Ale was a bit surprised that everything was going so smoothly. The Tenebrous didn't seem to suspect his identity at all, and he oscillated between relief and disbelief. He had feared that the lack of a white beard—a defining feature of his adversary, the dark mage—or his different voice would give him away. Yet, the Tenebrous' enchanted mask proved to be more powerful than he had anticipated.

This mask, crafted with complex magic to ensure the anonymity of its members, not only erased the wearer’s distinctive facial features but also altered their voice. Ale’s tone had been transformed into something neutral and indiscernible, betraying neither his gender nor his age. It was an almost perfect illusion, and he felt invisible, even to the most fervent believers.

He had also made an unexpected discovery: the man he had fought and defeated, the dark mage, was none other than the leader of this branch of the Tenebrous. But Ale soon realized, with some surprise, that taking on the role of the leader had its advantages. The subordinates treated him with reverent fear, avoiding eye contact for too long and remaining on edge in his presence. This servile attitude made things easier for him: no one dared to ask questions or look too closely, allowing him to move freely without raising any suspicions.

He had barely entered the base when Bimo, a young Tenebrous with the appearance of an eager underling, approached him with urgency. The young man, seemingly eager to make a good impression, showed no suspicion. On the contrary, his behavior bordered on sycophantic, as if trying to win favor with the "leader." Without wasting time, Bimo guided him to the ritual hall, his enthusiasm evident in his steps, eager to play the role of a devoted follower.

“Beyond this door lies the ritual hall,” Bimo announced, stopping before an imposing stone door at the bottom of the staircase they had just descended. He turned his head slightly toward Ale, adding in a respectful voice, “Only you have the authority to open it.”

Ale nodded, straightening up to thank Bimo for his assistance before stepping forward toward the door. Bimo, as if understanding the gravity of the moment, took a few steps back, fading into the shadows to allow his "leader" to act discreetly. Ale took a deep breath, his mind tense. He knew the moment of truth was approaching.

He placed his hand on the cold, rough surface of the door, feeling the ominous vibrations of dark magic sealing it. The barrier was similar to the one he had encountered at the base's entrance, a dark energy that pulsed and resisted any intrusion.

Ale opened his palm, letting his mana gather until a beam of shadowy, luminous energy burst from his hand. The power spread in a fluid current, forming a complex symbol that glowed intensely. The black seal fought back for a moment, pulsing like a dark heart, before shattering into a myriad of shadowy fragments that evaporated into the air.

He placed his hands on either side of the door and pushed with all his strength. The stone slid slowly, emitting a sinister creak that echoed down the corridor. The spectral light from the embedded green crystals along the walls cast shifting shadows over the contours of the door, making the atmosphere even more foreboding.

“Prfff!” Ale suddenly felt a searing pain pierce his back, followed by the violent sound of impact. A black fireball, the size of a clenched fist, had struck him, sending waves of blistering agony through his body. He winced, gritting his teeth to stifle a scream, and spun around despite the pain.

“Who are you? What happened to my leader?” Bimo’s voice echoed, cold and accusatory. Although his mask hid his face, concealing all expressions, his tone was filled with palpable anger, a rage that cut through the oppressive aura of the place.

Ale didn’t waste a second. Seeing more magical projectiles forming in Bimo’s hands, he quickly knelt and summoned a rock shield from the ground. The rocky barrier emerged just in time, the dark fireballs slamming into it with a dull thud, scattering shards of black energy that crackled around.

“Did you really think you could fool me?” Bimo spat the words with contempt, his fists clenched.

“You don’t even understand the true nature of our magic!” His voice twisted with fury, betraying his humiliation. “You won’t leave here alive! My comrades are on their way, and even if you’re stronger than me, you won’t be able to defeat us all.”

Ale felt his heartbeat quicken. In the distance, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridors, a sign that other Tenebrous were closing in, alerted by the sounds of the fight. Time was running out, and panic threatened to overwhelm him.

Without hesitation, he rushed into the ritual hall, hoping to find a place to catch his breath and formulate a strategy. The searing pain in his back offered no respite. Though Bimo’s black fireball wasn’t the most powerful attack, the point-blank impact had caused deep wounds. Ale could feel his bruised ribs, some possibly fractured, and the burns on his flesh sent waves of agony throughout his body. Fortunately, his regenerative power kept him standing, preventing him from collapsing despite the intense pain.

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Bimo stepped into the hall, his eyes fixed on Ale with fierce disdain. “You’ve done well so far,” he taunted, his voice reverberating through the room. “Your dark magic looks like ours, but a fake remains a fake.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Ale. “When you used your magic to open the door, I noticed the difference immediately. It’s impure, far less precise, less intense than ours. My leader exudes real power, raw and aggressive, something you could never imitate!”

He advanced, looking increasingly menacing. “I don’t know how you managed to beat him,” he continued, his words dripping with contempt. “Maybe you ambushed him or set a cowardly trap. But it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re going to pay for what you did!”

Ale felt a cold sweat trickle down his neck. He didn’t have the luxury to respond or defend himself verbally. His mind raced, searching for a way to escape before Bimo and the other Tenebrous overwhelmed him.

The ritual hall was bathed in an eerie spectral light, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. Massive pillars, carved with mythical creatures and ancient symbols, rose toward a vaulted ceiling covered in cracks.

The floor of the hall was inscribed with ritual circles carved deep into the stone. Unlike simple drawings, these grooves were filled with animal blood. The crimson liquid glowed faintly, tracing the complex patterns snaking across the floor, pulsing like the veins of a living creature.

At the center of the room stood a black stone altar, engraved with luminous runes vibrating with oppressive magic. A relic shaped like a horn, adorned with ancient carvings, floated above the altar. Its colors constantly shifted, emanating a terrifying aura and emitting deep, primal sounds. The torches mounted on the walls cast flickering shadows that danced like specters. The acrid smell of blood hung thickly in the air, suffocating, forcing Ale to suppress a gag.

Ale took cover behind a pillar, his breathing ragged and his muscles tense. He muttered a healing incantation, “Vitalis Mendacio,” and a green light burst from his hands, enveloping his bruised ribs. But he immediately regretted it: the glowing light betrayed his position in the shadows.

“I see you!” Bimo’s voice hissed mercilessly. Black orbs shot from his hands, crashing violently into the pillar, shaking it and creating craters of shattered stone. Ale rolled to dodge the attack, dashing toward the next pillar.

“Petrallian!” Ale shouted, extending his hand toward Bimo. Stone vines burst from the ground, lunging to ensnare his opponent's legs. But Bimo leaped into the air with surprising agility, narrowly avoiding the rocky claws.

Mid-air, Bimo spat out an incantation: “Fumo Noxius!” A dense, toxic cloud of black smoke poured from his mouth, quickly spreading throughout the ritual hall. The smoke enveloped Ale, seeping into his lungs and burning like thousands of ants devouring his flesh. Ale felt the currents of malevolent magic gnawing at his skin, sending a shiver of dread through him.

He waved his hand in front of him, summoning a gust of wind, “Ventus Repulsa,” to blow the smoke toward the entrance. But before he could catch his breath, Bimo drew a whip of spatial-temporal magic. “You can’t escape me!” he yelled. The whip emitted a sinister aura. He cracked it, and the weapon lashed out, slithering through the air with deadly precision.

Ale ducked behind another pillar, but the whip pursued him relentlessly. This wasn’t an ordinary weapon. The whip seemed almost alive, extending far beyond its apparent limits, from two meters to over ten, continuing to chase Ale, pillar to pillar.

“This whip is imbued with my family’s ancestral magic!” Bimo shouted, a malicious gleam flashing behind his magical mask. “You’ll never get away from it!”

Ale gritted his teeth, barely evading each strike. The whip allowed him no respite, offering no time to cast a defensive or counter spell. The throbbing pain in his body didn’t help, but he knew he had to find an opening, and fast.

Ale glanced behind him. The whip, imbued with an unstoppable energy, thrashed wildly after him like a ravenous beast eager to ensnare its prey. An idea sparked in Ale’s mind, and he quickened his pace, zigzagging deftly between the massive pillars. With each step, he moved faster, his movements growing smoother, almost fierce, while the whip, enraged, lashed with mounting fury, determined not to lose him.

The magical whip, like an infernal serpent, coiled around and tangled with the columns, forming a complex knot. Its energy grew taut, straining to the utmost as it rushed faster and faster, as if desperately trying not to lose Ale. Bimo watched, his eyes fixed on the two glowing orbs weaving between the pillars, his heart pounding with excitement. He was inwardly jubilant, believing himself on the verge of victory. The magical relic, this ancestral whip, was his ultimate weapon. Without it, he wouldn’t know how to win this fight against Ale.

But lost in his triumphant thoughts, Bimo failed to realize what was happening. Suddenly, one of the glowing orbs turned and raced directly toward him, climbing at a sharp 90-degree angle. Ale, with precise calculation, brushed dangerously close to his opponent, his human face briefly visible beneath the dark mask. Bimo felt his heart skip a beat, shock and confusion exploding in his mind.

He had no time to comprehend what was happening. Behind Ale, the other glowing point approached with blinding speed: the whip. In its momentum, unable to change direction like Ale, it hurtled straight toward its master. Bimo, paralyzed with surprise, didn’t even have time to react. The whip, now uncontrollable, pierced straight through him.

Bimo collapsed, his legs buckling beneath him. His eyes widened beneath his magical mask, confusion and pain mingling in a final moment of disbelief. The whip, freed from his control, fell heavily to the ground, reverting to its original form, now harmless.