The Chosen Pervert

Chapter 19: The Refugee Base

The light faded.

My boots hit solid ground—rocky, uneven terrain that sent a jolt through my legs. This part of the demon continent was new to me. Three years I'd survived here before, but never this section. Never this close to the ocean.

The air hit me next.

Salt. Brine. The sharp, metallic tang of blood.

I stumbled forward, my vision adjusting, and the world came into focus.

Oh, God.

We were standing on a cliff overlooking the ocean.

The water stretched endlessly before us, dark and churning beneath a sky that was too red, too wrong. The horizon bled crimson and orange, like the world itself was bleeding out.

Behind us, the demon continent sprawled in jagged, hostile terrain—black rock formations, dead trees twisted into grotesque shapes, and in the distance, mountains that belched smoke and fire.

But here, on this narrow strip of land near the ocean, there was... order.

A camp.

A massive refugee camp.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of tents stretched across the rocky ground. Canvas structures in varying states of repair, some pristine white, others stained with dirt and blood. Wooden posts held up makeshift awnings. Fires burned in metal braziers, casting flickering shadows.

And everywhere—everywhere—there were people.

Survivors.

Some were walking, limping between tents. Others were being carried on stretchers, their bodies broken and bloodied. Healers moved through the chaos with practiced efficiency, their hands glowing with soft green light as they worked to close wounds and mend bones.

I saw apothecaries hunched over tables, grinding herbs and mixing remedies in clay bowls. Priests in dark robes moved solemnly through the rows of the dying, murmuring prayers and last rites. And beside them, figures in long beaked masks—plague doctors—handled the dead with clinical detachment, wrapping bodies in cloth and carrying them toward pyres that burned at the camp's edge.

The smell hit me like a fist.

Smoke. Rot. Infection. Sweat. Blood.

I gagged, covering my mouth.

"Steady," Aldric said, his hand on my shoulder. "Breathe through your mouth."

I nodded, forcing myself to focus.

Soldiers patrolled the perimeter—armed men and women in mismatched armor, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the horizon. They moved in pairs, their expressions grim and exhausted.

Beyond the camp's edge, I could see why.

Shapes moved in the distance. Dark, hulking figures that prowled just out of range. Demons. Waiting.

This is it, I thought. This is the demon continent, again.

A place where survival was measured in hours, not days.

"Wyatt," Kira said quietly. "We need to move."

I nodded, tearing my gaze away from the distant demons.

Rue.

Mom.

They're here. Somewhere.

I started walking.

The camp was chaos.

I moved through the rows of tents, my eyes scanning every face, every figure.

Healers knelt beside wounded survivors, wands clutched in one hand as soft light radiated from their open palms. They chanted in Latin—the incantations that gave power to their magic, words I'd learned were necessary for every mage except me. I stopped at the first one—a middle-aged woman with blood-streaked robes, her staff propped against her leg as she healed a soldier's shattered arm.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice tight. "I'm looking for someone. Two people. Have you seen—"

She looked up at me, her expression blank.

I described my mother. "Elara Silverwing-GreyFox. Beautiful. Kind face. She's a mage—she would have had a magical aura. Dark hair, green eyes—"

The woman shook her head and said something in a language I didn't understand.

Fuck.

I moved to the next tent.

A priest was kneeling beside a dying man, murmuring prayers.

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm looking for—"

He glanced up, his expression weary, and shook his head before I could finish.

I kept moving.

Tent after tent. Healer after healer. Guard after guard.

I described my mother. I described Rue.

"Fox-folk," I said, my voice growing more desperate with each repetition. "Black hair with grey streaks. Golden eyes. Tan skin. Beast-folk features—ears, tail—"

Most people just stared at me.

Some shrugged.

Others shook their heads.

A few said things I couldn't understand.

But the answer was always the same.

No.

No.

No.

My chest tightened with each rejection.

They have to be here. They have to.

I found a guard—a tall man with a scarred face and a longsword strapped to his back.

"Have you seen a woman?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Elara Silverwing-GreyFox. She's—"

"Don't know," he said gruffly. "Lot of people come through here. Can't remember everyone."

"What about a fox-folk?" I pressed. "A beast-folk woman. Black hair, golden eyes—"

The guard's expression shifted.

Not recognition.

Something else.

"Fox-folk?" he repeated.

"Yes," I said quickly. "Have you seen her?"

He shook his head slowly. "No."

"Are you sure? Maybe someone else—"

"No," he said again, more firmly. "No beast-folk have come through here."

I blinked. "What?"

"No beast-folk," he repeated. "Not one."

My stomach dropped.

"That... that doesn't make sense," I said. "She was pulled through a portal. She has to be here. She—"

"Listen, kid," the guard said, his voice softening slightly. "I don't know who you're looking for, but if she's a beast-folk, she's not here."

"Why not?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't she be here?"

The guard hesitated, then sighed. "Because beast-folk don't come to the demon continent. Ever."

The world tilted.

"What?" I whispered.

"They fear this place," the guard said. "More than anything. It's in their blood, their instincts. If a beast-folk ends up here—if they're captured, pulled through a portal, whatever—they don't last."

"What do you mean they don't last?"

The guard's expression darkened. "They kill themselves."

The words hit me like a hammer.

"What?"

"It's documented," the guard said. "Consistent behavior. Beast-folk would rather die than be trapped on the demon continent. I've seen it myself. We found one a few years back—a wolf-folk. He was barely conscious when we got to him. By the time we brought him back to camp, he'd already slit his own throat."

My hearing went dull.

My vision tunneled.

No.

No, no, no—

"So if your friend is a beast-folk," the guard continued, "and she was sent here... I'm sorry, kid. But she's probably gone."

I couldn't breathe.

The world spun.

Rue.

She killed herself.

She's dead.

Because of me.

My mana. My essence. It rubbed off on her. That's why she was pulled through.

This is my fault.

I stumbled backward, my legs weak.

"Wyatt?" someone said.

I didn't respond.

I turned and walked—no, staggered—away from the group, away from the tents, away from the voices.

I found a dead tree at the edge of the camp. Its branches were twisted and blackened, its bark cracked and peeling.

I leaned against it.

And then I vomited.

Everything came up—bile, acid, the remnants of breakfast.

My body heaved, my stomach clenching painfully.

She's dead.

Rue is dead.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and uncontrollable.

I killed her.

I brought her into my life. I gave her my mana. I made her a target.

And now she's gone.

I sank to my knees, my hands digging into the dirt.

I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry, Rue.

I should have protected you.

I should have—

A hand touched my shoulder.

I flinched, looking up.

Kira.

Her eyes were glossy, her expression tight.

But she stood firm.

"She's alive," Kira said quietly.

I stared at her, my vision blurred with tears. "What?"

"Rue," Kira said. "She's alive. I can feel it."

"How?" I choked out. "How can you possibly—"

"Because she's too damn stubborn to just kill herself," Kira said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

I shook my head. "You don't know that. You don't—"

Kira's expression softened.

"And she loves you too much to do that," she said quietly.

The words hit me like a lifeline.

I looked at her, my chest heaving.

She loves me.

She wouldn't leave me.

I took a shaky breath.

Then another.

Kira squeezed my shoulder. "Come on. Get up."

I nodded slowly, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

She's alive.

She has to be.

I stood, my legs still weak, and followed Kira back to the group.

We spent the rest of the day gathering information.

Aldric and I questioned guards, mercenaries, hired hands—anyone who might know something.

"Where have survivors been found?" I asked.

"Where has been searched?"

"Where hasn't been searched?"

The answers were fragmented, incomplete.

"We found a group near the eastern ridge," one mercenary said. "But we lost half our men getting them out."

"There's a valley to the south," another guard said. "We sent a team there two weeks ago. They never came back."

"Don't go west," a hired hand warned. "That's where the horde gathers. You'll be dead before you make it a mile."

And then, over and over, the same warning:

"Never go to the Shadow Lands."

"What's the Shadow Lands?" I asked.

The guard I was speaking to—a grizzled man with a missing eye—looked at me like I was insane.

"The heart of the continent," he said. "Right in the middle. That's where he lives."

"Who?"

"The Dragon God's Champion," the guard said, his voice dropping. "The Lord of the demon lands. Karthax the Undying."

I glanced at Aldric.

He nodded grimly. "Champions," he said. "Each of the Five Gods chooses one. A mortal given a fragment of divine power. They represent their God in the mortal realm."

"Like... demigods?" I asked.

"Close enough," Aldric said. "They're nearly unstoppable. The Dragon God's Champion rules the Shadow Lands with absolute authority. No one who goes there comes back."

"Great," I muttered.

Just great.

Days turned into weeks.

We searched.

We followed every lead, investigated every location mentioned by the survivors.

We found nothing.

No sign of Rue.

No sign of my mother.

The days blurred together—endless walking, endless questions, endless dead ends.

My 18th milestone came and went.

I barely noticed.

I'm supposed to be celebrating, I thought bitterly. Coming of age. Becoming an adult.

Instead, I'm here. On this godforsaken continent. Searching for ghosts.

It was a month after we arrived when we saw them.

A group of mercenaries moving through the rocky terrain, their weapons drawn, their armor battered and bloodied.

Rogues and assassins, by the look of them.

They moved with practiced efficiency, their eyes scanning the horizon.

I approached carefully, my hand raised.

"Hey," I called out. "Do you need help?"

The group stopped.

The leader stepped forward.

He was a man in his forties, maybe early fifties—roughly my father's age. Handsome in a rough, weathered way. Muscular, with broad shoulders and a scarred face. His dark hair was streaked with grey, and his eyes were sharp and calculating.

He looked me up and down, his expression unimpressed.

"We're fine," he said, his voice rough and accented—British, I realized. "Now piss off before I make you."

I hesitated.

Just walk away, a voice in my head said. He's not worth it.

But I couldn't.

Not without asking.

"Have you seen my mother?" I said. "Elara Silverwing-GreyFox. She's—"

"No," the man said flatly. "I haven't seen your bloody mommy. Now f**k off."

My jaw tightened.

Asshole.

I was about to turn away when the thought hit me.

Ask about Rue.

Just ask.

"What about a fox-folk?" I said.

The man froze.

It was subtle—just a flicker of recognition in his eyes—but I saw it.

He knows something.

The man collected himself quickly, his expression hardening.

"What's it to ya?" he said. "You an exotic beast-folk poacher or something?"

"No," I said firmly. "She's my family."

The man scoffed. "Beast-folk don't have families with non-beast-folk people. She was your f*****g slave, wasn't she?"

"It's not like that," I said, my voice steady despite the anger rising in my chest. "My father saved her years ago. He brought her home to me for my fifth milestone. She was meant to be my companion. My best friend."

I stepped closer, my eyes locked on his.

"I don't care what you think," I said. "But I will do anything in my power to find her and bring her home safely. Even if it means fighting the Dragon God's Champion himself."

The man studied me for a long moment.

Then a slow smirk crossed his face.

"You're in love with her, aren't ya?"

My jaw tightened.

I didn't answer.

But my silence was answer enough.

The man nodded, his smirk fading into something more respectful.

"Alright," he said. "Yeah. We've seen your fox friend."

My heart stopped.

"What?"

"Hell of a beauty and scrapper," the man said, his voice tinged with genuine pride. "Bollocks on that girl—nothing like I've ever seen. She was traveling with us for a two and a half years. Helped us save a lot of survivors."

Was.

The word hit me like a punch.

"Was?" I said.

The man's expression darkened.

"A few days ago," he said quietly. "We were doing a rescue. Thought we'd found a group of survivors holed up in a cave."

He paused, his jaw tightening.

"It was a trap," he said. "We lost a few good men. Your fox friend fought like hell—took down more of those bastards than the rest of us combined. But there were too many of them."

My chest tightened.

"They captured her," the man said.

The world tilted.

No.

No, no, no—

"Show me," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Show me where they took her."

The man looked at me for a long moment.

Then he nodded.

"Alright," he said. "Follow me."