I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World-Chapter 98: It Wasn’t Done?

The mist hadn’t cleared before the ground rumbled again.

"Shit," Inigo muttered, reloading quickly.

The obelisk—now split in two—let out a low, hollow hum before both halves shattered into glowing dust. That dust didn’t settle. It drifted upwards like sparks from a fire, merging with the black mist that the beast had left behind.

"She’s channeling something," Arienne said, her voice tight. "The Lady—she’s using the mist to fuel another summon. Or worse."

"Then we kill it before it finishes," Garen growled.

"No," Arienne said, grabbing Inigo’s arm. "We stop the ritual. There’s a difference."

A low chant echoed from the walls. They weren’t words—not in any language any of them recognized—but they felt wrong. Like they were crawling over their skin. Under it. Through their skulls.

Lyra winced and covered her ears. "That sound—it’s in my head!"

Inigo scanned the walls. "Where’s it coming from?"

"There." Arienne pointed at a raised platform near the edge of the chamber that had previously been buried under rubble. It had shifted during the fight. Runes glowed faintly on its surface. "That’s an altar. She’s still bound to this place. This is her anchor."

"Then we cut the anchor," Inigo said, already moving.

Korrik, still winded, stumbled upright. "Give me ten seconds to stand. I’ll join you."

"Take your time," Inigo replied. "We might only have eight."

They ran—Inigo, Lyra, and Garen—toward the altar. As they neared, shadowy figures began to materialize in their path. Transparent at first, then more solid. Illusionary guardians. Wraiths in ragged robes, with blades for arms and no faces. Just blank, porcelain masks.

"Get ready!" Garen barked.

The first of the wraiths lunged at Inigo. He ducked, fired twice point-blank. The thing vaporized in a puff of mist, but two more replaced it immediately.

Lyra shot through one’s head. Her arrow hit the runes behind it—but the wraith dissipated.

"They’re weak," she said. "But endless."

"Keep moving!" Inigo said.

Garen charged ahead, swinging his sword in broad arcs. He cleared a path through the next few, but they kept coming. From the walls, the floor, even the air. They didn’t make a sound. No growl. No scream. Just the slicing of air and the cold pressure of death closing in.

Behind them, Arienne remained in the center of the room, drawing sigils in the air as fast as she could. She was building a containment ward—something to sever the connection between the Lady and her anchor. It required time. And power. A lot of both.

"Inigo!" she called. "I can’t do it alone. Someone has to inscribe the outer circle manually!"

"Garen, go!" Inigo ordered. "I’ll hold them off!"

"No," Garen said, blocking a swipe from a wraith’s blade. "You go. You’ve got the gun. You’re faster."

Inigo didn’t argue.

He turned and sprinted toward Arienne. She tossed him a piece of chalk—enchanted with runic silver—and pointed to the edges of the room. "Start carving where the energy lines converge. There, there, and there."

He didn’t ask questions. He moved. Sliding to the first point, he began carving. His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from how wrong the air felt. Like it didn’t belong to this world.

Back at the altar, Lyra and Garen fought side by side. Wraiths kept appearing. She switched to enchanted arrows again, each one burning like fire through the mist. Garen fought with blunt force, crushing and cleaving the illusions apart.

They were outnumbered. But they held.

The ritual circle began to glow.

Then the air split.

Not just a sound, but the world itself. A rift—thin as a crack in glass—formed in the center of the chamber, over the ruined obelisk. Something shimmered behind it. A landscape not of this world. Purple skies. Blackened plains. Floating monoliths.

A world of demons.

"She’s opening a portal," Arienne whispered. "This was the plan all along."

"And the Harbinger?" Inigo asked from across the room, finishing the second carving.

"Just a warm-up."

A shadow stepped through the rift.

It wasn’t like the beast they had fought earlier. This one was humanoid. Calm. Wearing robes that fluttered in wind that didn’t exist. Its face was covered by a steel mask, but its eyes glowed like twin stars.

It didn’t attack.

It simply raised a hand.

And every wraith in the room stopped.

Then turned to face Arienne.

She froze.

"Inigo!" she screamed.

He ran.

Too slow.

The wraiths surged forward—ten, twenty of them—all aimed at the same point.

Garen turned mid-fight. "ARIENNE!"

But it was Lyra who reached her first.

The archer stepped between Arienne and the wraiths and unleashed her last three arrows in one breath. One struck a wraith’s mask and burst into flames. Another pierced a chest. The third... missed.

A wraith slipped past her.

Arienne raised her arm.

Too late.

The blade slashed downward.

Blood sprayed.

But it wasn’t Arienne’s.

It was Lyra’s.

She had stepped back into its path.

"No!" Inigo reached them and fired point-blank, blasting the wraith into vapor.

Lyra collapsed.

Arienne caught her.

"I’m—fine," Lyra tried to say.

She wasn’t.

The chamber trembled again. The portal was widening.

"We have to finish it now," Arienne said, eyes shining with rage and fear.

Inigo nodded and placed the last rune.

The circle snapped to life.

Light exploded outward in a ring, and the rift shuddered.

The figure on the other side tilted its head. Then... stepped back into the portal.

And the rift slammed shut.

The wraiths vanished.

The light died.

And silence returned.

Inigo knelt by Lyra’s side, hand shaking as he checked her pulse.

"She’s alive," Arienne whispered, barely audible.

But she wasn’t waking up.

"She saved me," Arienne said, her voice cracking.

Inigo looked up at the ceiling of the crypt, the last glow of the circle fading around them.

He didn’t speak.

There was nothing to say.

Only breath.

Only blood.

Only survival.

For now.

"Okay, Arienne, you are the healer of the group, so heal her immediately."

Arienne’s hands were already moving. Her fingers trembled as she pulled a small crystal vial from the pouch on her belt and poured it over Lyra’s wound. The liquid shimmered faintly, reacting with the blood as it touched her skin. She placed her palms over the slash, pressing down gently.

A warm, golden light pulsed beneath her fingers.

"Come on, come on," Arienne whispered.

The cut across Lyra’s chest had gone deep. Too deep. She had taken the brunt of the wraith’s strike. If the blade had gone any lower...

Arienne pushed more mana into her spell. A healing sigil formed in the air, floating just above her hands. The lines were shaky, but they held. Light trickled down into the wound, knitting torn flesh and stopping the bleeding.

Lyra groaned.

Inigo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "That’s good. That’s good, right?"

"She’ll live," Arienne said, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. "But it’ll take time before she wakes up. She lost a lot of blood."

She didn’t stop the spell yet. The glow deepened as she stabilized the damage to Lyra’s ribs and checked for internal bleeding. Every second of healing cost her more energy. The last few days had already drained her reserves, but she didn’t stop until the worst was over.

Finally, she dropped her hands.

The light faded.

Lyra’s breathing had steadied. Her skin was no longer pale.

But Arienne was swaying.

"Sit down," Inigo said, catching her before she tipped over.

"I’m fine," she muttered.

"You’re not," he said. "Don’t argue."

Korrik and Garen moved in closer now that the room was quiet again. Korrik knelt beside Lyra, placing one hand gently on her shoulder.

"She always jumps in headfirst," he murmured. "Reckless."

"Brave," Garen added. "She saved both of you."

Arienne sank to the ground beside Inigo, resting her back against a broken pillar. "The spell drained everything. I need... ten minutes. Maybe more."

"Take it," Inigo said. "We’re not moving until everyone can walk."

He looked around the ruined crypt. The shattered obelisk, the remains of the altar, the faint residue of demonic energy still hanging in the air.

No one spoke for a while.

Just breathing. The weight of survival settling in.

Then, slowly, Inigo stood.

"I’ll check the perimeter," he said quietly. "Make sure there’s not another round waiting for us."

Garen nodded and followed him.

And in that brief moment of stillness, Arienne closed her eyes—just for a minute.

She had saved Lyra.

But she knew it wasn’t over.

The Lady of Illusion had retreated.

The circle had closed, but only for now. Arienne could still feel it—like a bruise on the fabric of magic. The Lady was wounded, yes. Forced to pull back. But that presence... it hadn’t gone far. It lingered beyond the veil, just waiting for the next weakness. The next mistake.

She looked at Lyra again. The archer’s chest rose and fell steadily. Alive. That mattered more than anything.

Across the room, Korrik sat with his axe across his knees, silent. Garen leaned against the wall, eyes fixed on the portal’s remains.

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