The Glitched Mage-Chapter 68: Mal

Damon, still shaking from the ordeal, scrambled to his feet. His red eyes darted to the others, searching for reassurance, but all he found was silent expectation. He swallowed thickly before reaching into the leather pouch at his waist, fingers trembling slightly as he retrieved a rolled parchment. The moment he unfurled it, a faint glow of deep violet runes flickered across the aged surface, the arcane markings pulsing with restrained power.

"A teleportation scroll," Aria murmured, eyes narrowing as she took in the complexity of the inscriptions. "This is high-tier work."

Damon nodded quickly. "Mal created it. He's… well, he's gotten good at inscription magic. Really good. We've needed something reliable to move our people without being detected."

Riven's eyes flickered with the faintest trace of curiosity. High-tier inscription magic wasn't common. Creating a scroll like this required not only talent, but an incredible amount of mental strength.

Damon hesitated, glancing between them before holding out the scroll. "It'll take us straight to the encampment. It's safe, I promise."

Riven didn't speak. He merely stepped forward and placed a hand over the scroll, his abyssal aura flaring just enough to test its integrity. The magic embedded in the parchment trembled, but it held firm. Satisfied, he withdrew his hand and gave a curt nod.

"Activate it."

Damon pressed his palm against the scroll, and immediately, the runes ignited with brilliant light. The magic surged outward, forming a swirling vortex of deep, shadowy blue. The air around them trembled, the edges of the clearing distorting as the spell took hold.

Then, the world warped.

—x—

This chapt𝒆r is updated by frёewebηovel.cѳm.

They landed with an abrupt jolt.

The air was thick with the scent of decay.

The teleportation had been seamless, but the moment they arrived, the shift in atmosphere was suffocating. The sky above was heavy with rolling clouds, dark and swollen as if mourning the land beneath it. The once-proud capital of the Shadow Kingdom lay in ruins before them—a graveyard of shattered stone, collapsed spires, and roads choked with creeping vines and ash.

What had once been a city brimming with power and grandeur was now a wasteland of broken history.

Yet, amidst the wreckage, life stirred.

A small encampment had been erected within the heart of the ruins. Makeshift tents and stone structures formed a defensive perimeter, their arrangement strategic and efficient. Fires burned in controlled pits, illuminating the figures moving within. Warriors stood guard at the edges, their armor mismatched but their posture disciplined. Some were sharpening weapons, others tending to wounded, and beyond them, civilians—children, elderly, bloodlines of those who had once belonged to the kingdom—huddled together in the meager shelter they had carved out for themselves.

Riven's gaze swept over them, his mind calculating.

These were his people.

The lost. The abandoned. The remnants of his fallen kingdom.

The moment the guards noticed them, hands flew to weapons, eyes widening as they took in the unfamiliar figures. But before any action could be taken, a figure stepped forward from the center of the encampment.

And Riven stilled.

A young man, dressed in dark robes embroidered with ancient sigils, strode toward them. His silver eyes—sharp, intelligent, unyielding—locked onto Riven's with something akin to curiosity. His hair was long and almost white in colour. His features were delicate, ethereal, holding an unsettling beauty that seemed almost inhuman in the dim light.

The young man stopped a few feet away, his gaze flickering over the group before settling on Damon. "You took longer than expected," he said, his voice smooth, quiet, yet carrying weight.

Damon scratched the back of his head, shifting awkwardly. "Yeah, well… ran into some complications."

The young man's gaze finally slid back to Riven. He studied him, unreadable, before exhaling softly. "So. You're finally here."

Aria, who had been silent, stepped forward. "Mal."

Mal's head snapped toward her, his expression shifting for the first time. Something raw flashed across his face—a deep, buried emotion that flickered too fast to name. "Aria," he breathed, voice lower now, softer.

Riven's eyes narrowed slightly.

Aria's hand twitched at her side, fingers curling as she regarded him. "You've changed."

Mal's lips quirked, but there was no humor in it. "So have you."

Riven, who had been taking everything in with quiet observation, exhaled slowly. "So… you two know each other?"

A tense silence.

Then Mal turned to Riven and tilted his head slightly. "Of course we do," he said simply. "She's my sister."

Riven's gaze sharpened, the weight of his stare pressing down on Mal like an unspoken command for explanation. He had not expected this. Aria—his cold, calculating assassin—had never once mentioned family, let alone a brother. Yet now, standing before him, was a man who not only carried the same silver-eyed intensity but possessed magic that reeked of something eerily familiar.

A necromancer.

Riven's thoughts slowed, calculating. It was the first time in this life he had encountered another of his kind. And worse—he hadn't seen it coming.

Aria's expression was unreadable, but the tension in her posture was unmistakable. She and Mal stood mere feet apart, yet the distance between them felt impossibly vast.

"You should have told me," Riven said finally, his voice cool, but edged with something unreadable.

Aria didn't flinch. "It wasn't relevant."

Riven let the words hang in the air for a moment longer before shifting his attention back to Mal. "You ignored my summons."

Mal met his gaze without flinching. "We were preparing for you."

Riven exhaled through his nose, irritation creeping into his otherwise measured composure. "Is that what you call it?" His voice lowered, dark and commanding. "I summon my generals, and instead of coming, you disappear into the ruins of my fallen kingdom, rallying people under my name without my approval?"

Mal held his ground, though Damon took a cautious step back.

"We did what needed to be done," Mal answered evenly, though his fingers twitched slightly at his sides. "People who once lived here can sense a change in the air. Even if you didn't announce it yourself, the people of the Shadow Kingdom can feel your presence once more— I just wanted to give them some sort of hope and assurance that what they felt was real."

Riven remained silent, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Mal with a look that sent a chill through the air. The weight of his presence alone was suffocating, pressing against the young necromancer like an unseen force.

"Hope?" Riven's voice was soft, yet razor-sharp, slicing through the heavy silence like a blade against stone. "Assurance?" He took a slow, measured step forward, and Mal, despite his best efforts, instinctively tensed. "Did you think I needed you to grant them hope in my name?"

Mal held firm, though his fingers twitched at his sides, betraying the fraying edge of his composure. "No, my King," he admitted, his voice steady despite the weight pressing down on him. "But the people—your people—needed to hear it before it was too late."

Riven exhaled, irritation curling at the edges of his control. "The people needed only one thing," he said, voice dropping into something colder, heavier. "Their King."

Another step forward, and the air thickened, suffocating. The abyssal energy slumbering beneath his skin stirred, unfurling into the world around him. Shadows trembled at his feet, slithering toward him, bending, stretching unnaturally as if drawn to his presence.

"I've fought tirelessly to return to my kingdom," Riven continued, his tone still composed, but dark with something unrelenting, something vast. "Nyx, Krux, and now Aria have been at my side since the moment they were summoned—without question, without hesitation."

He took another step, abyssal flames whispering up his arms, their dark tendrils flickering and coiling like hungry serpents.

"But where," he said, his voice laced with quiet fury, "were you?"

The words hit like a thunderclap.

Mal's breath hitched slightly. His shoulders were rigid, his body motionless, but for the first time, uncertainty flickered across his silver eyes.

"Where were you," Riven pressed, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming, "when I needed my most loyal generals? Where were you when I actually needed your strength?"

With every step, the weight of his presence grew heavier. The ground trembled beneath them, and the very air crackled with raw, untamed power. The survivors who had gathered began to whisper, murmurs of unease and awe rippling through them as the sheer force of Riven's fury became palpable.

Mal struggled to keep his breathing steady. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, his body instinctively recoiling under the crushing force of his King's presence. He forced himself to meet Riven's gaze—those endless, abyssal blue eyes that swallowed the light.

"I…" Mal's voice faltered, caught in his throat as the abyss surged around him. His lungs felt too tight, as though the air itself had turned against him. "I… have failed you."

Riven stopped only inches away, towering over him, the flames at his arms flickering violently. Mal could feel the heat, feel the sheer pressure radiating from his King's body. His mind screamed at him to lower his gaze, to fall back, to submit—but he held on, barely.

Until Riven spoke again.

"Kneel."

The command wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

It echoed across the ruined wasteland, reaching into every hollow space of the kingdom, stretching out like a shadow with no end. A shudder rippled through the very air, and finally, the last fragile thread of resistance within Mal snapped.

His knees hit the ground before he even realized he was falling.

His body buckled under the sheer force pressing down on him, his arms trembling as his breath left him in a sharp exhale. The moment he collapsed, something deeper shifted.

One by one, the gathered survivors, the scattered remnants of the Shadow Kingdom, felt the call of their King. The weight of his authority—his undeniable existence—settled into their bones.

And they, too, fell to their knees.

Wails filled the air, the sounds of desperate relief, of shattered hope reforging itself anew.

"The King has returned!"

"Long live the Shadow King!"

"We're finally saved!"

Their voices rose into a crescendo, a frenzied devotion pouring from lips that had long since forgotten what it meant to hope.

Riven stood amidst the chaos, his expression unreadable, his abyssal fire still flickering like a storm barely contained. His gaze swept over the kneeling masses—his people—before settling back on Mal, who remained bowed at his feet.

For a long, weighted moment, Riven simply stared at him.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Do not fail me again."