CHAPTER 262: THE RELIC GATE

Caius gave his final directives to the six-foot Orc general, placing him in temporary command of civil matters with absolute orders that no one was to approach or disturb the apex of the pyramid. With the thirteen hundred and fifty heavy legionnaires of the Obsidian Cohort locked in a tight perimeter around the ziggurat, the sanctum was thoroughly secured.

Under the shroud of twilight, Caius and Old Bones slipped out of the city unnoticed, using spatial threads to mask their presence. They traveled to a secluded rendezvous point miles beyond the valley where Nyzech, Bruga, and their companions, including Altan, Chaghan, Daalo, and the surviving Stormguard, were waiting in secret.

Visible joy and profound relief washed over the weary warriors' faces when Caius appeared. Ever since the desperate battle at Orûn-Mal where Daalo’s artifact bomb detonated to shatter the Nerathil city, causing the spatial gate to slam shut and trap them in this realm away from Malthuurn's rot, they had been stranded without a way back. Knowing that Caius was going to attempt a repair gave them their first real hope of returning home.

For three days, the small party traversed the rugged, scarred wilderness until the blackened, newly ruined city housing the transit nexus rose on the horizon. At the center of the scorched plaza stood the colossal obsidian gate. It sat entirely cold and silent, its dark frame scarred by feedback from the past blast, devoid of any humming energy or spatial pulse.

Stepping up to the monolithic arch, Caius extended a web of luminous solar-obsidian threads into the stone, probing its internal pathways. "The core conduits are intact," Caius noted, his voice echoing off the scorched ruins. "But the nexus is dead. It needs a massive energy surge to jump-start the spatial drive."

Reaching into his Dimension Bead, Caius brought out the Behemoth core, now completely purified into a flawless sphere of crystalline, pure white origin mana. Extending his threads with surgeon-like precision, he carved a new, reinforced threaded socket directly within the gate's central housing and slotted the brilliant white core into place.

Before initiating the transfer, Caius paused. Activating an ancient gate of this scale would inevitably send a massive mana spike across the entire realm. The last thing I need is tens of thousands of fanatic worshippers tracking the flare and mobbing me here, he thought, wincing at the prospective headache.

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With a swift flick of his wrists, Caius wove a dense, multi-layered containment veil of spatial threads around the entire arch, sealing the energy signature within a localized pocket. With the stealth barrier set, Caius channeled his mana into the socket.

The pure white origin core ignited. Intricate veins of white-gold light surged through the dark obsidian frame, and with a deep, vibrating hum, the ancient gate roared back to life, its central arch opening into a stable, swirling vortex of spatial energy. The swirling spatial vortex stabilized into a shimmering mirror of white-gold light, bridging the void between realms.

Nyzech, Bruga, and the surviving Stormguard stepped forward, crossing the threshold first. Once the last of the vanguard vanished into the light, Caius and Old Bones casually walked through behind them.

The disorienting pull of spatial transit lasted only a heartbeat. Fresh air, mountain wind, and the heavy scent of polished steel greeted them as they stepped onto the ancient stone dais of the home world.

Instantly, the air crackled with extreme tension. Arrayed across the vast plaza before the gate sat a massive military force, two full legions comprising nearly twenty thousand heavily armored warriors ranked in tight, impenetrable shield walls, their spears leveled and war-engines primed for battle.

At the head of the grand host stood Commander Altan. Though his authority stretched over vast legions capable of altering the fate of realms, he stubbornly refused grander titles like Warlord, preferring the simple, grounded rank of Commander. His calm, serene presence anchored the entire army, and the moment his eyes locked onto Nyzech, Bruga, and the surviving companions emerging unharmed, the serene severity on his face softened into profound, visible relief.

Caius leaned back slightly, his golden-and-obsidian eyes scanning the high command assembled on the dais. Right beside Commander Altan stood a tall, grim-faced warrior with a visage like carved granite, a man who looked as though he had never smiled a day in his life.

A quiet chuckle escaped Caius's lips as he nudged his chief steward, whispering under his breath. "Old Bones, I bet that grim-faced guy beside Commander Altan is his right-hand man. He looks just like you, like a pair of grim reapers."

Old Bones’ left eye twitched slightly. Standing rigid in his dark robes, the old assassin maintained his deadpan stare ahead, suffering in silence as his master went at it again.