The Heist at the Chocolate Factory.

      The forests of Meridell lay wrapped in heavy fog while every tree around was fading into pale shadows. As Thoren slowed down at last, his breath came in sharp bursts, and his chest was heaving from the long sprint. He pressed a paw to the damp earth, leaning against the roots of an old oak, forcing himself to calm down.

      “Jaxon… wherever you are, hold on,” he whispered in a thought with a knot of worry tightening inside him. He had no certainty that his brother still breathed, yet the chance remained, and Thoren could not allow despair to break his focus.

      He turned his attention to the heavy leather wallet he had torn from Lord Briartree’s hands during the chaos. His claws tightened around it with anger, like he knew this could be his next step on his mission to unveil all the mysteries that surrounded him.

     Even though the distant sound of soldiers’ boots had long since faded, every creak of the forest made his ears twitch. He was painfully aware that at any moment, everything could collapse on him.

      “No more fear,” he muttered, steadying his breath. “If I hesitate, I’ll never get to the end of this.”

      Thoren carefully looked at the wallet. Inside, there were some Neopoints, bank slips, and the unmistakable golden badge of the elite Gourmet Club. There was also a polished metal business card with the crest of the Briartree family. Those were symbols of power and wealth, things Thoren had expected.

      However, hidden among the bills, he found something that stopped him cold: a folded receipt, with edges yellowed due to age.

      He unfolded it with care, and the printed words leapt out at him. Stalebread and Co., Bakery and Mill. Beneath it, a precise address near the outskirts of Neovia.

      Thoren’s brow furrowed, his mind already racing. That name, Stalebread. It wasn’t new to him. He closed his eyes, recalling his first conversation with the Quiggle who had recruited him for the job. That identity he had been given, the forged name that had carried him into the Chocolate Ball: Alexander Stalebread.

      “No, it can’t be a coincidence” Thoren’s claws tightened around the paper. The Crimson Fork Society didn’t deal in coincidences. That name and that address were linked, and if Briartree carried it in his wallet, then it had to mean something.

      “The next step waits in Neovia,” Thoren whispered to himself. With no time to waste, he rose to his feet and started the long walk through the fog toward the dark city.

      By the time he reached the Neovia outskirts, the night had deepened. The trees gave way to open fields of abandoned farmland, and at last, the ruins appeared. The Stalebread and Co. bakery stood in silent wreckage, with its roof half-collapsed, and its wooden walls cracked and broken. Empty windows gaped like hollow eyes, letting the cold wind whistle through them. Yet among all this ruin, one structure still rose defiantly into the night: a massive silo, one that Thoren assumed was filled with flour in its golden days. Its surface was weathered and lined with fractures, but strangely, it had not fallen apart. It looked less like a ruin and more like something deliberately preserved, as though someone had cared enough to maintain it.

      Thoren’s instincts sharpened. He padded across the overgrown ground, his paw brushing the heavy door of the silo. With a push, it groaned open, the stale air inside rushing out. The scent of old grain and years of dust filled his nostrils.

      A spiral staircase clung to the inner wall, winding its way upward into the shadows. Cautiously, he began to climb. Each step creaked beneath his weight, and the echoes of his movements filled the hollow chamber. When he reached the top, what he saw made his stomach turn.

      This was no storage loft. It had been remade into something entirely different. The chamber was arranged like a meeting hall, its walls decorated not with tools or grain sacks, but with more framed photographs. Faces stared back at him: nobles, merchants, and leaders of Neopia’s wealthiest circles. Among them, he could notice Lord Briartree, smiling with pride, with his gaze chilling even from a portrait.

      Thoren’s tail lashed once, his fur bristling. It was clear now. Not all members of the Gourmet Club dabbled in such shadows, but some had embraced the Crimson Fork Society. And that hall was proof of it.

      He moved further in, noticing lockers lined along the wall. Inside them, he could see black cloaks, half-masks, daggers, swords, coils of rope, and even chalices of gold. More evidence that it was a guild led by secrecy, power, and eccentricities.

     Thoren’s claws brushed against one of the masks when a voice cut through the silence.

      “Well done, Kougra. You’ve made it this far. That deserves at least a conversation.”

     Thoren spun around. Standing near the window was a tall and blue Scorchio, his scales catching the lantern light like polished stone. His expression carried amusement, sharp and mocking.

      “You may call me Mr. Rouge,” the Scorchio said with a smooth tone. “You’ve chased a trail of crumbs for so long, and what do you have to show for it? Very little. And your brother… ah… poor Jaxon. Ambushed by Briartree’s guards. You should thank me, really. My decision to flood the market with counterfeit strength serums and convince Briartree to buy some of them for his guards made them very effective in their work. It seems your brother paid the price.”

      Rage burned in Thoren’s chest, but he forced himself to stay steady. His gaze shifted behind the Scorchio, and there it was: a crystal capsule resting on a stand. Even from a distance, Thoren recognised it as the vessel that had once contained the Royal Purple Asteroid.

      Mr. Rouge noticed his attention and let out a dark chuckle. “Ah, your eyes give you away so easily. Curious, aren’t you? That treasure has passed from hand to hand, shaping destinies as it went.”

      Thoren looked angrier than ever before in his life, but he couldn’t say anything as his mind raced to devise a plan to escape. Mr Rouge noticed it and began to speak, trying to make Thoren lose its focus.

      “You may be wondering what I'm doing here, and it's really quite simple: I was waiting for you. A dish becomes truly delicious when you deeply understand its ingredients, how it is prepared, and even the story behind it. But that is a value someone like you could never understand. Thoren, naive Kougra, your little hero adventure ends here.”

     From his coat, the Scorchio withdrew something small and glowing green. He held it between two claws with care, almost reverence.

      “A Super Attack Pea,” Rouge said, his grin widening. “Exquisite in flavour, devastating as a weapon. The perfect combination. And this one will be the last thing you see. Say goodbye, Thoren.”

      Thoren’s mind raced. With his debilitated, still-wounded body, he knew he stood no chance in a direct fight against Mr. Rouge’s strength. Every breath burned in his chest, and every movement sent sharp pain through his muscles. However, there was still one path left to him, a gamble he had been holding on to for the right moment. His eyes flicked to the capsule, the only object in the chamber that could tip the balance.

      With a sudden burst of motion, he tore one of the projectiles from his belt and hurled it straight at the capsule. The impact rang out sharply. Glass splintered, then cracked, until it shattered completely into glittering fragments that fell across the floor.

      “What have you done!?” Mr. Rouge shouted, his voice echoing with disbelief and rage.

      In an instant, a storm of cosmic dust burst free. The chamber filled with a swirling haze of purple and black motes, glowing with strange energy that pulsed and hummed in the air like a living force. The vibrations shook the walls, rattling the very foundation of the factory.

      Mr. Rouge staggered back, coughing as he raised an arm to shield his face from the stinging brilliance. Thoren, though battered and weakened, held his ground. His tail lashed once in defiance, and his eyes reflected the eerie glow of the dust. When he finally spoke, his voice cut through the charged silence, calm and steady.

      “Seems our meeting is about to welcome a special guest.”

      "Do you honestly believe your pathetic attempt to summon the Space Faerie will succeed? You're only wasting your time, foolish Kougra. This is where it ends for you. The Chocolate Factory will fall into the hands of the Crimson Fork Society, and the Royal Purple Asteroid will be our trophy!" Mr. Rouge shouted, his face twisted with rage as he prepared to strike Thoren for his defiance.

      "Heh, just the reaction I expected. I don’t have to beat you in a fight. All I need to do is hold you off, and soon enough it will all be over," Thoren said with confidence, his voice unwavering as he met Mr. Rouge’s furious glare.

      Mr. Rouge felt a strange shiver run through him, an unshakable sense that something far greater was about to unfold. For the briefest moment, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. Yet he smirked coldly, forcing the feeling aside, for he still had one last ace hidden up his sleeve.

      The time had finally arrived, and the clash was about to begin.

To be continued…