Sandstorms blew around, carrying the dust and filling the air with tiny specks of rocks. It was hard to breathe in such an environment, but some people didn't care or didn't mind this.

Looking at his companions, that spoke words of insensible blubbers, Razmund's unblinking eyes returned to their previous splendor. He was calm after all, and he needed to retain this notion in his head.

He understood many things in the past week, and a sight from the past entered his mind. He shouldn't be upset to hear the words of his companions, but what happened a week ago wasn't such a nice time at all. His eyes were still veiny and bloody, indicating some eye technique or it was like this because he wasn't blinking.

No hesitation or fear was within them, and neither a lot of care about a lot of things. Greed and strength were more to them along with his resolute and serious face. Rather than anything else, the priorities of the present moved forth, and he had to move on.

His eyes were more than noticeable to any common eye, giving him a tough look and grinding thoughts of what went behind them. That was at least what Paulfred and Waldorf noticed, since it was the only thing they could see. Even they didn't know what went on behind them.

They didn't dare to argue with their master. It was never worth it, considering the stuff that was happening for the last week. It wasn't fun going to the Centralis Kingdom's capitol, and it seemed Razmund's case wasn't pleasant at all. In fact, it was full of holes, interests, and all kinds of problems that affected way too many things.

They already had some guesses about that, because they didn't have a choice but to follow him behind.

“If you have time to worry about useless and unimportant problems such as coming to this place, then you better train your Paths better. This place doesn't want weaklings, as I said before. You could become food for the death, and be destroyed like any experienced adventurer, let alone a silver mercenary.” Razmund told, uncaring and voicing his word without even looking at anyone behind his back.

“Oy! What do you mean?!” A loud-sounding voice questioned his words. It was coming from a rather large figure that wasn't wearing any tough fabric against the wind and sand. He was a sorry figure indeed, and the only one who dared to be like that.

“I meant what I meant, Gordfiend,” Razmund said. “Don't think of this lightly just because you are confident with your body and ego. This place doesn't care about it at all, and you are still my Helpers. In your case, stupid ones, frankly. Maybe even insignificant ones, if my hunch is working, but who am I to decide that then your willingness to catch your little prices? Hm? Afraid of little wind? Afraid of death?” He turned his head, looking at the figure of the man who was trembling from the wind and sand.

Knees quivering, feet bare like his chest, and bald head, Gordfiend wore a tattered open vest and trousers that barely had their shape. That was about all of his clothes, apart from a duo of axes behind his back.

“Huh! Do you dare to tell that to the great myself? You want to hear it again, brothers?” Gordfiend shouted, uncaring about his words so he turned his head around to face 10 other figures, who, unlike him, wore the cloaks so they won't end up like their boss.

Out of everyone in this group of fewer than 20 people, Gordfiend was the only one who didn't wear the cloak. That either spoke of his ego, toughness, or idiocy more than anything else, but he wasn't one to willingly admit either.

His skin was already turning red with sand, his eyes were squinted against the wind and his feet were taking a harsh beating against the bare sand. He wasn't feeling cold or hot, since this place wasn't hot or cold. It was just brutal, menacing, and just painful to be in.

Walking and being in this environment in this sort of attire were more akin to thousands of Gold Ants crawling around every inch of his body.

He was the epitome of reap what you sow and no one will change his mind about some little storm. It was just a little wind and sand, he said as he saw Death Valley for the first time in his life, so he didn't fear what he was doing, even though he should. It didn't even take that long until he began to regret it, but it was too late for any change. For what kind, one may ask? To change man's pride, of course.

None had a spare cloak.

It was absolute idiocy, which one of the figures behind him thought.

However, as his voice spread far and shook the wind for a couple of seconds, none of his men voiced a word. They shot an annoyed glance at their boss instead, whose attitude was the same as always. Terrible, questionable, and frankly, stupid. That was Gordfiend in this picture.

Though, he was strong and there was a reason Razmund was willing to take such a man to become his Helper. Not many would venture to Death Valley without such protection unless one would have a clear path to the middle of this place, which was less prone to stormy weather. This group had no such way, so they walked instead, which was through many obstacles on the way, including monsters and lurking danger swirling below the sand.

Gordfiend was a silver-rank mercenary and even a leader of his own mercenary group, directly under his name. As a silver rank, he wasn't the strongest, nor weak. He was about the middle spectrum of what was considered enough to venture to most open-world dangerous regions.

Mercenaries of any official rank were those types of people, but they also included intelligent beasts and any kind of being as long as they passed certain criteria. Such figures were under the order of Adventure Guild ~ one of the biggest and most influential cross-continental factions in the Battleworld.

The purpose of such a guild was to make some order in this hectic world, but it wasn't always the case, nor it worked all that much.

Chaos was more prone to come forward when godly interest and clashes went above, below, or on the surface. It didn't involve Blessed in its runnings, but in most circumstances, it did have a lot of them.

Unexpectedly, it had a limited envision of gods, and was one of the rare independent organizations. Albeit, in terms of the whole picture, it was less productive in those ideas, because of its history and mass, it managed to remain in its form for many millennia.

Considering the rarity of Blesed to the numbers of ordinary figures, the disparity was quite huge. Most of the Adventure Guild's numbers took up the adventures or mercenaries without any Blessed status. They were regular folks with a mild concept of the Will of the Battleworld but it was still enough to follow this world.

However, as with many things, power ruled supreme, so the further someone in the ranks of this organization was, the more Blessed appeared.

Those kinds of Blesed were rare, and powerful individuals with many interests in other places. Adventure Guild was no nation, nor it restricted its members. There were Blessed, who didn't want to be involved with any kind of shackles or organizations. Those would be lonely, strong, or unfortunate ones, but this world wasn't fit for lonely figures.

Being alone was not that good of an idea. Not in the world that was ready to clutch one's life, drain one to the bones and call it a normal day.

Battleworld was no punny place for half-assed efforts. Having at least some footing was better, and Adventure Guild was the least problematic organization there was since it had the simple political and strategic infrastructure of power and interest. Even the most introverted and sorry figure would reach some sort of understanding through Adventure Guild.

There were countless people and beings of a variety of levels, and their order was more than apparent among gods and many nations. It held no nation at its fingertips, nor it held any political power, apart from the generic vision to never be someone's. That was a freedom of working everywhere, while no powers, be it Tier A country, or even S, shall force the Adventure Guild into submission.

Their ranking spoke for the organization's structure, which held many quests, and missions and gave opportunities to ordinary people, or even the most powerful Extremes. Be it a kind in some village, to a Blessed figure, anything went along the Adventure guild.

Any mercenary or adventurer can at any point seek some branch of this guild. Thanks to the evaluation system in every major town, one would get a ranking. Bronze, Copper, Silver, Gold, Amethyst, and Diamond rank were the prime examples of the simple form of rankings, which was made of valuable metals.

Albeit, there was one above diamond class, but those were under a few special circumstances or rather lofty individuals who Adventure Guild deemed worthy of that rank. Earning those sorts of ranks required standing on par with the peak of this world, and a lot of politics and power. Those would be for the cases of the tip of the Extremes, and also individuals who were keen on understanding. They would have o reach a perfect arrangement and agreement of the tip of the Guild leaders.

Gordfiend was of a Silver Rank, which amounted to nothing but a power level to his abilities. Roughly, it was around level 50, which was the bare minimum to travel to Death Valley which was under the general supervision of Centralis Kingdom, and not just anyone can enter it.

Not as if some would do so on a regular basis, but some order was better than none. Being in the middle of the Seventh Death Forest already made it hard enough, so not many would come here anyway.

“Hmph! Bunch of weaklings! As a man!” Gordfient shouted to the sky, shaking the wind 2 meters around him with the power of his voice alone. “..you should never falter against such a measly wind and pebbles on the road! Road? The sky! Sky!” he pointed upwards, straightening his back, as if he was tougher than he was. “Like the Ragnarok! The Punishment of the Haven! The Wrath! This one isn't worth the fear that comes from that pleasure. It isn't worth it.”

“Shut up already, idiot.” A female voice said, already fed up with this lunatic, whose sole purpose was anything that he thought of. “You already wasted enough breath,” she added.

“That comes from a woman, who is too weak to undergo this sort of measly weather. Let me ask you, are you that weak? Hm?” Gordfiend said in an interested tone, staggering to turn against the wind as he stared behind his back. He turned with some difficulty, and walked, which was akin to a wobbly excuse for a drunken walk, yet he still managed to appear before a smaller figure of cloaked women, who spoke to him with an annoyed tone.

Similar to everyone—because she wasn't an idiot—she wore a cloak. Made of tough fabric, it was a bit different than the ones that the rest had. It was of deep black color, while not a speck of her face was visible. It wasn't because of the cloak or the hood, as she wore a metallic face mask and not a fabric against her face. Yet still wore the hood, covering and masking the mask itself, which was unnoticeable because of it.

Hidden behind the shadows, and engraved with all kinds of ornaments, she wore it for a reason. There was one thing that was more noticeable than the rest. It had a wild smile, while no opening was there for eyes. It seemed like a devil's face or some demon.

Gordfiend didn't notice the mask, nor did he know any other helper who Razmund took with him on this journey to Death Valley.

That, in itself, bothered him, but who knew for what reasons?

He overshadowed this woman by a couple of heads, as he was fairly tall. He would have to crouch to look at her up close, but he would fall face to the sand first before that would happen. A man must keep his dignity so he stood firmly before her, expecting an answer.

As he spoke, this petite figure completely ignored him, as if he was the air, or he wasn't worth any comment.

“I asked you a question,” Gordfiend asked again. “It is polite to answer it when one keeps it in their heads.”

“And I am ignoring your attempts of talking to me, idiot,” she said, unbothered, while stopping, since Razmund stopped walking some time ago. “Get it in your head, or is it that tough to get the words into your bald head? Do the words and air of my words bounce off of that? I wonder.” she chuckled.

The group of fewer than 20 people was standing in the storm, while Razmund himself was ignoring everyone being his back. He returned his interest in the surroundings, eying the storms and hoping to catch up on the desired path beyond. They were closing on the middle portion of the Death Valley.

The dense wind and storm raged around still, so they were a bit off of their course.

It was giving them a tough time figuring out their location, but something can push them through it. Razmund's eyes. He didn't prefer that, but it wasn't making much difference if he was here, or in the open plains.

His eyes were open to the storm, as goggles against the sand weren't something he liked. Blinkless, his Eagle Perception went further than the storm, crossing through the dense sand and wind alike. He knew where he was because of it, but also thanks to his knowledge. He was here for the 3rd time, so he knew what to expect. They weren't that far.

His call of duty and desire was closing, yet he wasn't sure if he should curse his luck, or someone else. He didn't care, however, how it came to be ~ the Encounter that started suddenly upon a request by a simple village girl.

The trouble from behind didn't matter to him, at least. His helpers were small variables anyway. Almost negligible in terms of his part, but as with any Encounter, he can create variables on his own and with them. That was at least suggested by Centralis Kingdom and his master.

His Path was what mattered to him more and this Encounter was an enormous potential treasure. It was also something of a caliber that he will never see again because of circumstances that went over his head.

Though, he didn't care or perhaps didn't know everything about it. He shouldn't, he knew.

Unless he had a death wish, his interest will remain in his head, because gods were involving themselves a bit too much according to Zendurion himself.

Gordfiend stopped talking, glaring at the woman, whose attitude wasn't up to his taste.

“What do you want?” She asked again, bothered by his stare.

Gordfiend hesitated upon the visible threat in her voice, almost trembling in his wobbly posture. She was obviously filled with killing intent. “You. A woman hiding behind your little black cloak. I asked you a question. Shouldn't it be polite to answer it?” He came up with the same speech that he mentioned when he first spoke out.

“I am deaf? I am not talking to idiots. Sorry. Not sorry.” She said, standing still without any bother about the wind or sandstorms. In fact, she was standing there without a speck of movement, appearing like a sculpture, apart from the dancing cloak around her body. Her whole body remained stiff behind the thick fabric, while her voice turned to a clear cold reach of absolute dread. There was arrogance behind it, and also plenty of confidence that suggested she wouldn't back down.

This pissed Gordfiend off so much, that he grabbed the cloak around her neck, and tried to pressure her to clear her face.

He somewhat succeeded, and a twisted smile of metallic color appeared beyond the cloak. It happened only for a split second in his eyes, but then, his vision blinked next.

He wasn't sure what or when that happened, but the next time he regained his vision, he was on the ground: his head was dizzy, his body didn't listen, and his vision was wobbly. The sand was all over his head and face and seemed to be everywhere around him. The sand was down, up, on his left. Disoriented, and lapping for some stability, he was a depiction of a sorry figure.

Then, the sky went back beyond his head, and that was when he figured out where he was in a moment of clarity: in a sand dune, lapping around with his hands as if trying to swim away.

Looking at his previous location, he saw the woman retracting a slim-looking bare hand under her cloak. He figured he was more than 10 meters away from her and collapsed on the ground. His legs didn't hear his commands or his voice spoke up to his wishes. He began blubbering something noisy while trying to get back on his feet.

“You reap what you sow, Gordfiend,” Paulfred said after he walked beside his side. “That's what you get while being a hot-blooded idiot but I suppose it is what makes you such a funny companion.” he laughed and offered him a hand.

Begrudgingly, Gordfiend accepted the hand when he calmed down and realized rather interesting factors in his little play. He recognized and saw what that mask meant, yet he didn't want to acknowledge it all that much. Nah... Maybe he did want to believe what he had seen, but he definitely shouldn't try his luck for the second time.

What in the seven hells is an assassin from the Seven Orders do here? Do the damned Zeanor's bastards dare to step into this play? He thought to himself, sobering up from his previous mood in a mere moment. One would wonder if he was faking it, but it was hard to tell. He got to his feet and will remain silent in the journey.

Razmund returned to the journey, realizing that his little helpers were over the little misunderstanding that was meant to happen once or twice. That was what happens when nearly 4 groups of different individuals teamed up together.

As he walked, he kept looking for something.

The storms were getting quite thick by this point, so that should mean something according to the reports and his own experiences. It wasn't anything pleasant for anyone present, and even Gordfiend with his strong body, felt it was more savage than he was able to endure. For a prolonged period of time, he won't be able to remain here without suffering injuries.

“We are here... I hope.” Razmund said, at last, standing before stormy walls.

“Where are we, exactly?” Gordfiend asked, yet his question went over everyone's heads. No one, apart from 3 people knew the special circumstances of what they had to do, manage, and endure. They may have already pledged their allegiance, but the terms weren't creating some clarity.

They held general help with accomplishing the Encounter's means, which may be many things that only they knew about.

That was a simple premise that needed no context since Razmund held his own context, while Helpers had their own.

He will remain on his path, and his Helpers will help him with that.

Razmund pushed his palm upwards, indicating the rest to wait. Then he walked toward the storms that seemed to be a meatgrinder to anyone weak. His figure disappeared from the sight of his group, fading away into the wild sandstorms. It was oblivious to a single worry within the group.

Out there in the storm, he was indifferently walking towards the mountain, which was only visible in his static and shimmering vision. Dancing images of death and wild feelings were around, appearing like a temple of death spirits, and a place that was closing on a vision of Hell Havens. It was here, yet wasn't.

Razmund wasn't sure of what to trust, as Hell Havens were a peculiar location void of human interests.

“Indeed... It is here. The temple is open far and wide so that answers many questions. I am doubtful it would be anyone but my little friend because where else it could hide? This place... Well, I am sure some Extremes or even weaker ones can come here without any issue, but not now when he is watching.” Razmund muttered through his dry lips, aware of what went on 100 meters in front of him.

As he confirmed his guesses, he stopped walking. He sensed a much more powerful dread, threat, and tremor gush out of the ground. Hundreds of figures emerged around the whole perimeter before the temple. As it happened, the storms didn't disappear like what happened to Murai, but went around them, but not fully. Many remained around, as if obscuring them, or him.

Razmund visited this place two times, and each was more special than the last. Perhaps this third one was most out of his picture since the path of his past, was not like his present one.

The rumbling stopped, yet the storms remained.

Through the rumble of those storms, a thunderous voice echoed, speaking louder than them, followed by hundreds of cluttering bony figures. Thar was hurting the eyes and ears of every individual in a large radius and even Razmund cringed from the pain.

“Welcome to the Havens! Who wants to die today!? Let it all be the witness of the higher beings!”

“Tsch..” Razmund clicked his tongue, unhindered by the pain, as he regained his composure. He noticed right away where the voice was coming from, and he knew who was speaking in this high voice and demeanor. He didn't like what will happen next, but not as if he chose when he had to walk in a straight line or around.

Back in the group, still behind the storms, Gordfiend was the first to regain his composure, but that was only because he was most obvious. Who knew who was fine, since they all remained hiding underneath their covers, but they all heard Thar's voice.

“What the fuck was that? Havens? Is this really about that temple?” Gordfiend shouted, clearly flustered, but not frustrated. No. He was clearly enjoying himself, as he couldn't help but smile in this ridiculous weather.

“Calm down you Blood-boiling for now. You will get your change.” Paulfred said beside him, also getting the hang of his mind. It appeared that the Helpers or Companions will remain in this position until Razmund will finish the starting procedure which wasn't part of their own.

Right, it was the start of what Murai did, but it was vastly different from the way of a beginner ~ The Welcoming Party, that was.

“Oh? A third-timer? It is rare to see someone who wants to come here for the third time. Mostly, they are pissed from the 2nd attempt, as the difficulty jumps up quite high.” A voice said as Razmund continued walking, storms on his left and right, while many undead were standing between or within them.

He ignored them, as they ignored him on his path. They weren't his match anyway, so Razmund stopped 10 meters before a skeleton, who was on a massive horse.

Thar will be his little challenge, but not in the way he hoped for.