Chapter 17: Blood and Betrayal

The temple was alive with danger. Every creaking beam and every whisper of wind seemed to warn them of the approaching storm. Achem's grip on his sword tightened as he exchanged a glance with Lysara. There was no more time for questions. The man had vanished, but his words lingered in Achem's mind, gnawing at him.

"We have to move," Achem muttered, his voice low but urgent.

Lysara nodded, her expression fierce. "No time for hesitation. We'll handle whatever comes."

Garron, ever vigilant, was already at the ready, his eyes scanning the shadows with a warrior's precision. "Keep moving. We don't know how many of them are here."

The air grew colder as they ventured deeper into the bowels of the temple, the walls narrowing until they found themselves in a dimly lit chamber. The faint glow of their torches illuminated the carvings etched into the stone, each one more disturbing than the last. The symbols on the walls were ancient, foreign—yet Achem felt they were somehow connected to the fate he now found himself bound to.

Suddenly, a sharp noise echoed through the chamber—distant, but unmistakable. Footsteps. Heavy ones. The hairs on the back of Achem's neck stood up. They were being hunted.

"Get ready," Achem whispered.

Without warning, the doors at the far end of the chamber burst open. A torrent of cloaked figures spilled into the room, their faces obscured by dark hoods. But the glint of cold steel in their hands was clear.

"Shit," Garron hissed, drawing his twin daggers in a flash of movement.

Lysara didn't hesitate either, unsheathing her sword with a fluid, practiced motion. Achem's heart pounded, but his mind was clear. He had no choice now but to fight. They'd come too far.

The first of the cloaked figures lunged at Lysara, but she sidestepped with deadly precision, slashing her blade across his throat in a single, fluid motion. Blood sprayed in all directions, staining the cold stone floor. The man's body collapsed, twitching in a final death rattle.

Garron was already in the fray, his daggers flashing as he parried and struck. Another figure lunged at him, but Garron twisted, ducking under the swing and driving his blade through the man's ribs, the blood pouring out in a gruesome spray.

Achem's mind was in overdrive. He had trained in the modern world, but this was different. This was real. The blood, the screams—this was survival. There was no room for doubt, no time for hesitation. His sword cleaved through the air, cutting down one assailant after another. Achem's strength surged as he embraced the chaos of the battle.

The cloaked figures were relentless. They came at them from all angles, but Achem, Lysara, and Garron fought in perfect harmony. Lysara's precision, Garron's speed, and Achem's sheer force created a deadly combination. But the numbers were overwhelming, and for every figure that fell, two more seemed to take its place.

Achem's sword sank into the gut of one of the attackers, ripping through flesh and organs with a sickening sound. The man gurgled as his blood spilled out, his body collapsing at Achem's feet.

"They're not stopping!" Garron shouted, his eyes wild with adrenaline. His daggers were slick with blood as he danced through the battlefield, narrowly avoiding a blade that would have struck his heart.

Achem gritted his teeth. "They're trying to wear us down. We need to find their leader."

Lysara slashed through another attacker, her eyes never leaving the shadows where the remaining figures were gathering. "You're right. Stay sharp. We're not done yet."

A loud crash echoed from the far side of the chamber, followed by the sound of something—or someone—falling. Achem spun around, sword raised, but it was too late. The leader had arrived.

A hulking figure, much larger than the others, stepped into the chamber. He was dressed in black armor, his face hidden behind a grotesque mask that seemed to mock death itself. He carried a massive axe, its blade stained with the blood of those who had already fallen. The air seemed to grow heavier as he stepped forward, his presence radiating an unnatural power.

"Another one from your world," the masked figure growled, his voice distorted through the mask. "You should never have come here, Achem."

Achem's stomach twisted. There was no mistaking it—this man knew him. But how?

"Who are you?" Achem demanded, his sword still raised. "What do you want?"

The man let out a dry chuckle. "What I want is simple: to end this. To put an end to the disruption you've caused." His axe swung in a wide arc, cutting down one of the cloaked figures who had dared to step in his path.

Lysara's eyes narrowed. "We're not going anywhere until we get the answers we came for."

The man's eyes glinted behind the mask, his lips curling into something like a grin. "Then prepare to die for them."

Without warning, he swung his axe toward Achem, the force behind the blow enough to shake the ground beneath them. Achem barely managed to parry it with his sword, the impact sending a shockwave of pain through his arms.

Garron and Lysara charged in, flanking the giant. Garron moved like a blur, slashing at the man's exposed sides, but the masked figure was too quick, parrying with his axe and knocking Garron back with a single, brutal strike.

Achem's chest heaved, his heart pounding in his ears. The strength of the man was overwhelming. But Achem wasn't afraid—not anymore. His purpose was clearer now than ever before.

With a primal roar, Achem charged, his sword raised high. He twisted his body, spinning with the momentum of the strike, and with all the force he could muster, he drove the blade deep into the masked man's side.

Blood poured from the wound, but the man didn't fall. Instead, he let out a furious scream, swinging his axe with terrifying power. The blow struck Achem in the chest, sending him flying back, his breath stolen from his lungs.

"ACHEM!" Lysara screamed, but before she could move to aid him, the masked figure lunged at her.

Garron, already on his feet, dove toward the man, his daggers sinking into the giant's back. The man howled in pain, but his rage was unstoppable. He swung his axe in a savage arc, catching Garron's shoulder and sending him sprawling to the ground, blood pouring from the wound.

Achem, struggling to rise, felt the searing pain in his chest but forced himself to stand. His sword was heavy in his hand, but his will was stronger. He couldn't let his friends die here—not like this.

With a roar, Achem lunged again, this time aiming for the man's neck. The blade sliced through the air, finding its mark. The masked man staggered back, his hands clutching at the deep wound in his throat, but he still didn't fall.

"Finish it!" Lysara shouted, her voice desperate.

Achem gritted his teeth and with a final, furious cry, he drove his sword through the man's skull, splitting the mask open and spilling blood everywhere. The figure crumpled to the ground, his body going limp in death.

Panting, Achem stood over the fallen leader, his chest heaving. The room was silent, save for the ragged breaths of his companions.

Lysara rushed to his side, her eyes filled with concern. "Are you alright?"

Achem nodded, though the pain was still intense. "I'm fine. But we need to get out of here. We've got what we came for."

Garron, though wounded, stood tall, his eyes sharp. "We've survived. But this isn't over."

Together, the three of them walked away from the slaughter, their bond stronger than ever before. They knew that the path ahead would only grow darker, but for now, they had each other.

And that was all that mattered.