The sky sprawled with ominous dark clouds, a portent of impending heavy rainfall. Such a phenomenon was a rarity for the inhabitants of this city, prompting a frantic scramble as people rushed to shutter businesses and brace for the impending tempest. This city bore the name FrostHaven, nestled within the Alcard kingdom, one of the paramount powers on this vast continent.
While the city's populace scurried about in preparation, a nearby village told a different story. The overcast heavens above it seemed tainted with a sinister, blood-red hue, reminiscent of a sacrificial ritual, or perhaps a vile omen.
Yet, these assumptions weren't far from the harsh reality. The city now lay strewn with lifeless bodies, irrespective of age, gender, or station - none were spared from this cruel fate, save for one solitary figure, a young man. Was he the instigator of this bloodshed? Such a mystery hung heavy in the air.
Within the confines of a village manor, the youth knelt beside the lifeless form of a woman whose visage bore an uncanny resemblance to his own. His eyes, once vibrant, now mirrored a tumultuous storm of emotions - anger, sorrow, and profound confusion.
"Why?..I..I mus...must be dreaming" The word escaped his parched throat, as if he hadn't tasted water in an eternity.
As tears streamed down his cheeks, he was acutely aware that his own words were a feeble attempt to deny the grim reality. His family, his friends, his entire village, all had fallen victim to this brutality, all but him. Whether it was chance or fate that spared him remained uncertain, yet he yearned to have been among them. He couldn't fathom the thought of continuing his life without those who had shared every laugh, every tear, every precious moment. Who could commit such an unspeakable atrocity?
Amid these tumultuous thoughts, a raspy cough from nearby broke the silence.
"Young Master," an old man's voice croaked not far from him. The man, one of their loyal servants, though aged, persisted in his duties, often grumbling about the remaining strength in his body for menial tasks. He was a curmudgeon in his own right, but now he spoke with urgency.
Rushing to the old man with a restless expression and madness in his eyes.
"Old man Clay, what has transpired? Who could commit such a heinous act?" The young man had countless questions, an insatiable thirst for answers. He needed to know why their village had become a slaughterhouse, but Old man Clay interrupted him with a trembling voice.
"Young Master, you must flee, leave this place. They will return, and if they find you here, your fate will be no less than that of our village. Please, go."
The young man's determination wavered, and he pleaded desperately, "Old man, you know I can't simply abandon this. I need answers; I must understand who did this and why."
With a heavy sigh, Old man Clay continued, "Sigh! Young Master, for such a tragedy to fall on our village, for countless innocents to be slaughtered, what terrible karma has befallen our village? I don't have much time left. Our world is not simple as it seems, I nor your mother will be there to guide you anymore. Be cautious of those you encounter from now on. Strive to become strong, for the weak can't shape their own destinies. We your family will always watch you from the heavens and beware of the...."
Just as the old man wanted to finish his sentence, a rain of arrows pierced the air, landing on every corner of the village and igniting a fire.
"They're here, young master. You must run. Remember, be cautious. Nothing you've known since your childhood is as it seems. Please, go, hurry!" As Old man Clay finished speaking, his body underwent a shocking transformation, as if he were a demi human. Terrified by the surreal spectacle, the young man stared in awe and fear, unable to form coherent words.
"Go now! I'll hold them off." Like a bucket of cold water splashed over his head, the young man sprinted toward his mother's lifeless form, taking her necklace as a final keepsake, casting one last mournful look, and then fled towards the rear of the manor with all the swiftness he could muster.
Eighteen years of living in that village had etched every alley and corner into his memory. Negotiating the labyrinth of streets and alleys, he could hear the fire's roar and the clashing of swords, which he assumed to be Old man Clay's last stand. There was no time to process the bizarre transformation he had just witnessed; all he needed to do was escape.
"What do we have here, a survivor," a malicious voice taunted. as an arrow grazed his thigh, and he stumbled. His leg bleeding, he persisted, nearly reaching the forest. Once he entered those woods, he believed he would elude his pursuers. As long as he reached that destination, they would lose his trail.
"Hahaha, run, run, little mouse. Make it more entertaining for me." The voice behind him echoed, grinding at his sanity. Yet, he couldn't give in; he couldn't afford to lose hope. He had a destination in mind, and as long as his pursuer reveled in the chase, he was determined to make it there.
Back at his manor, a troop of a hundred armed men, each bearing the emblem of a lotus on their armor stood outside. Among them, a middle-aged man stood out, his armor distinct, his aura more potent and bloodthirsty than all the others combined. One of his leg on top of old man Clay's corpse as he gazed upon the unfolding scene, his gaze fixed on the pursuer.
"Hector," he commanded, "ensure he doesn't escape. We can't afford any loose ends. The other clans must remain ignorant of this." His intent bore a deadly weight as he locked onto Hector, sending shivers down the man's spine.
"Yes, my lord," Hector meekly replied, transforming his demeanor from the earlier madness. "Did you hear that, kid? I wanted to enjoy our little game, but it seems I must conclude our quality time." With a swift motion, Hector leaped from the rooftop and dashed toward the young man, who had just entered the forest, leaving behind the burning remnants of his past.