More than a right-hand man, Gorem was Rykker’s oldest friend and most loyal ally.
They met decades earlier on the Ancient Isles, a land where non-magic users practiced the art of qi and where Rykker—then a Captain—was sent to suppress a catastrophic qi deviation.
(Flashback)
To navigate the treacherous peaks and track this phenomenon, Rykker was assigned a local scout: Gorem.
Despite the punishing terrain, Gorem’s expertise allowed the unit to reach their destination with relative ease.
Nestled within the mountainside, they discovered a temple carved directly into the rock.
Its granite pillars were battered and scuffed, standing only because the mountain itself braced the structure.
It was clear the destruction had been wrought by the very rogue qi user they were hunting.
The eight-person infiltration team moved toward the temple entrance like ghosts, a choreographed dance of shadows.
They criss-crossed deliberately, utilizing the crumbling stone pillars for cover, ensuring their movement didn’t disturb the heavy silence or alert the deviant qi user within.
With every step closer to the threshold, the air grew increasingly oppressive, turning thick and sluggish as if they were walking through deep water.
Crossing the threshold, the sensory assault was immediate.
The atmosphere inside was saturated with raw qi, so dense it hummed in the ears and vibrated against the skin.
Pulsating energy flowed through the cracks in the walls and floor, making the very foundations of the temple tremble.
Signaling a change in tactics, the team broke off into pairs.
They broke their formation, maneuvering backward slightly and spreading out to maximize their field of view and cover each other’s flanks.
Ahead of them, the source of the chaotic disturbance sat entirely unmoved.
The deviant qi user was positioned in the center of the room, legs crossed in a calm lotus position, his palms facing upward on his knees.
Yet, his stillness was a lie; the air around him thrummed violently, his qi swirling with such ferocity that his hair and robes whipped around his head like a whirlpool in a raging lake, creating a terrifying contrast between absolute inner peace and external violence.
Watching from the shadows, Rykker debated his move.
Reasoning with the man might lead to a peaceful recovery, but the chances that the man would voluntarily stand down and accept treatment was unlikely and with the element of surprise ruined, it would make the situation much more difficult to handle.
A surprise takedown would be more effective, but forcing treatment on a restrained man felt wrong.
He was caught between a tactical necessity and a moral qualm.
After weighing the pros and cons, Rykker chose the latter option; the surprise takedown.
Signaling his men to move in quietly, Rykker closed the distance.
When he was a few meters away, he summoned his water element, ready to douse the target and instantly encase him in ice.
Unfortunately, the rogue user had sensed Rykker and his men the moment they entered the temple.
He had waited with predatory patience, allowing Rykker’s team to draw close before turning Rykker’s own water magic against him.
The redirected blast slammed the group into the stone walls with bone-jarring force.
Rykker took the worst of it as he jumped in front of the blast at the last second, protecting his men.
The impact crushed his chest and snapped his wrist, causing him to spit up blood.
As the rogue rose effortlessly, already weaving his arms in wide circles to gather his life essence for a second strike, Rykker’s world spun.
Every attempt to stand ended in a painful stumble.
His comrades scrambled to haul him up, but they were too slow—the rogue was already fully charged.
Just as the air crackled with the impending finishing blow, a portal tore open.
Gorem stepped through the shimmering rift, quickly ushering the battered survivors to the safety of the temple’s exterior.
Gorem saved their lives that day and Rykker vowed to repay this debt somehow, which he did again and again over the next several years.
But that day, that incident, was the moment Rykker and Gorem became good friends.
(End Flashback)
Gorem Hammerstone was found in the training room where he was sparring intensely with another golem named Rusty.
Gorem was a stone golem and he was outrageously tall.
His stature exceeded two meters of dark gray diabase rock.
His form was blocky and coarse and not very agile due to his constitution, but Gorem could use spatial magic quite well which made moving around the mock battlefield much easier.
Rusty Rutherford, on the other hand, was a metal golem.
His movements were much more fluent and graceful.
His body was made of nitinol, a titanium-nickel alloy that was incredibly strong yet flexible.
Rusty’s fighting style was fluid, like watching a sandhill crane conduct its mating dance, while Gorem’s appeared manic as he instantly transported in and out of view.
As the two battled, steel clanged against steel, a merciless rhythm of parries and calculated dodges that echoed through the room.
Sparks flew with every clash, until Rykker’s shadow fell across the threshold.
Instantly, the brutal dance halted, frozen by his presence.
“Good morning, General,” Gorem remarked as he lowered his gaze and kneeled respectfully.
“The Emperor calls, and I have answered.
Let us not dally, for haste is required in this matter.” With that, Gorem confidently arose, bowed to his opponent, slid his sword into its sheath, and followed in Rykker’s wake.
Soon they were at the clearing where three massive black wyverns and Serana were waiting.
***
Within the hour, the trio of wyverns descended, shattering the silence with heavy, vibrating thuds in the neighboring forest.
Remembering the scroll’s strict demand for secrecy, Rykker, Serana, and Gorem ignored the grand, pearl-colored main gate, opting instead for a rusted, overgrown gardener’s shed—the secret entrance.
They dismounted in a flurry, slipping through the threshold undetected.
Inside, the castle did not merely stand—it loomed, its sheer, crushing scale designed to make mortals feel inconsequential.
Their footsteps were swallowed by the silence as they strode toward the throne room, passing beneath towering, intricately carved pillars that seemed to hold up the sky.
The corridor was a gallery of achievements: ancient stele slabs whispered histories of conquest, while gold-embroidered tapestries leered above them.
It was a testament to a long-dead Emperor’s ego—a suffocating, opulent maze of blinding crystal chandeliers and endless, polished marble, where every conceivable nook was stuffed with decadent treasures and every surface was saturated with exotic, eclectic art.
Emperor Xarxes didn’t inhabit the throne—he commanded it.
Despite the splendor of his crimson and gold robes, his posture was a clenched fist, rigid and terrifying.
His brows were locked in a deep furrow, the ‘concern’ on his face quickly solidifying into a silent, inescapable order.
When his onyx black eyes finally locked onto Rykker, they didn’t offer a greeting; they issued a deployment, turning a simple visit into a demand for a strategic response.
Rykker, Serana and Gorem each bowed respectfully in front of the Emperor, awaiting orders.
“I have summoned you because a dire shadow looms.
Word has reached my throne that the Cerulean Moon Pack faces an act of treachery—a vile conspiracy where the Skinwalkers and the Obsidian Hand have united, plotting their annihilation.”
“My unseen eyes have heard of a gathering behind the Gilded Goblet within two days.
You and your companions are commanded to verify this claim with the utmost discretion.
Should your investigation confirm the plot, you are to strike immediately and eliminate the threat.
You are to depart immediately for Edgeland.
Swiftness is paramount.
The method of retribution…I leave to your discretion.
Do not fail me.”
Rykker and his cohorts stood up, bowed respectfully and spoke in a single, reverent breath: “We are but instruments of your will, Imperial Majesty.” Rykker held his stance, adding, “The task shall be thoroughly executed.”