I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World-Chapter 93: They Are Making Rifts?

The next morning came cold and gray.

Clouds hung low over Elandra like a blanket of ash, casting a somber hue over the city’s stone towers and copper domes. A thin fog curled along the battlements, and the banners of the Adventurer’s Guild snapped softly in the breeze.

Inigo stood by the MRAP in the courtyard of the inner citadel, arms crossed, staring at a newly delivered crate beside the vehicle. It had arrived from the Arcane Registry just minutes ago—delivered by two mages wearing deep green robes marked with the sigil of the Royal Seers. One of them had carried a sealed scroll; the other, the crate itself.

Inside the crate was a single item: a black compass-like disc etched with fine golden lines. It pulsed faintly with mana, spinning lazily even though no magnetic field should have affected it.

Arienne examined it now, holding the disc between her palms like a sacred relic. "It’s called a Tracefinder. It uses residual mana signatures embedded in artifacts to detect the general direction of their creator. It’s not exact, but if we follow its pull, we’ll get close to where that warbinder was created."

"How close?" Lyra asked, checking the fletching on a new batch of arrows.

"Close enough to smell the blood magic," Arienne said grimly.

Korrik thumped his chest with a mailed fist. "Good. I’m ready to knock on their door."

"Then let’s not waste time," Inigo said, climbing into the MRAP’s driver seat. "Mount up. The faster we move, the less time they have to hide."

They rolled out an hour later, past the western gate of Elandra. Guards saluted as the reinforced vehicle passed through the final checkpoint, their expressions grim but respectful.

This time, they had company.

A new companion had joined them—Captain Garen Vanguard, a Royal Guard captain assigned by the king himself. He rode a sleek, jet-black stallion alongside the MRAP, his armor polished to a mirror sheen and his longsword sheathed in a case engraved with arcane runes.

He was young—perhaps no more than thirty—but carried himself with the composure of a seasoned officer.

"You don’t talk much, Captain," Lyra noted from the turret seat, glancing down at him as the vehicle rumbled alongside.

"I prefer listening," Garen said. "And observing, especially that carriage of yours."

"We are befuddled too at first, but you’ll get accustomed to it soon," Korrik chuckled.

Their route took them north first—following a lesser-known forest trail that paralleled the ancient trade roads—before veering west toward the roots of the Skyfall Mountains.

The Tracefinder pulsed steadily in Arienne’s lap. Each time they turned off-course, the needle glowed brighter in correction.

Hours passed.

The forest deepened. Trees grew denser, their twisted limbs clawing at the sky like skeletal hands. Moss blanketed everything, and the road narrowed to a single overgrown path, barely wide enough for the MRAP.

Then the needle stopped spinning.

Arienne frowned. "We’re here."

Inigo brought the vehicle to a halt beside a ruined stone marker—weathered and crumbling, half-swallowed by ivy. Whatever village or outpost it once marked was long gone. Only the cracked stones remained.

The forest beyond the marker thickened unnaturally. Even with midday light above, the interior was dark—too dark.

"Magic’s strong here," Arienne murmured. "Can you feel it?"

Everyone nodded.

Inigo popped the MRAP’s side compartment and retrieved his M4 Carbine. He handed Korrik a stack of smoke grenades, gave Lyra a pouch of explosive arrowheads, and tossed Arienne a crystal lantern enchanted for dark-space penetration.

"Standard sweep," Inigo said. "Korrik on point. Arienne and Garen in the center. Lyra and I on the flanks. Eyes open. No assumptions."

They advanced into the woods on foot, weapons drawn.

At first, the only sound was the crunch of leaves under boots and the faint hum of the Tracefinder clutched in Arienne’s hands.

Then came the whispers.

Faint. Distant. Wordless at first. Then just on the edge of recognition—half-thoughts, fragmented memories.

"Is that..." Lyra whispered.

"They’re echoes," Arienne said. "The trees were enchanted. They absorb trauma, conflict... death."

Garen stepped over a shattered helm half-buried in moss. "This was a battlefield."

"A long time ago," Arienne confirmed. "But the magic never left."

Suddenly, the Tracefinder flared bright gold.

Inigo raised his hand. "Hold."

Up ahead, the trees opened into a clearing.

In the center stood a stone obelisk—twelve feet tall, covered in black runes that seemed to move when no one looked directly at them. Around it lay the remains of a campsite: extinguished fire pits, collapsed tents, and bloodstained tools scattered across the ground.

"Looks like someone left in a hurry," Garen said.

"Or they didn’t leave at all," Korrik muttered.

As they approached, the runes began to shimmer. Arienne raised her hand and cast a warding circle around the group. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

"That’s no ordinary obelisk," she warned. "It’s a focus. Probably tied to the warbinder cell."

Lyra paced around the site. "No bodies?"

Inigo crouched near a tent, brushing aside the flap with his shotgun. Inside was a diary—its pages still intact, though the ink had faded. He flipped through it.

"...Day thirty-two. More supplies arriving from the Black Tower. The binding stones are unstable, but Master Kael assures us the next ritual will succeed. The scouts claim Elandra suspects nothing. If we can hold this outpost another month, the gateway will open..."

Inigo looked up sharply. "Gateway?"

"A portal," Arienne whispered. "This obelisk... it wasn’t for summoning. It was a tether. A gate anchor."

"To where?" Korrik asked.

As if in answer, the obelisk suddenly pulsed red. The runes ignited.

The ground shook.

"Get back!" Arienne yelled.

A vortex of energy spiraled upward from the base of the obelisk, forming a swirling rift of light and shadow. The temperature dropped. Frost formed on nearby grass. And from the heart of the rift—something began to emerge.

Inigo raised his shotgun.

A skeletal figure stepped through, draped in black robes with chains dangling from its arms. Its skull was carved with glowing glyphs. Behind it, more shadows shifted—lurking just beyond the portal.

"Contact!" Inigo barked. "Form up!"

Korrik leapt forward with a roar, intercepting the first skeletal warrior with a brutal shield slam. Bones shattered.

Garen unsheathed his sword, the runes along the blade flaring to life as he parried a strike and drove his blade into a second creature’s chest. Light burst from the impact, vaporizing the undead instantly.

Lyra fired enchanted arrows into the portal, striking figures before they could fully manifest. Arienne chanted rapidly, her voice rising in a prayer that summoned a dome of golden light around them.

"We have to close the rift!" she shouted.

"How?" Inigo asked, blasting another skeletal creature off its feet.

"The obelisk! We destroy it—now!"

Korrik grunted. "On it!"

He charged, ignoring the clawed hands raking his armor, and slammed his axe into the base of the obelisk. It cracked—but not enough.

Inigo threw a smoke grenade to obscure the area, then sprinted forward beside him.

"I’ve got a better way."

He reached for the system interface.

[Item Purchased: C4 Plastic Explosive — Timer: 10 Seconds]

A small brick of high-yield plastic explosive appeared in his hand. He slapped it to the obelisk’s base, armed the timer, and shouted:

"Get clear!"

Everyone scrambled back just as the charge detonated.

The explosion split the obelisk down the middle. The rift shrieked—yes, shrieked—as if alive, before imploding into a point of red light and vanishing with a thunderclap.

Silence fell.

Nothing moved.

Korrik coughed and looked around. "Everyone alive?"

"Barely," Lyra said, pulling herself up from a bush.

Garen nodded, wiping blood from his cheek. "That’s one rift closed."

Arienne stood slowly, her face pale. "But that was just one."

Inigo stared at the smoking crater where the obelisk had stood.

"They’re trying to open multiple."

Lyra looked at him. "How many do you think?"

He didn’t answer.

But in his heart, he knew the answer wasn’t one. It wasn’t ten.

It was far, far worse.

And the race to stop them had just begun.

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