I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World-Chapter 92: We Have to Return

The fire crackled in the clearing as dusk fell. What was once a chaotic battlefield had now quieted into a graveyard of scorched armor, shattered weapons, and still-burning underbrush. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the dense treetops, painting everything in shades of rust and crimson.

Inigo stood over the body of one of the fallen elites, crouching down to inspect the strange emblem Lyra had picked up earlier. It was small—no larger than a palm—but intricately carved. A black serpent coiled around a burning tower, its eye etched with a crimson gemstone. The symbol pulsed faintly, as if it still carried a residual charge of magic.

"This isn’t just branding," Inigo muttered. "This is a seal."

Arienne stood beside him, her white robes now stained with dirt and ash. "The enchantments woven into it are beyond common warbinding. I sense layers of compulsion magic, blood sigils... even sacrificial binding. Someone fed lives into this."

"That’s sick," Lyra muttered. She had found a stump and was restringing her bow with swift, practiced hands. "This wasn’t a simple hit squad. This was meant to send a message."

Korrik let out a snort as he dragged a body toward a growing pile. "Well, message failed. We’re still breathing."

"Barely," Inigo said. "And we’re not done."

He pocketed the emblem and rose to his feet, brushing soot from his coat. "Arienne, can you trace where this thing was made? Or who made it?"

She frowned. "Not from here. I’d need a sanctified scrying basin, runic amplifiers, and probably the blood of the warbinder himself."

"Bit late for that last one," Korrik muttered, wiping gore from his axe.

"We might be able to work around it," Arienne added thoughtfully. "If we bring the emblem to the Arcane Registry in Elandra, they might be able to identify its maker. These kinds of sigils require rare inks and materials. Someone would’ve had to register their imports or black-market trades."

Inigo nodded. "Then we’re heading back. We can’t risk continuing the Rift mission with an unknown player this bold operating right under our noses."

Lyra looked up sharply. "The king’s not going to like that."

"He’ll understand," Inigo replied. "We eliminate the local threat first. Otherwise, we’ll be fighting on two fronts."

Korrik slammed the MRAP’s back door shut. "Well, she still runs. Barely."

"I’ll drive," Inigo said, climbing into the front seat. "Everyone, mount up. We move before night fully falls."

The road back to Elandra was quieter than before—too quiet. No birds. No wildlife. Just the low growl of the MRAP’s engine as it rolled through forest roads choked with shadow. Lyra sat in the gunner seat, scanning the treetops. Arienne leaned back, hands clasped as she focused on mending Korrik’s damaged gauntlet with a soft stream of healing light.

Inside the cabin, Inigo kept his eyes forward. His thoughts swirled like a storm.

That warbinder hadn’t just been strong—he’d been disciplined, coordinated, fanatical. And he’d been part of something bigger. That emblem burned like a warning in his pocket.

A cult? A guild? A mercenary league?

No. This was different. More methodical. More malicious.

He had seen enough games and warzones to know when something was designed to destabilize rather than defeat.

A day later.

"ETA twenty minutes," he said aloud.

"Good," Lyra muttered. "I could use a hot bath and a bottle of elven wine."

"We’re going straight to the citadel," Inigo reminded her. "No pit stops."

She groaned. "You’re no fun anymore."

By the time they reached Elandra, the sky had darkened completely. The city gates opened without delay, guards recognizing the crest painted on the MRAP’s side and waving them through. Torches flickered along the high stone walls, and the city’s towering spires rose like fangs in the moonlight.

They pulled up to the Guild Headquarters first.

Thorne was already waiting.

The old Guildmaster stood with arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He wore a long coat over his armor, silver hair tied back, and a thin scar down his right cheek twitching slightly.

"You were supposed to be heading towards the rift" he said coldly.

"We did," Inigo replied as he stepped out. "Ran into an ambush. Mercenaries—no, cultists. Bound by war magic. Organized and well-armed."

Thorne’s eyes narrowed. "And?"

Inigo tossed the emblem at his feet. "They wore that."

Thorne picked it up and inspected it for a long moment.

His expression shifted—barely—but enough to notice.

"You’ve seen it before," Lyra said sharply.

"I’ve heard rumors," Thorne admitted. "A cult operating in the shadow of the western mountains. Black Tower acolytes. They were wiped out a decade ago. Supposedly."

"Well," Korrik grunted. "They’re back."

"I’ll summon the Arcane Registry," Thorne said. "They’ll want to test this. And you’ll all need to make a report to the king."

"He’ll be told," Inigo said. "But not until we learn more."

Hours later, they stood once again in the royal palace.

This time, the throne room was dimmer, quieter. Only the king, Queen Lira, and Princess Aeralyn were present, seated around a long table piled with maps and intelligence scrolls.

"You did well to return," the king said after Inigo recounted the battle. "And you were right to postpone the mission."

Aeralyn tapped her finger on the emblem. "This symbol matches one we found in the ruins near the Fellwood Pass last month. Our scouts dismissed it as petty necromancy. We were wrong."

Queen Lira looked to Arienne. "Can it be traced?"

"Yes," she answered. "But I’ll need access to the upper sanctum and a clean source of divine water. If the caster left a signature, I’ll find it."

"Granted," the king said.

Inigo leaned forward. "If this group is working in cells, we need to root them out now. I want to lead the strike team."

"You’ve already been chosen," Aeralyn replied. "The Guild will give you full operational control. And we’ll expand your party if needed."

Korrik coughed. "More friends, huh?"

"Hopefully ones who don’t explode," Lyra muttered.

The king looked grave. "Find their headquarters. If they are gathering for war again, we cannot afford to let them grow."

Inigo nodded. "We’ll burn them out."

That night, Inigo stood alone atop the western battlements, staring into the night.

The city lights below glowed soft and golden. Somewhere out there—beyond the hills and rivers—was the heart of the darkness that had tried to kill them.

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