, backing into the tent’s threshold. "The Ashbound won’t stop this time."

Leon stood firm.

"Then tell them this," he said coldly.

"I’ve walked the ash. I’ve held the crown. I’ve seen what comes next."

He raised the blade.

"They’re not ready." Leon stepped over the shattered basin, glass crunching underfoot. Mira flanked left, hand on her blade hilt, while Tomas checked the corner, lifting a scroll to shield his face as stray sparks floated past.

The man—who hadn’t yet given a name—backed out of the tent fully now, hand still half-raised as if testing the air. The roots he’d conjured hissed and writhed along the ground but didn’t strike again.

He wasn’t retreating.

He was waiting.

Leon sheathed his sword slowly, eyes never leaving the man’s. "What did you call it?" he asked. "The Remnant?"

The man tilted his head. "It’s not your concern."

"It became my concern the moment you wrote my name into your damn reports."

A faint smirk. "You don’t understand what you’re carrying. None of you do."

Tomas stepped up beside him. "Then explain it. We’ve got time."

"Do you?" the man said. "Look around you. Do you really think the Ashbound came here for conversation?"

Leon’s grip tightened. "Why here? Why now?"

The man’s face shifted, not exactly softening—but showing wear. "The seals are failing. You’ve seen it yourself. The crown isn’t just reacting. It’s calling. And something is answering."

He looked past them, toward the direction they’d come.

"You felt it, didn’t you? The moment the shard linked with the gate."

Leon’s pulse slowed. "The Bone Gate opened because of that?"

"Not opened. Reactivated. You set it on a countdown." He stepped back again. "You’ve bought your way into a war that began before your bloodline even existed."

Mira narrowed her eyes. "Then why haven’t you killed us yet?"

"Because dead things don’t carry resonance," the man said plainly. "And you, Lord Thorne, are still... useful."

Leon pulled the shard from his coat again, just enough for the shimmer to flare.

"I’m not a tool," he said flatly.

"No," the man replied. "You’re bait."

Before any of them could respond, he flicked his hand—and the tent behind them erupted. Not with fire. With sound.

A chime. Piercing. Resonant. Like temple bells being struck underwater.

Leon’s knees buckled. Mira dropped into a crouch, hands covering her ears. Tomas snarled in pain, gritting his teeth.

Outside, the camp roared to life.

Boots thundered. Orders flew. Something massive groaned to life far beyond the tent.

Leon forced himself upright and stumbled toward the flap. "Out. Now."

They burst from the tent and darted through the outer alley, cutting toward the slope they’d used to enter. Above them, a warhorn bellowed—this one deeper, layered with magic.

A sigil lit up high over the main spire. Red. Triangular. Cracked down the centre.

Mira shouted, "That’s not theirs. That’s a seal marker."

Leon turned. Soldiers were emerging from the far side of camp—but they weren’t moving toward them. They were bracing for something else.

Beyond the outer ridge, ash was rising.

Not in drifts. In columns. Spiralling upward like black flame.

Leon froze, breath short.

The basin wasn’t just a camp ground.

It was a threshold.

And something was coming through.

A figure stepped onto the ash bridge at the far edge.

Too far to see clearly, but its outline twisted unnaturally—parts shifting, shrinking, then expanding like breath.

Mira shouted again. "Leon—what is that?"

He couldn’t answer.

Not because he didn’t know.

But because his blood was screaming.

The sword on his back vibrated. Not in warning. In recognition.

Tomas grabbed his shoulder. "We need to move!"

Leon’s eyes locked on the creature at the edge of the ash field.

Its head tilted.

And across a mile of poisoned silence, it looked directly at him.

Not at the shard. Not the crown.

Him.

It moved, it wasn’t fast. But everything around it moved with it—ash rolling outward, the wind turning in its favour.

Leon finally stepped back.

"Mira. Tomas. Go. We’re not staying."

They ran.

Behind them, the valley lit red. Not from torches.

But from the thing that followed. A shriek tore through the ash—low and guttural, like metal grinding bone.

It wasn’t human. It wasn’t beast. It was something old, dragged forward by a world no longer able to contain it.

They sprinted between tents, dodging startled soldiers and overturned supply carts. No one stopped them. Everyone was too busy facing the wrong direction—toward the spire, toward the bridge, toward the thing that now walked with purpose.

Leon didn’t glance back.

Not yet.

He could feel it anyway. A presence. Not magical. Mythic. Like someone had cracked open the last page of a forgotten scripture and thrown the words into the wind.

They ducked under a cart, vaulted over a shallow trench, and broke through a low wall of crates. Mira hit the ground in a roll, coming up with her dagger drawn. Tomas nearly tripped but caught himself on Leon’s shoulder.

"Where?!" Mira barked, scanning the slope.

"There—" Leon pointed to the broken trail winding up the ridge. "We take the outer path and circle—"

Something boomed behind them.

The ground jumped. Not quaked—jumped. Like the earth flinched.

Leon turned, just a glance.

That was a mistake.

The creature had stepped fully into view now. Its form was still shifting, still unsure of its own edges. Limbs folding and unfolding like tangled limbs of a burned tree, chest rising with smoke.

And behind it, the red sigil above the camp cracked again—this time bleeding light.

The soldiers weren’t fighting it, they were kneeling.

Rows of them, ash on their helms, hands pressed to the ground.

Leon stared.

"They summoned it," Mira whispered, voice hollow.

"No," Tomas said. "They worship it."

Leon grabbed them both. "Move. Now!"

They scrambled up the slope, rock sliding beneath their boots. A few more paces and the outer path came into view—half-covered in dead ivy, but still climbable.

The creature didn’t chase them.

It walked.

Like it knew they couldn’t outrun it.

Leon pulled ahead, cutting a path through the underbrush. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The shard in his coat was burning against his ribs. Not from heat—but from resonance.

It was reacting.

Not to the creature.

To the valley.

He risked one more look back.

The ash basin was gone now.

Replaced by something else.

A gate.

A wide, skeletal ring of bone and stone, risen from the earth like a crown of fangs. The creature stood before it, arms raised, and the valley answered.

Not in sound.

But in light.

Ribbons of red and silver spiraled up from the earth—tethering sky to spire, shard to blade, blood to breath.

Leon turned away.

They weren’t meant to see what came next.

And yet, they already had.