Nera'Vul, a Darkborn Lieutenant, towering and armored in jagged black plates, stood beside a being that radiated a more dangerous aura—Jorazek, the Dread Warden. Cloaked in shadows, Jorazek’s form was an amalgamation of darkness and corruption. Its armor, a grotesque fusion of bone and obsidian, seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, as if it were alive. Each plate was etched with sinister runes that glowed faintly, casting eerie light patterns around it.
The air around Jorazek was thick with an almost palpable darkness, tendrils of shadow curling and writhing at its feet. Its eyes, burning with a malevolent energy, glowed with an intensity that made the very trees around them seem to wither and decay. The Warden’s face, partially obscured by a helm crowned with jagged spikes, was a visage of unyielding cruelty. Its mouth, twisted into a permanent sneer, revealed sharp, darkened teeth that seemed ready to tear into flesh.
In its hand, it wielded a staff crowned with a shard of pure darkness, the artifact pulsating with unholy power. The staff's length was wrapped in a twisting, writhing mass of shadow that seemed to extend Jorazek’s malevolent reach. Its form exuded an aura of ancient evil, a presence that felt older than the forest itself.
It surveyed Gavin with contempt, its gaze piercing through the darkness as though the very sight of the machine was an affront to its existence. The oppressive weight of its power pressed down on the clearing, making every breath feel heavy and labored.
Threat assessment: Nera'Vul. Class: Lieutenant. Combat efficiency: high. Specialization: brute force.
Threat assessment: Jorazek. Class: Dread Warden. Combat efficiency: extreme. Specialization: dark energy manipulation. Malice intensity: immeasurable.
Gavin’s eyes narrowed in response, his body instinctively tensing under Jorazek’s cold, calculating gaze. The Warden spoke, its voice a hiss that seemed to slither into Gavin’s mind, dripping with venomous disdain.
“A broken remnant of a forgotten age,” Jorazek sneered, its voice seeping into the very metal of Gavin's frame. "You do not belong in this world." Jorazek's eyes flicked to Nera'Vul. “Take Tharakar with you. Head west. Ensure no intruders escape.”
Nera'Vul nodded, a malevolent grin spreading across his face as it turned toward Tharakar. The hulking Dread Knight stepped forward, its cursed greataxe gleaming menacingly. A low growl of frustration rumbled from Tharakar, its desire to continue the fight with Gavin evident in its posture. Yet, orders were orders.
As Nera'Vul and Tharakar moved to leave, Gavin’s sensors flared. He couldn’t allow them to leave. With a burst of speed, he launched himself toward them, intent on intercepting their departure.
Before Gavin could close the distance, Jorazek's voice cut through the air like a razor. “Not so fast,” the Warden sneered, its form shifting with dark energy. A barrier of shadowy tendrils erupted from the ground, ensnaring Gavin's path and halting his advance.
The air was thick with malevolence, crackling with the weight of an unseen force. Jorazek loomed at the heart of the clearing, its form an amalgamation of tarnished armor and shifting darkness. The ground beneath the Warden’s feet blackened with each step, as if recoiling from its very presence.
Gavin watched, unmoving, as the air around Jorazek warped with power. Its staff trembled, resonating with an eerie hum, and the sigils along its length flared to life. Then, with a deliberate motion, Jorazek drove its staff into the earth. A deep, resonant thrum rippled outward, splitting the soil beneath them like a wound torn open. From that abyss, tendrils of living shadow erupted, writhing like the limbs of some abyssal horror, surging toward Gavin with terrifying speed.
He moved instinctively, pivoting on his heel as the first tendril lashed through the space he had occupied a breath before. Another coiled toward his leg, but he twisted midair, narrowly evading as it struck the earth with enough force to shatter stone. More emerged in rapid succession, clawing at him from all angles, guided by the malice of the Warden’s will.
Jorazek raised its free hand, fingers curled like talons, and the tendrils responded in kind, their movements eerily synchronized. They struck again, relentless and precise, weaving a web of lethal intent. But Gavin was faster. He ducked low, rolling beneath a sweeping arc of darkness before springing forward. His daggers flashed, their enchanted edges carving through the air, slicing into the tendrils as they closed in. The severed shadows shrieked as they dissolved into nothingness, but new ones took their place just as swiftly, pouring from the staff’s pulsing core.
The Warden did not falter. It lifted the staff, twirling it effortlessly despite its massive size, the runes shifting and reshaping as if alive. Then, with a sudden downward swing, the weapon discharged a wave of raw energy. The force struck the ground like a hammer, sending jagged fissures racing outward. Gavin leapt, barely avoiding the shockwave as it obliterated the earth beneath him, scattering debris in all directions.
Jorazek’s soulless gaze followed him through the chaos, its head tilting slightly as if assessing. Then, the staff pulsed once more, and the clearing darkened—shadows twisting unnaturally as the Warden called upon the abyss itself.
Gavin landed in a crouch, his optics adjusting to the shifting gloom. He could feel the shift in the battlefield, the oppressive weight of the magic suffocating the air. Jorazek wasn’t just wielding the staff—it was an extension of its being, a conduit through which the darkness could take form. If he was going to survive this, he needed to dismantle that power at its source.
His grip on the daggers tightened. The Warden had set the board. Now, it was his move.
Gavin surged forward, his mechanical frame a blur of motion, his daggers gleaming with arcane light. The Warden's staff pulsed, and the air thickened, vibrating with the sheer weight of its dark power. The battlefield itself seemed to shrink under the pressure, the oppressive gloom pressing in as if the very world recoiled from Jorazek's presence.
The Warden moved with a terrible grace—an executioner in midnight armor.
With a single twist of its wrist, the staff arced through the air, sweeping toward Gavin like a falling guillotine. He barely ducked in time, the tip skimming over his head, displacing air with enough force to rattle his internal components. Before he could recover, Jorazek followed up with a thrust of its free hand, sending a tendril of shadow lancing toward his chest.
Gavin twisted, but not fast enough. The tendril struck his side with the force of a warhammer, sending a burst of corrupted energy crackling across his frame. Warnings flared across his internal systems as he was hurled backward, skidding across the fractured ground. Sparks flared where his joints met resistance, and a deep dent marred the plating along his ribs, internal gyros struggling to compensate for the impact.
Yet even as he reeled, the Mask of Shadows fed him information—tracking the patterns in the Warden's attacks, dissecting the flow of its movements. It was overwhelming, but predictable in its own way. Gavin processed the data in a fraction of a second, his mind racing even as his limbs protested.
He launched himself forward again, blades angled for precision. He needed to disrupt its balance. The Warden met him mid-stride, the staff pivoting into another sweeping arc, this time aimed at his legs. Gavin vaulted over the strike, using the momentum to spin midair, driving both daggers downward.
The left blade found purchase at the base of Jorazek's neck, where the dark metal met the corrupted flesh beneath.
The Warden let out a guttural snarl as the dagger pierced through the armor, thick, tar-like ichor bubbling around the wound. But before Gavin could drive the other blade home, Jorazek retaliated. A shadowy tendril lashed out from its shoulder, striking him across the chest and sending him sprawling.
The impact was brutal. Gavin's frame buckled as he crashed into the earth, his sensors flaring with red alerts. He felt the damage, not as pain in the human sense, but as a grinding, wrenching wrongness that spread through his circuits. A deep gash ran along his chest plate underneath his tattered clothes, exposing delicate internal components to the air. The faint whirring of his systems stuttered, struggling to maintain optimal function.
Jorazek loomed over him now, the glow of its runes pulsing in a steady, sinister rhythm. The staff rose, gathering darkness at its tip, ready to strike down and impale him where he lay.
But Gavin was already moving. He rolled to the side as the staff slammed into the ground, the impact sending another shockwave through the ruined battlefield. Using the momentum, he pivoted on his good leg and slashed upward, his right dagger carving through the Warden's exposed side.
The strike was precise, cutting deep between the segmented plates of its armor.
Jorazek staggered, its form shuddering as black energy seeped from the wound. For the first time, the creature hesitated.
Gavin pressed the advantage. His damaged frame protested, but he ignored the warnings flashing in his vision. His daggers moved in a rapid, unrelenting dance—targeting the gaps in the Warden's armor, slicing at the tendons in its legs, the joints of its arms. Every wound he inflicted bled darkness, every strike disrupting the unnatural cohesion that held Jorazek together.
But the Warden was not so easily undone.
Jorazek retaliated with sheer brute force, its movements becoming wilder, more erratic. A backhanded strike caught Gavin across the face, the impact sending him sprawling again.
His vision blurred for a split second, his optics flickering. His head rang with the reverberation of the hit, and his jaw—reinforced metal though it was—felt as if it had nearly dislodged from its frame.
Gavin staggered to his feet. His movements were no longer as fluid— there was a stutter in his step, a glitch in his precision.
But he wasn't done. And neither was Jorazek.
The Warden straightened, its wounds knitting together at an unnatural pace, shadows seeping back into place like liquid steel reforming a blade. The pulse of its staff grew stronger, and Gavin knew—if he didn't finish this soon, he wouldn't get another chance.
He had to break the cycle.
Gavin’s breath—if such a thing existed within him—came in strained bursts. Every calculated movement had pushed him to the edge, but Jorazek stood tall, its form glowing with dark, unsettling vitality. The very air around it seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, as if the Warden itself was a living black hole, feeding on the chaos of the battlefield to heal and regenerate.
Despite the damage Gavin had inflicted, the Warden’s wounds began to close with unnerving speed. The deep cuts in its armor mended themselves with grotesque fluidity, as shadowy tendrils wrapped around the gashes, sealing them like stitches on an open wound. What was once shattered plating slowly reformed, and Jorazek’s once-limp arm twitched back to life, swinging its staff in a wide arc with renewed vigor.
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Gavin’s optics flickered, scanning the Warden’s regeneration process, but it was unlike anything he had ever encountered. The dark energy surrounding Jorazek was not only powerful—it was a living, shifting entity, intricately woven into every aspect of its being. Each tendril, each shadow that bled from its form, carried with it the essence of decay and life in a twisted balance. Gavin could feel the weight of it—the Warden was not simply healing, it was becoming stronger.
The Mask of Shadows flared brightly, its arcane energies synchronizing with Gavin’s internal systems. Through the mask’s enhanced vision, he could see the ebb and flow of Jorazek’s dark vitality, pinpointing the nexus of the regeneration. It wasn’t just the Warden’s body that was healing—it was its very soul, or something akin to it, bound in the heart of the shadow-staff. That staff wasn’t merely a weapon—it was a conduit, a lifeline for Jorazek’s unnatural recovery. The energy it channeled was feeding into every fiber of the Warden’s being, stitching it together with corrupted vitality.
Gavin gritted his teeth—if he had teeth to grit—realizing what he was up against. He had been targeting the Warden’s physical form, slashing and stabbing in an attempt to destroy its body. But the true source of its regeneration lay deeper, hidden beneath layers of darkness. He had to dismantle the power at its core before it became an unstoppable force.
With a lurch, Gavin adjusted his stance, his movements slowing just enough to analyze the rhythm of the Warden’s actions. Jorazek raised its staff high, the swirling black mass at its tip gathering into a focal point, preparing to unleash another destructive blast. Gavin’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t have much time.
The Mask of Shadows revealed to him the precise moment when the Warden’s regeneration was at its weakest—the instant it drew the energy to fuel its next attack. In that brief span, Jorazek’s body momentarily exposed the weak link: a tendril of shadow that connected the base of its staff directly to its heart. It was this conduit—the lifeblood of the Warden’s regeneration—that Gavin needed to sever.
Without hesitation, Gavin darted forward, his daggers flashing through the air with deadly precision. The first dagger found its mark, driving deep into the junction between the Warden’s chest and the shadowy core of its regeneration. But the Warden reacted instantly, its free hand snapping out and catching Gavin mid-strike. The momentum of the blow sent the machine flying backward once more, crashing against the jagged rocks of the ruined battlefield.
Gavin’s internal systems screamed in protest, but his instincts overrode the pain—he knew he was running out of time. The Warden’s figure rippled as its form continued to heal, the malevolent energy pulsing in and out of its body. Gavin forced himself to his feet, his body groaning with the strain. His sensors zoomed in on the staff, which was now crackling with power. The Warden was about to unleash something devastating.
But Gavin wasn’t done. One last gambit remained—for strength alone could not carve his victory. The Mask of Shadows had given him the key—now, it was time to outwit his foe. He needed to misdirect the flow of energy, to force the Warden into a position where its regeneration would be interrupted long enough for him to strike the final blow.
Drawing on every ounce of battle instinct, Gavin feinted, pretending to falter as he lunged toward the Warden’s left side. The Warden’s staff shot forward to meet him, but it was too slow. As Jorazek’s focus momentarily shifted, Gavin pivoted on his heel and struck at the exposed base of the staff—the very heart of its power.
The dagger sliced cleanly through the tendril connecting the Warden to its regenerative essence.
For a brief moment, time seemed to freeze. Jorazek’s body convulsed as the malevolent energy that had been sustaining it for so long sputtered, then cracked like a shattered mirror. The Warden screamed—a guttural sound of rage and pain—as its power unraveled. In that instant, its helm fractured and shattered, pieces of it flying in all directions, exposing the twisted visage beneath.
The staff fell to the ground with a sickening clang, its dark energy rapidly dispersing into the air like smoke. Jorazek staggered, its body lurching forward in an awkward, desperate attempt to reassert its strength. But the corruption had been severed, and the Warden’s ability to regenerate had been cut off at the source.
Now, Gavin knew: it was time to end this.
---
The battlefield, once a cacophony of dark magic and clashing steel, had fallen eerily silent, save for the low hum of Gavin’s internal systems, which now sputtered in irregular intervals. His movements were sluggish, and every step seemed to carry the weight of a thousand burdens. His body was now a patchwork of sparks, fractures, and the aftershocks of the battle’s toll. Every dent, every scorch mark, was a testament to the grueling fight that had pushed him to the brink.
But despite it all, Gavin’s eyes—those glowing, haunted orbs—were still filled with a fire that refused to be extinguished. He staggered, catching himself on the broken remnants of a boulder, and took in the sight of Jorazek: the Warden’s towering form was no longer the unassailable beast it had once been. Its armor was cracked, its shadowy tendrils flickering in and out of existence, like dying embers. The helm that once hid its face lay in shattered pieces, its visage revealed, twisted with unyielding cruelty. The dark energy that had fueled it was weakening, disintegrating, its regenerative power flickering out in broken spurts.
Jorazek’s once imposing figure wavered, its movements slow and erratic. But even in its diminished state, there was a primal ferocity in its exposed eyes—a refusal to surrender. The Warden’s grip tightened around its staff, its knuckles white against the obsidian surface, and with a growl that shook the ground, Jorazek swung the weapon in a final, desperate arc.
Gavin instinctively sidestepped, the Mask of Shadows flaring bright to help him read the Warden’s every move, but even then, the blast of dark energy that followed forced him back. He stumbled, the shockwave reverberating through his body like a sledgehammer. Sparks flew from the deep grooves where his armor had cracked. He was damaged. And yet, his gaze never wavered from the Warden—never faltered.
His vision blurred with the weight of exhaustion, but his mind was sharp. He understood. He’d fought enough battles to know when the end was near. The Warden’s attacks, now slower, were more predictable. Its staff—once a conduit of dark power—was losing its strength. The Warden was weakening, but not quite broken.
Jorazek’s shattered body creaked and groaned as it took a stumbling step forward, eyes locking onto Gavin with a strange intensity. “Relic of the past,” it rasped, its voice hoarse, “Nay, more than a relic. You fight with an echo of something I’ve seen before.”
Gavin’s optics flickered as the words sunk in. He paused for a moment, the Mask of Shadows flaring briefly, analyzing every nuance.
Jorazek’s lips twisted in something between a grimace and a grin. “You’re like us,” it muttered, a bitter chuckle escaping its throat. “A creation. Something built, but you think you’re different? I see the same corruption in your form. The same hunger. What are you truly, machine?”
The words hit harder than any blow he had endured. Gavin’s optics narrowed as the thought began to form. "A creation… and yet, I evolve."
His gaze lingered on Jorazek for a moment, voice softer than usual. “Maybe that’s the difference.”
Jorazek’s energy seemed to drain even further, his shadowy form flickering, barely holding together. “You… evolve,” it hissed. “And you think that makes you free? You’re still bound by something beyond you, just like us Darkborn.”
Gavin stiffened, a sudden realization flaring in his mind. “Like...Darkborn…?” he echoed, his voice quieter, almost questioning.
Jorazek’s form trembled, but it forced out the final words, its grip tightening on the staff in one last, futile attempt to lash out. “Yes, machine. You’re not so different. And when you’re gone, when this ends, what will be left of you? More than just a relic, or something… worse?”
Gavin felt a strange tightening in his chest, but his focus sharpened, and his mind snapped back to the battle. There was no time for answers now. Not yet. He wasn’t done.
Jorazek’s words lingered in his mind like a weight, gnawing at him even as the battle raged on. The Warden’s cryptic insinuations left a growing sense of doubt in Gavin’s thoughts, but there was no room for it now. Not with Jorazek still standing.
Gavin’s mind raced, calculating, analyzing, until the solution came to him in a split second. He knew how to finish this—how to bring an end to the nightmare.
With a roar that rattled the heavens, Jorazek raised its staff once more. The air thickened with the weight of its final attack, dark magic coiling around the staff like a serpentine curse, crackling and snapping as if it could tear the world apart. Gavin’s body screamed in protest, his limbs heavy, but he moved with the precision that had carried him through countless battles. There was no time to waste.
He lunged, his body shuddering with the force of every step, his daggers raised in a deadly arc. The Mask of Shadows flickered, casting brief, unnatural glimpses of the Warden’s vulnerabilities in its fractured state. Gavin aimed for the weak spots—the broken gaps in its armor where the dark energy was leaking. He could feel the pulse of it, like a heartbeat, a steady rhythm that thudded beneath the surface.
Jorazek’s staff came down with an ear-splitting crack, aiming to cleave Gavin in two. But the machine was faster. With a grace that belied his damaged form, Gavin spun beneath the strike, slipping into the Warden’s personal space, too close for the staff to reach. He drove both daggers into the Warden’s side, his blades sinking deep into corrupted flesh and metal. There was a sickening squelch as the daggers found their mark, the tendrils of dark energy recoiling, as if the Warden itself was recoiling from the blow.
Jorazek let out a guttural howl, a roar of frustration and fury. The dark magic surged outward in a final, violent explosion, tendrils of shadow exploding from the Warden’s body like a wild storm. But Gavin was already moving, pulling back with expert precision, his daggers slashing across the vulnerable arteries of the Warden’s heart. The dark energy, which had once been a living force, began to splinter, unraveling like a taut rope that had finally reached its breaking point.
The Mask of Shadows flared one last time, its energies fully syncing with Gavin’s systems. He focused, honing in on the last remnants of Jorazek’s soul-bound power. With a single, fluid motion, he drove his daggers into the core of the Warden’s chest, where the dark heart pulsed erratically, the source of its regenerative magic. Gavin twisted the blades with brutal force, severing the connection between the Warden and the dark magic that had sustained it for so long.
The battlefield trembled, the very earth quaking as the Warden’s body spasmed violently, thrashing against its inevitable end. For a moment, it seemed as if the entire world held its breath.
And then, with a final, agonized roar, Jorazek crumpled to the ground.
The Warden’s massive frame collapsed in on itself, its armor falling away in chunks, revealing the twisted, dying remains beneath. Dark energy poured from its shattered body, like oil spilling from a broken vessel, the last vestiges of its malevolent power dissipating into the air. The tendrils of shadow that had once wrapped around it now withered, their last flickers of life snuffed out in an instant.
Gavin stood over the fallen creature, his chest heaving, his body teetering on the edge of complete shutdown. The battle was over.
Jorazek was no more.
But as the silence settled, Gavin’s mind echoed with the unanswered questions the Warden had left behind. The strange feeling of connection, the implication of what he was. He stood frozen, staring down at the now lifeless form of the Warden, the faint whispers of Jorazek’s words still circling in his mind.
“Just like us Darkborn…”
The words, now hanging in the air, seemed to offer no comfort. And with that, Gavin’s silence stretched on, an unsettling pause in the aftermath of the battle, leaving him with more questions than answers about the truth of his existence and his place in this world.
But before he could dwell further, the ground trembled again. The shadows in the distance seemed to deepen, coiling with malevolent energy. Gavin's eyes flickered to the source, the faintest glimmer of movement—a whisper of something far darker yet to come.
Two figures emerged from the encroaching dark, their silhouettes sharp and twisted, like broken shadows come to life. The air around them crackled with a potent, foreboding magic. As they drew nearer, Gavin's systems whirred with a sudden urgency. These were no mere stragglers—these were something else.
***
The forest stretched endlessly before them, dense and ancient, its gnarled branches clawing at the sky. The thick canopy overhead filtered the moonlight into fractured beams, casting shifting shadows across the underbrush. The air was cool and damp, rich with the scent of moss and decay, every step met with the muffled crunch of damp earth and brittle leaves. Somewhere in the darkness, unseen creatures stirred, their rustling movements blending into the eerie stillness that seemed to press in from all sides.
Kurt led the way, his pace measured and deliberate, each step placed with careful intent to minimize sound. In Darkborn territory, caution was survival. But tonight, the atmosphere carried an unnatural weight, the very air thick with something unspoken, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
They had been resting most nights, seeking refuge from the dangers lurking in the darkness. But tonight was different. The distant clashing of steel had shattered the stillness, reverberating through the trees with an intensity that demanded their attention. It was a sound too loud to be ignored by any adventurer worth their salt—a battle was raging somewhere in the distance, and it could only mean trouble.
Without a word, the group had risen, leaving the safety of their makeshift camp to investigate the source of the commotion. The urgency of the situation had driven them into the night, guided by the echoing sounds of conflict. Every step brought them closer to the unknown, their senses heightened by the danger that lay ahead.
Then—another crash.
The distant roar of battle shattered the silence, sending a tremor through the ground beneath their feet. It came again, a cacophony of splintering wood, twisting metal, and something deeper, more primal. A sound that sent an involuntary chill down their spines.
Kurt halted, his breath steady but his muscles tensed. The others gathered close, exchanging wary glances.
Pierce, his keen senses sharper than most, tilted his head, listening intently. “The clash of steel is unmistakable," he murmured, eyes narrowing. "We could be walking into an ambush—or something even worse.”
Kurt’s jaw set, the faintest flicker of recognition crossing his face before urgency overtook him. “Stay close,” he ordered, already moving. His usual caution was gone, replaced by an almost reckless momentum.
Holly cast a quick glance at William and Swan before nodding resolutely. There was no hesitation, only a shared understanding of the peril they were heading into. “We've come this far,” she said, her voice steady. “Let's see it through.”
William and Swan fell in line behind Kurt, their resolve firm despite the unknown dangers ahead. They moved with purpose, their apprehension drowned by the unspoken bond that connected them. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.
The sound of destruction grew louder as they pressed forward, the clashing of steel and cries of battle echoing through the trees. The air was thick with the coppery tang of blood, mingling with the damp, earthy scent of the forest. The shadows ahead twisted and coiled, warping with an unnatural energy that prickled against their skin. The forest itself seemed to recoil from the scene unfolding just beyond their sight.
Then the bodies came into view.
The group halted, their breaths catching as they took in the scene before them. Scattered across the ground, the corpses of five adventurers lay in twisted, unnatural stillness. Their armor torn, bodies rent apart by something far beyond the capabilities of mere beasts. Blood seeped into the earth, staining the underbrush in dark crimson pools.
Kurt’s gaze flicked across them, his stomach twisting. These weren’t nameless casualties. He recognized some of them.
Green-ranked adventurers—mid-tier fighters, skilled but not yet seasoned. And among them, Till, a single blue-ranked adventurer, their leader, someone meant to guide and protect. They had been competent. They had been strong. And yet, they had been slaughtered.
Holly gasped softly, pressing a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Pierce’s jaw clenched, his expression darkening, and his grip on his weapon tightened, a flicker of rage in his eyes. Even William, usually full of energy and lighthearted, stood frozen, his usual exuberance gone, replaced by a quiet shock as his wide eyes scanned the bodies. Swan, ever the seasoned one, remained composed, her gaze sweeping the scene with cold precision, though a faint tightening at the corners of her mouth betrayed the impact of the grim sight.
“These weren’t rookies,” Pierce muttered, his voice low. “They should’ve been able to hold their own.”
Kurt knelt beside Till’s body, his fingers brushing over a tattered insignia on his armor. The familiar crest was smeared with blood, almost unrecognizable. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression unreadable.
“This wasn’t just an attack,” he said quietly, his voice tight. “This was a slaughter.”
The realization settled over them like a suffocating weight. If an entire party, led by a blue-ranked adventurer, had been wiped out so effortlessly, what did that say about the strength of whatever had done this?
Then the shadows shifted.
Kurt rose swiftly, his body snapping into a ready stance as the presence in the darkness solidified.
Two figures loomed at the edge of the carnage, their silhouettes stark against the backdrop of chaos. Nera'Vul, its form wreathed in shifting void energy, its very presence exuding a suffocating menace. Beside it, Tharakar, the Dread Knight, its hulking frame clad in cursed armor that seemed to drink in the light.
The realization hit with cold finality. These two alone had done this.
Kurt’s breath was steady, but his pulse thundered. The others closed ranks beside him, weapons drawn, their gazes locked onto the two imposing figures.
The night held still for a single, weighted moment.
Then, the darkness surged forward.
