Master Rowan stood at the center of the group, his authoritative presence commanding attention. "We need to investigate Dartridge," he declared, his voice steady. "The old stories have kept us away for too long. It's time we faced them and put any lingering fears to rest."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some nodded in reluctant agreement, while others exchanged doubtful looks.
"Why now, Rowan?" asked Edgar, Tomas's father, crossing his arms. "The ruins have been abandoned for generations. What could possibly be gained by stirring old ghosts?"
Rowan met his gaze evenly. "Knowledge," he replied. "Knowingly or unknowingly, Eamon ventured into the ruins and ever since, it’s like a shadow has been cast over our village. Understanding our past can help secure our future. Besides, there have been no strange occurrences—just tales and superstitions. We owe it to ourselves and our children to separate fact from fiction."
Eamon felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He knew the true reason behind the tension—the villagers blamed him for unsettling the peace. His unauthorized exploration had stirred up old fears, and now suspicion hung over him like a dark cloud.
Garret, Eamon's father, stepped forward. "Rowan's right. We can't live in fear of shadows and old stories. If there's nothing there, we'll confirm it and put the matter to rest."
Elara, Eamon's mother, placed a protective hand on his shoulder. "Must Eamon go?" she asked quietly, concern evident in her eyes.
Rowan glanced at Eamon, his gaze thoughtful. "He should come," he said. "He’s the only one who’s been in the ruins and might be able to recognize something."
Some of the villagers exchanged skeptical glances, but no one voiced an objection.
"Very well," Edgar sighed. "Let's get this over with."
With reluctant agreement from the rest, a group of ten men prepared to set out. They armed themselves with an assortment of weapons—bows, spears, swords, and shields—more for comfort than out of expectation of danger.
As they made final preparations, Elara pulled Eamon aside. "Stay close to your father," she urged, her eyes searching his face. "And be careful. Not everyone trusts easily."
"I will, Mother," Eamon promised, squeezing her hand. He could feel the weight of the villagers' mistrust pressing down on him, but he resolved to prove himself.
Rowan approached them, placing a reassuring hand on Elara's shoulder. "I'll watch over him," he said softly.
She offered a hesitant smile. "Thank you, Rowan."
With that, the expedition set off toward DartRidge—the lost village that haunted their legends.
The journey was somber, the usual camaraderie replaced by uneasy silence. The men walked in a loose formation, eyes scanning the dense forest as if expecting the trees themselves to turn against them. Eamon walked near the back, aware of the wary glances cast his way.
As they trekked deeper into the woods, Garth fell back to walk alongside his son. "How are you holding up?" he asked.
Eamon shrugged. "I'm fine. Just wish everyone else thought so."
Garth sighed. "Give them time. People fear what they don't understand."
"Do you?" Eamon asked quietly.
His father paused before answering. "I worry. But I trust you."
Eamon managed a small smile. "Thanks."
Ahead of them, Rowan led the way with a purposeful stride. Though he didn't show it overtly, Eamon sensed that the elder was keeping a close eye on him, perhaps more than anyone else.
By the time they reached the outskirts of DartRidge, the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that seemed to grasp at them like spectral hands. The village ruins emerged from the overgrowth—a skeletal reminder of what once was.
"Stay alert," Rowan instructed, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "We'll split into groups and search the area. Report anything unusual."
As they navigated the decaying structures, Eamon felt a growing unease. His senses prickled, the mana in the air thick and... foul. It was as if the very essence of the place was tainted.
"Something's wrong here," he murmured.
Garth glanced at him. "What do you mean?"
Eamon hesitated. "I can't explain it. It just feels... off."
Edgar snorted softly. "It's an old, abandoned village. Of course it feels off."
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Ignoring the comment, Eamon moved toward an area where the sensation was strongest. Amidst the tangled vines and collapsed beams, he noticed a patch of disturbed earth. He started digging, his bare hands clawing against the ground.
“What is it son?” Garret asks but Eamon does not respond. The profound sensation of wrongness intensifies like something had clogged and festered the mana.
Garret joined him, using a shovel to unearth the dirt. As they dug deeper, a chilling discovery emerged: bones—human bones—layer upon layer of them.
A collective gasp rose from the group.
"By the gods," one man whispered, stepping back.
"There are so many," Edgar said, his voice trembling.
The sight of the mass grave sent a wave of revulsion through the men. Some turned away, their faces pale, while others stared at the bones with a mix of shock and disgust.
"What could have done this?" Garret wondered aloud, his face tight with horror.
"We should turn back," one of the men suggested, his voice shaky. "This place is cursed."
"We can’t leave now," another countered. "We have to know what happened here."
Before they could react further, a shout echoed from deeper within the ruins. "Everyone, regroup!" Rowan's voice was sharp with urgency.
They rushed toward the sound, finding the rest of the group gathered in a defensive circle. Weapons were drawn, faces taut with fear.
Emerging from the shadows was a creature that defied explanation. It moved on four limbs, its body a grotesque amalgamation of sinew and darkness. Eyes like smoldering coals locked onto them, and a low, guttural growl emanated from deep within its chest.
"What in the world is that?" one man gasped, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"Steady!" Rowan commanded, positioning himself at the forefront. "Keep together!"
The creature snarled, saliva dripping from a maw filled with jagged teeth. Without warning, it lunged.
Chaos erupted. The villagers, untrained for such a confrontation, stumbled backward. Spears were thrust haphazardly; arrows flew wide of their mark.
"Hold your ground!" Rowan shouted, parrying a swipe from the beast with his sword. "Aim for its legs!"
Eamon watched in horror as the creature tore through their ranks. One man was knocked aside, his arm slashed open. Another fell as the beast's tail whipped around, striking with bone-cracking force.
Garret stepped forward, swinging his axe with a roar. The blade sank into the creature's flank, eliciting a snarl. But before he could strike again, the beast reared up, claws raking across Garth's chest.
"Father!" Eamon screamed as Garth crumpled to the ground.
Something snapped inside Eamon. Fear was replaced by a surge of desperate resolve. Without thinking, he activated Windstride, feeling the mana flood his limbs. Time seemed to slow as he sprinted toward the creature.
"Eamon, no!" Rowan yelled, but it was too late. Adrenaline surged through Eamon’s veins, and in that moment of desperation, everything seemed to slow.
The beast turned, its fiery eyes narrowing as it registered the new threat. It lunged at Eamon, claws extended.
Eamon dodged with supernatural agility, the wind propelling his movements. Drawing upon more mana, he focused it into his blade—a technique he'd only theorized about.
He willed the wind to wrap around the blade, to sharpen its edge, to turn the simple dagger into something far deadlier. Please, let this work.
The blade shimmered faintly as the wind gathered around it, forming an invisible edge.
He struck swiftly, slicing across the creature's leg. The beast howled, a sound that rattled Eamon’s bones, its dark ichor oozing from the wound like poisoned tar. But even injured, the creature was far from defeated. Its blazing eyes locked onto him with renewed fury.
With a guttural snarl, the beast lunged again, faster this time, its massive claws slashing through the air. Eamon barely dodged, feeling the rush of wind as the claws missed him by inches. He rolled to the side, his body reacting more out of instinct than thought, the Windstride still coursing through him. His muscles screamed in protest from the sudden movements, but the adrenaline pushed him forward.
The creature was relentless, its massive form coiled with lethal energy. It lashed out, sweeping a clawed arm toward him. Eamon raised his dagger just in time, the force of the blow reverberating through his entire body. His knees buckled slightly, and he slid back, digging his feet into the dirt to stay upright.
Focus, breathe... he reminded himself, the hum of mana vibrating in his veins. He couldn’t afford to lose control. He dodged another wild swipe, his movements faster now, more fluid, the wind carrying him beyond the beast's reach. But the creature was adapting, its attacks growing sharper, more calculated.
Eamon's heart pounded as he circled his foe, desperately seeking an opening. His breaths came quick and shallow, the weight of the fight pressing down on him. He caught a glimpse of his father, Garth, lying motionless in the corner of his vision, and something inside him hardened. He couldn’t fail.
With a sudden burst of speed, the creature lunged again, jaws snapping toward Eamon’s throat. He ducked low, the beast’s fetid breath hot on his neck. Using the momentum, he swept around its flank and drove his dagger into its side. The enhanced blade bit deep this time, slicing through sinew and bone.
The beast’s body convulsed, a strangled roar escaping its maw as it writhed in agony. Black ichor poured from the wound, drenching Eamon’s arms as he twisted the blade, ensuring the fatal strike.
The creature gurgled, its fiery eyes dimming as it collapsed with a thunderous crash. Silence fell over the ruins, broken only by the ragged breaths of the survivors.
Eamon pulled his dagger free, his hands trembling. The adrenaline faded, and the weight of their stares bore down upon him. He glanced at his father, who was struggling to sit up, blood staining his shirt.
A small, glowing window appeared in the corner of his vision:
New Skill Unlocked: Wind Blade (Active)
Coat your weapon in wind, sharpening the blade with a deadly edge. Wind Blade enhances slashes and thrusts with precision, making strikes faster and more lethal. Works best with melee weapons. Requires concentration to maintain, and prolonged use drains mana.
- ----
But Eamon ignored the notification. His heart pounded with fear for his father’s life.
"Father!" Eamon rushed to Garth's side, ignoring the others. "Are you okay?"
Garth grimaced but managed a nod. "Just a scratch," he said weakly.
"You're bleeding badly," Eamon replied, tearing a strip of cloth from his own shirt to press against the wound.
Rowan approached cautiously, his eyes lingering on Eamon. "We need to tend to the injured and get back to the village," he said, his tone measured.
The other men began to gather, assisting the wounded. No one spoke to Eamon, but their glances spoke volumes—confusion, suspicion, and something else he couldn't quite place.
As they prepared to leave, a glint caught Eamon's eye near the fallen beast. Amidst the dark blood and dust lay a small red stone, pulsing faintly.
He picked it up, feeling a subtle warmth. The stone seemed to resonate with the mana within him.
"Eamon," Rowan called, his gaze sharp.
Eamon slipped the stone into his pouch. "I'm coming," he replied, moving to help his father stand.
The journey back was tense and hurried. The injured men groaned softly, and every shadow seemed to conceal another threat.
No one questioned Eamon about what they had witnessed, but the unspoken questions hung heavily in the air.