HI GUYS IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE CHAPTERS PLEASE VISIT
patreon.com/Xenon974
The sky was a murky, oppressive gray, choked with the promise of rain that never seemed to fall.
Beneath this suffocating canopy, the land lay in a perpetual twilight, as though the sun itself had abandoned all hope of piercing through the thick veil of clouds. Jagged, barren trees clawed at the sky with skeletal branches, their once-majestic forms now twisted into grotesque shapes by years of neglect and the slow, creeping rot that had taken hold of the earth.
A figure moved through this desolate landscape, a dark silhouette against the washed-out backdrop of decay. He walked with a purposeful stride, each step heavy and deliberate, leaving deep imprints in the soft, sodden ground. The figure was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence radiating a sense of raw, untamed power. A tattered cloak, once black but now faded to a dull, indistinguishable shade, billowed around him, fluttering in the cold, biting wind that howled through the empty fields.
His face was hidden beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat, but the lower half of his face, visible beneath the brim, was set in a grim line. His features were sharp, etched with lines of weariness and pain, telling the tale of a man who had seen too much, fought too hard, and lost too often. Strapped across his back was a massive sword, nearly as tall as he was and impossibly wide, its handle worn and scarred from countless battles. The blade was wrapped in ragged cloth, hiding its gleaming edge from the world, but the aura of menace that emanated from it was palpable.
As he walked, the landscape around him seemed to change, the air growing thicker, heavier, as though the land itself recoiled from his presence. The trees, already dead, appeared to lean away from him, their brittle branches snapping in the wind, as if trying to escape the shadow that he cast. The ground beneath his feet, once solid, began to soften into mud, dark and sticky, clinging to his boots as though it sought to pull him down into the earth.
He came upon a village, or what remained of one. The buildings were little more than crumbling husks, their roofs caved in, walls blackened by fire and time. The air was thick with the stench of rot and decay, the unmistakable scent of death that clung to places long abandoned by the living. The only sounds were the creaking of wood as the wind rattled through the empty houses and the distant cawing of crows, circling high above like dark, patient sentinels waiting to feast on whatever remained.
The figure stopped at the edge of the village, his eyes scanning the desolation before him. He had seen places like this before—too many to count. Each one told the same story: a small, isolated community, once vibrant and alive, now reduced to ruins, its people either fled or slaughtered, their blood staining the earth.
He could almost hear their screams echoing in the silence, feel the heat of the flames that had consumed their homes. But there was no one left to mourn them, no one left to remember their names.
He walked into the village, his footsteps echoing through the empty streets. The buildings loomed over him, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to reach out and grasp at his cloak. The village square, once a place of gathering and life, was now a graveyard of memories, littered with the remnants of the past—broken carts, shattered pottery, and the bones of those who had not escaped the carnage.
In the center of the square stood a well, its stone walls covered in moss and vines, the water within long since dried up. The figure approached it, his hand brushing against the cold, rough stone as he peered into the darkness below. For a moment, he stood there, motionless, as though lost in thought. Then, with a sigh, he turned away, his gaze sweeping across the village once more.
It was then that he noticed movement—faint, almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless. A shadow flitted between the ruins, quick and silent, disappearing into the darkness of a collapsed building. The figure's eyes narrowed, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. He was not alone.
He moved toward the building, his senses on high alert, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring, ready to strike. As he approached, he could hear the faintest of sounds—ragged breathing, the scuffling of feet on dirt. Someone—or something—was hiding within.
With a swift, fluid motion, he drew his sword, the massive blade sliding free of its bindings with a whisper of steel. The sword, impossibly large for any normal man to wield, seemed to hum with anticipation, as though eager to taste blood. The figure stepped into the shadow of the building, his sword at the ready, every sense honed to a razor's edge.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and decay. The walls, once sturdy, were crumbling, the roof barely holding together. In the darkness, he could make out a shape, hunched and trembling, cowering in the corner. It was a man, filthy and emaciated, his clothes little more than rags hanging off his bony frame. His eyes, wide with fear, locked onto the figure's silhouette, and he let out a choked sob, scrambling backward on his hands and knees.
"Please," the man whispered, his voice hoarse and desperate. "Please, don't kill me."
The figure did not lower his sword. He had seen too many tricks, too many ambushes, to trust the words of a stranger in a place like this. But there was no malice in the man's eyes, only terror. The figure paused, his grip on the sword relaxing slightly.
"What happened here?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly, each word weighed down by the burden of his past.
The man trembled, his gaze darting around the room as though he expected something to leap out of the shadows at any moment. "They came," he whispered, barely able to form the words. "They came in the night. We didn't stand a chance…"
"Who?" the figure pressed, taking a step closer. "Who did this?"
"The… the Cult of the Black Sun," the man stammered, his voice breaking. "They took them… took everyone… for the sacrifice…"
The figure's eyes narrowed at the mention of the cult. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, the memories of his own past flashing through his mind—flames, screams, and the twisted faces of the cultists as they carried out their dark rituals. He had been hunting them for years, following the trail of death and destruction they left in their wake. And now, it seemed, he was on the right path once more.
"Where?" he demanded, his voice cold and hard. "Where did they take them?"
The man shook his head frantically, his eyes wide with fear. "I don't know… I don't know! They… they went north, into the mountains… that's all I know, I swear!"
The figure stared at the man for a long moment, weighing his words. Finally, he lowered his sword, though the tension in his body remained. "Get out of here," he said, his voice a low growl. "Run as far as you can. And pray they don't find you."
The man didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet and bolted out of the building, disappearing into the fog that had begun to creep through the village. The figure watched him go, his expression unreadable, before turning his gaze to the north.
The mountains loomed on the horizon, dark and foreboding, shrouded in mist. The Cult of the Black Sun was up there, waiting for him. And he would find them. He would find them, and he would end them.
With a final glance at the ruined village, the figure sheathed his sword and began to walk. The path ahead was long and fraught with danger, but he did not hesitate. He had walked this path before, and he would walk it again.
Until the end.
HI GUYS IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE CHAPTERS PLEASE VISIT
patreon.com/Xenon974