Chapter 382| If We Die, Who’s Going To Make Them Pay For What They Did To Rumina?

The echoing footsteps down the volcanic corridor fell heavy, utterly devoid of life’s rhythm.

The obsidian walls encasing them gradually dimmed. Dark red runic veins pulsed lazily, exuding a stifling, sulfur-choked heat. From the descending ceiling, water dripped, shattering the silence with a rhythmic clink.

Riven Sudrath brought up the rear. His massive frame dominated the cramped confines of the passage.

His black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His gray eyes were now locked onto a single point: Rumina’s back.

Riven’s right hand clamped around the hilt of his short sword with a white-knuckle grip, his nails digging hard enough to nearly draw blood from his own palm. The Wyvern claw gouges on his left arm throbbed with a sickening ache, but the pain completely evaporated—swallowed whole by the pure, unadulterated fury blazing in his chest.

Ahead of him, Rumina limped forward.

The Northreach Grand Treasurer’s work dress was brutally shredded. The pale skin of her back was fully exposed, marred by crisscrossing whip lashes. Some had dried into silvery-black scabs, while others continued to seep fresh blood with every shift of her shoulders.

Yara supported Rumina from the left flank, her breaths ragged. The young technician’s hands trembled under the weight, but her lips remained sealed shut, refusing to utter a single complaint.

On the right, Selene walked with elegant poise. Her sea-blue Arcanum robes emanated a faint, chilling aura to help stabilize Rumina’s breathing.

Rumina didn’t let out a single whimper.

But Riven saw it all too clearly. Every time Rumina’s foot met the rough stone, the muscles in her back twitched slightly as she swallowed the agony. Her fingertips were clutching Selene’s robes with a desperate, white-knuckled grip.

Riven’s jaw locked rigid. Within the suffocating silence of the underground tunnel, the Grand General’s fury crystallized into an underlying threat far more lethal than any war cry.

At the very front of the formation, Roland Sudrath continued to lead the way.

His white shirt was caked in soot. Cold sweat beaded off his chin, but the twenty-three-year-old forced his posture perfectly upright. The stinging pain radiating from his left shoulder was entirely cast aside.

Roland shot a slow glance over his shoulder.

The diplomatic smile that perpetually graced his face had vanished without a trace. His features were now as cold as frozen marble. His eyes swept over the shredded dress and the blood staining his little sister’s back.

Roland’s steps slowed.

His gaze pierced through the gaps in their formation, locking directly with Riven’s eyes in the rear.

The two brothers didn’t utter a word. There were no whispered tactics or hand signals. Yet, in that brief two-second exchange, an absolute, unspoken understanding was forged.

The diplomat’s mask had been entirely shattered. The enemy hadn’t just provoked a war; they had dared to spill Sudrath blood.

Roland turned his gaze back to the front. His eyes flickered with a lethal intent unlike anything anyone had ever seen from him.

In the center of the formation, Rianor marched merely a hand’s breadth away from Rumina.

His thin glasses had slipped down, coated in dust. The adamantite Arcanotech Bracer on his arm emitted a low hum, casting a rhythmic blue glow in its emergency state.

Rianor’s eyes were glued to the gruesome whip lashes.

His analytical instincts fired automatically—calculating the depth of the gashes, the angle of the strikes, and estimating her remaining muscle endurance.

But suddenly... the torrent of mathematical formulas in his head ground to an absolute halt.

The calculations evaporated. They were entirely replaced by an overwhelming, freezing void.

This was no longer about tactical efficiency or mana probability variables. This was a calculation driven by pure, unadulterated wrath aimed at slaughtering the enemy.

Rianor pushed his glasses up with a stiff index finger. The circuits on his arm pulsed ever faster, reacting to the heart hammering violently beneath his calm exterior.

He shot a side-glance at Rumina. His sister’s breaths were growing shallower; her feet were beginning to drag across the stone.

Rianor offered no cheap words of comfort. His jaw clamped shut. His gaze locked onto the tunnel ahead, hyper-focused on a single, ultimate goal: the absolute destruction of their enemies.

Twenty meters from the end of the northern tunnel, Rumina’s legs suddenly gave out.

The tip of her shoe caught on a jagged rock. Her knees buckled hard.

"Lady Rumina!" Yara gasped in panic.

Yara reflexively tightened her grip, desperately keeping the Treasurer from face-planting onto the jagged stone floor. But Rumina didn’t respond. Her eyes were sealed shut, her head completely slumped.

She had passed out. Her consciousness finally shattered under the crushing weight of pain and exhaustion.

Rianor dropped to one knee instantly. His two fingers pressed precisely against Rumina’s neck.

"Her pulse is incredibly faint," Rianor reported, his voice raspy yet flat. "Mild hypothermia and ongoing blood loss. Her primary organs are beginning to fail."

Selene hurried over. Translucent blue water vapor flowed from her fingertips, flash-freezing the bleeding on Rumina’s back without making direct contact with the raw skin.

"I can stabilize her core temperature with my magic," Selene said, looking up at Roland. "But the wounds are infected with sulfurous soot. Without a sterile medical facility, she’ll break out into a violent fever in a matter of hours."

Before the sentence even finished, a massive shadow loomed over them.

Riven stepped forward. Without a word, the Grand General crouched down.

With excruciating gentleness—as if afraid he might shatter the world’s most fragile porcelain—Riven slipped his arms beneath his sister’s knees and back, lifting her into his embrace.

She was far too light. Rumina’s weight felt as if it had been completely eroded by the suffering she endured in that cell.

Her pale face rested limply against Riven’s broad chest. The General stood frozen for a split second, feeling her impossibly frail breaths against his shirt.

Riven squeezed his eyes shut for one full second. When they snapped back open, there was nothing but absolute, pitch-black darkness within them.

They finally reached the mouth of the northern ridge tunnel.

The surface wind swept across their faces. The pale morning light unveiled the smoldering ruins of the Military Outpost in the distance.

Roland approached Selene.

"Get her to the capital," Roland commanded with absolute finality. "You, Yara, and Lieur. Take the western route to avoid the Iron Empire patrols. The moment you arrive, find Anastasia."

Selene nodded obediently. She spread her arms into the air.

Moisture instantly condensed, solidifying into a translucent ice stretcher that hovered steadily over the ground. Riven laid Rumina down upon it with the utmost care. Selene immediately enveloped her in a veil of warming mist.

Rianor looked at Riven from across the stretcher.

"Are you going with them?" he asked shortly.

Riven lingered on his sister’s face for a moment. His fingers clenched the hilt of his sword so hard his knuckles popped. Then, he jerked his gaze back toward the dark cavern.

"No," Riven replied, as cold as ice.

Roland took command, dividing the team with clinical precision.

"Keep her safe, Selene," Roland said, locking eyes with the Arcanum Envoy.

"I will," Selene replied firmly.

Roland continued. "I’m heading back through the underground city lines to the Dwarf King. I’m going to make His Majesty understand."

He then shifted his gaze to Riven, Rianor, Borch, and Thorne.

Roland looked back toward the direction of the rebel fortress. "You guys are the spearhead."

Without wasting another second, Selene, Yara, and Lieur immediately moved out, slipping along the western ridge under the cover of the morning mist.

Roland gave Riven one final, brief nod. He then pivoted on his heel and plunged back into the pitch-black caverns, heading for the King’s throne. Naya and Dom trailed soundlessly behind him, melting seamlessly into the shadows of the stone walls.

Now, only four men remained at the mouth of the northern tunnel. Riven stood like a stone statue. Rianor at his side. Borch and Thorne at his six, weapons fully drawn.

Riven surged to the very front. Fast, heavy, and entirely lethal. Rianor flanked his left, while Borch and Thorne trailed right behind them like grim reapers on the prowl.

"Riven," Rianor called out without turning his head.

"Talk."

"I know you’re out for blood," Rianor stated flatly. "But storming the Obsidian Fortress without running the numbers is just going to end with us spilling our own blood for nothing."

Riven’s pace faltered slightly. He turned his head just a fraction. His gray eyes flashed with feral intent.

"I don’t need a plan for Grendel, Rianor," he rasped, his voice grinding like two boulders crashing together. "I just need him standing in front of me."

Rianor fell silent for a second.

"He tortured our sister," Riven continued, the words spilling from his lips like boiling lava.

Behind them, Borch and Thorne tightened their grips on their weapons. The sheer pressure of the Grand General’s killing intent solidified the air around them.

Rianor stopped walking.

"I know," he replied quietly.

Riven whipped his massive frame around, glaring at his younger brother with pure wrath. "If you know... then why the hell are you still running your mouth, instead of helping me slaughter every last one of them?!"

Rianor stared straight into those bloodshot, furious eyes from behind his thin glasses.

"Because if we charge in blind, the probability of us dying spikes," Rianor fired back, his tone cold enough to freeze fire. "And if we die... who’s going to make them pay for what they did to Rumina?"

Riven froze. He breathed heavily, white vapor pluming into the freezing air with every exhale.

"We make them pay together," Rianor stated firmly, stepping a few inches closer to his older brother. "You take the vanguard and cleave their ranks. I’ll take the rear and dismantle their runic circuits. Borch and Thorne cover the blind spots. We breach... and we level that fortress from the inside out."

Silence crept over the tunnel for five full seconds.

Slowly, the feral rage in Riven’s eyes receded. The raw emotion calcified into an incredibly precise, utterly lethal combat focus.

"Hmm. Fine," Riven gave a slow nod.

The four of them turned around and surged forward, tearing straight into the darkness.