A week had passed since Stiles and SteelArm cleared forty-five gates in a single day. Now, the two of them sat in an office, waiting for Dante to arrive.
Minutes ticked by before the door finally opened, and Dante strode in with a grin. "What's up, guys?"
Stiles leaned back in his chair, nodding in greeting. "Not much. Grab a seat." He pulled up a third chair, which Dante took before settling in.
SteelArm glanced at him. "So, feeling better than last week?"
"Oh, hell yeah. Way better," Dante said, stretching his arms behind his head. "So, what's the plan?"
Stiles smirked, standing up as he grabbed a remote. "Well, I've got some interesting news. I've been digging around on the Hunter's Network and found something worth checking out." He turned on the projector, connecting his phone to it.
The screen lit up with images as Stiles continued, "Besides that dragon in our forest, strange signs have been appearing all over the world. The first major one was just yesterday—some explorers ventured deep into a jungle and found ancient carvings. These symbols have been appearing more frequently, though no one's figured out why."
He paused for a breath, then tapped his phone to display a series of images. "I've been piecing these carvings together for the past month, but I never cracked the first part until a few hours ago." He zoomed in, aligning the symbols into a cohesive message on the spreadsheet.
"Nightmares stirring, the final days are near."
Dante raised an eyebrow. "Okay… and?"
Stiles sighed. "I'm not sure if this is the correct order or if parts are still missing, but based on what we have, I think it's worth investigating."
Dante leaned forward. "Investigate what, exactly? Sounds like a waste of time. I mean, it's just some cryptic words—no actual location to go off of."
"That's where you're wrong." Stiles zoomed in further, revealing a set of coordinates embedded within the carvings. "It's on the other side of the world, but I already ran it by Halstein. He said we can go for it, as long as everyone's on board."
Dante sighed before cracking a smirk. "Fuck it, then. Let's get going." He stood up, rolling his shoulders.
SteelArm grinned, clapping his hands together. "Hell yeah! Let's go!"
Dante and Stiles exchanged a knowing glance before heading for the door. As they stepped out, Stiles pulled out his phone and called for a cab to take them to the guild's private airport.
As they stepped out of the guild's entrance, the cool evening air greeted them. The street outside was quiet, save for the occasional passing car. They stood near the curb, waiting.
A few minutes later, a black cab pulled up, its tires rolling to a smooth stop. The driver rolled down the window. "You the guys heading to the Dragon Bone guild's airport?"
"Yep, that's us," Stiles confirmed as he opened the door and slid in first, followed by SteelArm and Dante.
The driver pulled away from the curb, merging into the sparse traffic. The ride was mostly quiet, with the hum of the engine and the occasional streetlight flickering past. Stiles checked his phone, scrolling through files on the carvings, while SteelArm looked out the window, absentmindedly tapping his fingers against his knee. Dante, on the other hand, leaned back with his eyes closed, resting as his chest still had some pain.
After about thirty minutes, they arrived at the guild's private airport—a secured airstrip surrounded by high fences and guarded entry points. The driver pulled up near a sleek black jet, the guild's emblem emblazoned on the tail.
Stepping out, the three of them grabbed their bags from the truck and made their way toward the plane. The doors were already open, and the faint hum of the engines signaled that it was prepped and ready.
"Damn, Halstein really doesn't waste time, huh?" Dante mused as they climbed the stairs into the jet.
Inside, the cabin was spacious, lined with plush seats and dim lighting. Stiles took a seat near the window, placing his bag beside him. SteelArm stretched before plopping down in one of the recliners.
Dante sat across from them, kicking his feet up on the table between them. "So, how long is this flight?"
Stiles checked his phone again. "About thirteen hours."
Dante groaned. "Guess I should get comfortable, then."
With that, the doors sealed shut, and moments later, the plane began to taxi down the runway.
The first six hours of the flight had been nothing short of relaxing. Stiles, SteelArm, and Dante lounged comfortably in their seats, unbothered by the long journey ahead. The plane was stocked with a variety of snacks, and at the moment, the three of them were munching on some candy from a basket in the center table.
SteelArm leaned back, tossing a piece of chocolate into his mouth. "Man, this is the life. Private jet, free food, and a mission that actually sounds interesting."
Dante chuckled, unwrapping another caramel.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the entire plane, shaking it violently. A low, eerie howl filled the cabin as the temperature seemed to drop.
"What the hell was that?" Stiles muttered, sitting up straight.
Another burst of wind slammed against the plane, tilting it slightly mid-air. The overhead lights flickered. Outside the windows, the previously clear sky had turned into a swirling mess of dark clouds.
An ominous clap of thunder echoed around them, and before they knew it, they had flown straight into a storm.
The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "Mayday, mayday! We're experiencing severe turbulence! Attempting to contact air traffic control!"
But the static-filled transmission cut off.
Stiles pulled out his phone, hoping to check their location, but the signal was completely gone. "Network is down," he said grimly.
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the cabin in an eerie glow. The turbulence became more violent, sending their drinks and candy flying across the floor.
Then it happened—
A bright streak of lightning struck the left engine, followed by another striking the right.
The plane jerked violently as the engines sputtered and died, the nose tilting downward.
"We lost the engines!" the pilot yelled.
A deafening alarm blared through the cabin as red lights flashed. The plane was plummeting fast, cutting through thick storm clouds.
Dante gripped his seat tightly. "Shit, we're going down!"
SteelArm unbuckled himself and rushed to look out the window. "We're headed straight for an island!" he shouted over the wind howling through the vents.
The ground was coming up fast. Trees, cliffs, and a vast jungle stretched below.
"Brace for impact, and sit down!" the pilot shouted. SteelArm ran back to his seat and buckled himself in.
The three of them barely had time to grab onto anything before they slammed into the ground.
The impact was brutal. The plane tore through treetops, metal screeching as it skidded across the uneven ground. Flames erupted from the wreckage, debris flying in all directions.
Then, silence.
The storm raged on, with relentless rain hammering down on the wreckage. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the twisted remains of the plane as thunder roared like a beast in the night. Water pooled around the scattered debris, sizzling as it met the smoldering flames still licking at the metal.
The air traffic control tower buzzed with the usual chatter of incoming and outgoing flights when suddenly, a blinking dot on the radar screen vanished. The technician monitoring the radar frowned, quickly adjusting the controls.
"Flight 872, do you copy?" he called into the radio. Silence.
He tried again. "Flight 872, this is Air Traffic Control. Respond."
Nothing.
His pulse quickened as he tried three more times, each attempt met with dead air. His fingers danced over the keyboard as he pulled up the flight details, and the moment he saw which plane it was, his breath caught in his throat.
"Shit…"
Without hesitation, he grabbed the emergency line and dialed the Dragon Bone Guild's direct number. It rang only once before Halstein's steady voice answered.
"This is Halstein."
"Sir, this is Air Traffic Control. One of your planes—Flight 872—was struck by lightning and vanished from radar a few minutes ago. We've attempted contact multiple times, but… there's been no response."
A tense silence followed. Then, Halstein's voice came through, sharp and controlled.
"Where was its last known location?"
The air traffic controller swallowed hard before responding.
"Sir, their last known location was over an island known as The Last Path."
Halstein's expression darkened, his grip tightening around the receiver. "The Last Path?" he repeated, his voice laced with something between concern and frustration. "You're certain?"
"Yes, sir," the controller confirmed. "The moment it entered the storm, all communications went dark, and then… it just vanished."
Halstein exhaled sharply, his mind racing. The Last Path. A place of mystery, a place where many had gone but few had ever returned. He had heard the rumors, the stories—an island shrouded in unnatural storms, where the sea itself seemed determined to keep intruders trapped.
"Dispatch a search team immediately," Halstein ordered. "I want every available resource tracking their last known trajectory. Send me everything you have on this storm—wind patterns, satellite images, anything."
"Yes, sir!" the controller responded, already moving to relay the orders.
Halstein set the phone down, his jaw clenched. "Damn it. Stiles, SteelArm, Dante. They strall out there, stranded in one of the most dangerous places known to man... If the stories are true…"