From Slave to King: My Rebate System Built Me a Kingdom With Beauties!-Chapter 196: A Vision? [FIXED!]

The sword stopped at the back of his neck, the glowing blade hovering mere millimeters from flesh—not because some immovable force had physically stopped the decapitation, not because Byung had somehow broken free to defend himself. The weapon simply froze mid-swing, held suspended by the elf’s own hesitation.

The elf asked sharply, her melodic voice cutting through the tension: "What did you just say?"

It was like she had heard something she wasn’t supposed to but Byung’s lips were never parted.

Byung was genuinely confused by the question because not a single word had escaped his mouth. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t made any sound beyond labored breathing. Yet the elf was staring at him with intense focus, as if he’d uttered something profound or forbidden.

Then he felt something shifting—a crippling sensation that ran through his body like electrical current. The magic that had bound him within the runic circle was suddenly being drawn away, absorbed by something. His armor—the dwarven-crafted plates—began to glow faintly with the same blue luminescence as the binding runes. The enchantments woven into the metal were actively pulling at the magical restraints, which lessened the effects dramatically. His fingers twitched. His shoulders could move slightly. The paralysis was breaking down.

The elf sighed heavily, a sound of resignation rather than concern. She didn’t seem particularly bothered by this development, lowering her light-sword until it dissipated entirely.

"Of course," she muttered, more to herself than to Byung.

"I knew the armor had enchantments, but the only reason those specific runes would come to life now is because the dwarf must have found a way to access magic. He’s using it to activate the tracking markers."

She took a step back from Byung, movements deliberate and controlled, and simply sat down cross-legged on the white stone floor. She stared right at Byung with an expression that was difficult to read—not hostile exactly, but intensely curious.

The casual shift in her demeanor confused Byung completely. One moment she’d been about to execute him, the next she was sitting like they were about to have a philosophical conversation.

"What are you doing?" Byung questioned immediately, his voice rough. "Why did you stop?"

She regarded him calmly, tucking a strand of platinum hair behind her pointed ear.

"Your friend is coming," she said simply, as if that explained everything. "The dwarf has acquired magic somehow and is using it to track you. He’ll be here soon." She added but this elf showed little to no interest.

For some reason Byung couldn’t quite explain, he found himself worried about the elf who had tried to kill him moments ago. Something about her resigned acceptance bothered him. "What happened to your friend?" he asked. "The one who was fighting the dwarf?"

The elf’s expression darkened slightly, the first real emotion she’d shown beyond clinical efficiency.

"Aelindra lost her magic," she said quietly. "The dwarf drained it from her completely, severed her connection to mana permanently. That stolen power is how he’s locating us now."

Byung was shocked hearing this, his eyes widening despite the situation. This was entirely new information to him—the dwarf could permanently remove magical ability? The implications were staggering, terrifying.

"Will she be okay?" he found himself asking, genuine concern in his voice.

The seated elf looked at him with something approaching surprise, as if she hadn’t expected compassion from someone she’d been about to execute.

"She’ll survive physically," the elf answered after a moment. "But an elf without magic is... diminished. She can never return home. Our society has no place for the powerless."

A heavy silence settled between them. The elf had been stationed out here for a month according to her posture and the way she spoke of isolation, monitoring for exactly this scenario. But she also noticed something about Byung that made her lean forward with renewed interest.

"You look scared," she observed, her glowing eyes studying his face carefully. "Your entire body language changed the moment I mentioned the dwarf was coming. Who are you afraid of? Because it’s clearly not me."

She leaned even closer, close enough that Byung could see the intricate patterns in her irises.

"Are you scared of the dwarf?" The question was direct, cutting through any pretense. Byung swallowed hard, the truth escaping before he could filter it.

"I had no idea this was what I was getting into," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought he was just someone who could help me get stronger, help me retrieve a legendary weapon. But he’s from the dark continent. He drains magic. He manipulates everything." He paused, then added with desperate honesty: "But I still need to retrieve the sword. I don’t have a choice."

The elf studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly as understanding dawned. "I’m keeping you alive so the dwarf can find us," she explained calmly.

"If you died, the tracking spell would be deactivated—the enchantments in your armor would lose their beacon properties. So you live until he arrives, and then we’ll see what happens next."

--

Grimgor was sleeping in his small bed tucked into the corner of their farmhouse room, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of deep slumber. The night was quiet outside, crickets chirping their endless song while the moon cast pale light through the simple cloth curtains. Everything seemed peaceful, normal, the kind of undisturbed rest that children deserved after active days spent learning and playing.

Naz was with Gribnox in the adjacent room, their relationship more of a partnership than passionate romance—born from circumstance and mutual survival rather than deep emotional connection. They lay together in comfortable silence, Gribnox’s arm draped across her muscular frame, both exhausted from another long day of farm work and combat training. The settlement had grown stable enough that moments like these felt almost luxurious, small pockets of peace in lives that had known too much chaos. They spoke quietly about the next day’s tasks, about crop yields and training schedules, mundane concerns that felt precious precisely because they were mundane.

Then they heard it—their child screaming at the top of his lungs.

The sound shattered the night’s calm like glass, a cry of pure terror that no parent could ignore. It wasn’t the whimper of a bad dream or the fussy complaint of discomfort—this was raw fear, primal and all-consuming, the kind of scream that spoke of genuine horror. The pitch was wrong, too high, too sustained, carrying a quality that made every protective instinct flare simultaneously.

They rushed into Grimgor’s room immediately, Naz moving with orc speed that made the floorboards creak under her weight, nearly tearing the door off its hinges in her haste. Gribnox scrambled behind her with paternal panic overriding his usual caution, his heart hammering against his ribs. They burst through the doorway expecting to find an intruder, a threat, something tangible they could fight or drive away.

Instead, they noticed their son was sweating profusely, his small body absolutely soaked through his nightclothes as if he’d been submerged in water. The sheets clung to him damply, darkened with moisture that shouldn’t be possible from sleep alone. His hybrid features—goblin sharpness mixed with orcish structure—were twisted in anguish that looked wrong on someone so young. His golden eyes were wide open but unfocused, staring at something only he could see, pupils dilated to the point where barely any iris remained visible. He was caught in that terrible space between sleeping and waking where nightmares felt more real than reality itself.

"Grimgor!" Naz dropped to her knees beside his bed with enough force to crack the floorboards, her large hands gently but urgently shaking his small shoulders. "Wake up, little one! You’re safe, it’s just a dream! Come back to us!"

The child gasped suddenly, a desperate inhalation like someone breaking the surface after nearly drowning. His consciousness snapped back to the present moment like a released bowstring, the unfocused stare sharpening into awareness. He blinked rapidly, tears streaming down his cheeks in rivers that mixed with the sweat, breath coming in ragged sobs that shook his entire frame. His small hands clutched at Naz’s arms with surprising strength, fingers digging in as if she were the only anchor keeping him from being swept away.

Gribnox moved to his other side quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting Grimgor’s back awkwardly but with genuine concern. "What happened?" he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it despite his own racing heart. "What did you see? Tell us what frightened you."

Grimgor’s mouth opened and closed several times before words would form, his young mind visibly struggling to process whatever vision had gripped him with such intensity. His breathing was still irregular, coming in hitches and gasps between attempts to speak. When he finally managed words, his voice was small but carried absolute certainty that transcended his age and physical size.

"Byung is in trouble."

The simple sentence hung in the air between them, weighted with implications none of them fully understood. Four words that changed everything. Naz and Gribnox exchanged worried glances over their son’s trembling form, both thinking the same thing but neither wanting to voice it aloud for fear of making it more real.

How could Grimgor possibly know that? Byung was miles away—many miles—on some journey he’d undertaken alone without informing anyone of his precise destination or timeline. There was no way their one-month-old son, however precociously developed he might be, could have knowledge of the goblin king’s status through any normal means. No messenger had arrived. No magical communication existed in their world that goblins could access.

Unless the connection ran deeper than any of them had realized. Unless whatever had been imprinted during gestation—the blood Naz had consumed, the transformation she’d undergone—went beyond simple loyalty to something approaching psychic bond or shared consciousness.

Naz pulled Grimgor close against her chest, cradling him despite the sweat soaking through to her own skin, letting him feel her heartbeat to ground him back in safety and present reality. "It was just a nightmare, sweetheart," she tried to reassure him, though doubt crept into her own voice even as she spoke the comforting words. "Byung is strong. He’s the strongest goblin alive. He can handle whatever comes his way."

But Grimgor shook his head against her chest, the movement small but insistent, refusing to be consoled by reassurances that felt hollow even to those speaking them. "No, Mother," he whispered, his voice barely audible but carrying weight that made both parents go still. "I saw it. I felt it. He’s trapped somewhere white and cold. There’s magic holding him. And something dark is coming for him." He pulled back slightly to look up at Naz with those too-knowing golden eyes. "He needs help. He needs help now."