Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 82

Chapter 82: ’Sheer Willpower’

The knights trudged forward, their steps growing heavier with each passing moment. The dense, deadened forest stretched endlessly before them, its gnarled trees twisting like skeletal fingers against the dim moonlight.

Shadows slithered and danced across the ground, contorting into unnatural shapes with each flicker of the wind. The air was thick with exhaustion, damp with an eerie stillness that pressed down on them like an unseen weight. The deeper they ventured, the more oppressive it became, as though the very woods conspired to break their resolve.

Only the occasional sigh or the muted clank of armor disturbed the silence.

"We’ve been walking for hours," Gareth muttered, adjusting the strap of his gauntlet with an irritated tug. His voice was edged with frustration, raw from fatigue. "How long are we going to keep following that damn bird?"

Lancelot said nothing, his sharp gaze fixed on the creature gliding effortlessly above them. The massive bird never strayed too far ahead, yet it refused to land. Its flight pattern was strange, deliberate yet hesitant, as if it were searching for something unseen. The way it weaved between the branches, doubling back before pressing forward again, made his stomach coil with unease.

’This isn’t normal,’ Lancelot thought, his brows knitting together. ’What are you trying to show us?’ _{freewebnøvel.coɱ}

"It’s leading us in circles," Dorian observed, his brow furrowing as he gestured toward a twisted tree. Its bark curled inward, forming a distinct spiral he had already marked in his mind. "We’ve passed that one before. I’d recognize that shape anywhere."

Lancelot’s frown deepened. If the bird was truly a messenger, it should know where to go. And yet, its erratic path spoke of uncertainty. A chill ran down his spine as another thought formed—a more troubling possibility.

"What if it doesn’t know where to return?" Elias asked, his tone cautious. "What if the person who sent it is already gone?"

Lancelot exhaled slowly, nodding. "That is a possibility."

A heavy silence settled over the group. The weight of realization pressed upon them like a tightening noose. If the bird no longer had a master to return to, it meant only one thing—the rogues’ hideout was deliberately hidden. And if that were the case...

"An underground base would explain why the bird keeps circling," Arlen mused. His eyes scanned the forest floor, sharp and calculating. "The entrance must be nearby but concealed. If it were above ground, the bird would have landed already."

Lancelot’s mind raced. Searching for an underground hideout would be difficult. The entrances were likely camouflaged with magic, or at the very least, hidden within the terrain. They didn’t have time to scour every inch of this cursed forest—Florian didn’t have time.

A Critical Decision

"We split up," Lancelot decided, his voice firm with quiet authority. "Two groups. Three knights each, one Arcanior per group. We spread out and search for anything that might be an entrance—disturbed ground, hidden pathways, unnatural formations."

His expression darkened. "The bird keeps circling this area. That means we’re close."

The knights exchanged glances before nodding in unison. They knew what was at stake. Without hesitation, they divided into their assigned groups and moved with silent urgency, scanning the terrain for any sign of an entrance.

Minutes stretched into an hour. The search was meticulous, slow, and increasingly frustrating. Every shadow, every uneven patch of ground was examined, but nothing concrete presented itself.

Restlessness gnawed at their patience, yet none dared to voice their frustration aloud. They all understood the urgency. The weight of each passing second hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken fears.

Lancelot, however, felt the weight of it more than any of them.

His heart pounded against his chest. ’Time is slipping away.’

He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. His mind ran through the possibilities—Florian captured, injured, or worse. The thought gnawed at him, cold and relentless. He clenched his fists, his pulse hammering in his ears. He had to find him. Soon.

Then—a sound.

Not just any sound.

Footsteps. Fast. Chaotic.

Lancelot immediately raised a hand, signaling his group to halt. The knights froze, their hands tightening around their weapons as they melted into the shadows of the trees. Every breath was held, every movement calculated.

The noise grew louder—rapid footsteps pounding against the forest floor. Someone was running. No—multiple people were running. Then came the voices. Urgent, shouting, mixed with the unmistakable clang of steel on steel and the flickering glow of magic cutting through the darkness between the twisted trees.

Dorian’s voice was barely above a whisper. "Are they chasing something?"

Lancelot narrowed his eyes. ’No. Someone.’

’That’s a question for later,’ Lancelot thought grimly. Right now, there was no time for questions. No time for hesitation. They needed to act.

Lancelot’s sharp gaze never left Florian, tracking the prince’s frantic movements. ’He’s running on sheer willpower... but he’s slowing down.’