Chapter : 230

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Karna received the command and bowed his head on his jungle perch, far away. He did not question it. He did not suggest alternatives. He simply accepted, because his master's word was law. He faded from the branch like a golden ghost, dissolving back into the dimensional space between worlds, where he would watch and wait.

The telepathic link closed. Ken's mind returned to the present. His body still had not moved. His breathing was still the slow, rhythmic breathing of a sleeping man. Nobody in the camp had noticed anything.

But something had changed. In the depths of Ken's half-closed eyes, there was a flicker of something dangerous. Not anger. Not fear. Something colder than either. Something that looked a lot like intent.

He lay there for another minute, perfectly still, running through the tactical situation in his mind. He needed to guide the team toward the village without revealing how he knew where it was. He needed them to find the tribe naturally, or at least naturally enough that nobody would suspect he had outside information. That meant being subtle. Being patient. Being the lazy, clueless Ken that everyone expected.

The cultists were dangerous, but they were not the real threat. The skeleton warrior was powerful, but it was a blunt instrument, easily outmaneuvered. The real challenge was freeing the tribe without casualties, and that required a plan far more delicate than any battlefield charge. Ken's fingers twitched slightly under his jacket, the only outward sign that his mind was working at full speed.

The enslaved Dimitri tribesmen could not be freed by force. The Black Magic that controlled them was rooted in the skeleton warrior's power. If the skeleton was destroyed, the mind control would break. But destroying the skeleton meant fighting through forty enslaved people who would attack anyone who threatened their master.

It was a circle of problems, each one feeding into the next. The enslaved tribe would fight to protect the very thing that enslaved them. The skeleton warrior would fight to protect the cultists. The cultists would sacrifice everything to complete their ritual. A lesser strategist would have been stumped. Ken was not a lesser strategist. He was already three moves ahead, seeing the solution that everyone else would miss.

But that solution required patience. And it required trust. Trust that the 13th Unit could handle their part while he handled his. Trust that his teammates would not ask too many questions about how he always seemed to know things he should not know.

Ken opened one eye just a crack. He looked across the camp at Princess Iris, who was still staring into the fire with worried, determined eyes. She was so strong. So focused. So ready to sacrifice everything for the people she cared about. It was one of the things he respected about her, even if he would never say it out loud.

He looked at Naomi next. She was still on watch, still alert, still fierce. Even exhausted and covered in mud, she was the most reliable person on the team. She would protect everyone with her life. He knew that with absolute certainty.

Ken closed his eye again. His face settled back into its usual lazy, relaxed expression. The drool returned. The mouth fell open. He looked exactly like what he always looked like: a useless, sleepy commoner who contributed nothing.

But somewhere in the jungle, the Hollow cultists continued their dark work, completely unaware that they had been found. Completely unaware that they were being watched by a golden spirit who answered to a master far more dangerous than they could ever imagine. Completely unaware that the lazy boy sleeping by the campfire was already planning their downfall.

And in the village across the clearing, the enslaved Dimitri tribesmen stood in perfect, silent rows. Their purple eyes glowed in the darkness. Their bodies moved like puppets on invisible strings. They built and carried and worked without rest, without hope, without a single thought of their own.

All except one.

Deep in the back of Chief Paul Dimitri's mind, behind the wall of dark magic that had swallowed his will, a tiny spark still burned. It was not freedom. It was not hope. It was just a spark. A memory of who he used to be. A memory of his tribe, his family, his people. A memory of the RabbitKing Spear in his hand and the pride of his ancestors in his heart.

The spark was barely there. It flickered like a candle in a hurricane, threatening to go out at any moment. But it was there. And somewhere, in the space between dimensions, a golden spirit with burning white eyes saw it and made note of it.

Karna reported one final detail to his master before going silent. “The enslaved chief. There is a remnant of resistance in him. Faint, but present. He may be of use.”

Ken's response was immediate and cold. “Noted. Preserve the spark. Do not interfere. Let the narrative unfold.”

The link closed. The jungle was quiet again, except for the crackle of the campfire, the hum of insects, and the soft, fake snoring of Ken Eliot, who was definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent asleep.

Naomi glanced over at him from her watch position. His fake snoring was terrible. It sounded like a dying cat trying to imitate a trombone. She rolled her eyes and looked away.

“Idiot,” she muttered. But her voice was soft. Almost fond. She pulled her knees up to her chest and stared into the dark jungle, watching for threats that she could see and fight. The threats she could not see, the ones that moved between dimensions and answered to lazy boys who snored like broken instruments, those were someone else's problem.

Ken's lips twitched. Just barely. Just for a second. Then he went back to his terrible fake snoring, and the night swallowed everything in silence.

The clock was still ticking. Seven days for Luna. Three days until the red moon. And somewhere in the darkness, a golden spirit watched, and a lazy boy planned, and a spark of resistance flickered in the heart of a broken chief.

The ritual's reagent was safe for now. But the ritual itself would never be completed. Ken Eliot had already decided that. And when Ken Eliot decided something, the universe had a funny way of agreeing with him.

---

The jungle had no mercy. Three more hours of hacking through vines, wading through mud, and swatting at bugs the size of small birds. Ken's stolen map had promised a clear path forward, but the only thing clear was that the map was completely useless.

The humidity pressed down like a wet blanket. Sweat dripped off every face. The air was so thick it felt like breathing soup. Giant mosquitoes buzzed around their heads, and strange beetles clicked from every direction.

Ken dragged his feet behind the group. His stomach had been growling for the past hour, loud enough to scare away small animals. He clutched it with both hands and groaned.

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