The forest rumbled with a force more powerful than before, sending a wave of dread through the village. Arnolt's warning was abruptly cut off by Xiona's terrified scream: "Auntie, LOOK OUT!"
Arnolt turned just in time to witness a nightmare. Emerging from the smoldering ruins of a cottage was an Omen unlike any he had ever seen. It towered over the others, its form more menacing and intelligent-looking, almost man-like. Its exoskeleton shimmered with an eerie glow, and it walked on bipedal legs, its elongated blade-like arms slicing through the air with lethal grace. But what truly sent chills down Arnolt's spine was its face—a grotesque and twisted expression was etched to it, dominated by a long, singular horn that jutted out from its forehead.
Time seemed to slow as the creature's horn detached and launched with staggering speed, a blur of death heading straight for Roselyn. The impact was brutal. The force sent her flying backward, and when she landed, the horn was buried deep in her chest, pinning her to the ground.
"NO! ROSE!" Arwolt's anguished cry pierced the air as he watched his wife's lifeless body crumple to the ground. Fury ignited within him, turning his grief into a blind, relentless rage. Without hesitation, he charged at the Omen, his spear raised high. Arnolt and Xiona rushed to Roselyn, their hearts pounding with fear and despair.
"Auntie… Auntie, please, wake up!" Xiona's voice cracked as she shook Roselyn's limp body, her tears flowing freely. But there was no response, no sign of life in her aunt's eyes. Xiona's sobs filled the air as she pleaded for her aunt to return, her voice growing weaker with each cry.
Arnolt knelt beside them, his mind a whirlwind of emotions—rage, fear, sorrow—all swirling in a storm of helplessness. He stared at his mother's motionless form, unable to process the reality of what had just happened. His hands trembled as he reached out to touch her, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was as if touching her would make it all real, and he was not ready for that.
Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream shattered his thoughts. Arnolt looked up to see his father locked in a desperate battle with the Omen. Arwolt fought with the fury of a man who had lost everything, each strike of his spear fueled by a need for vengeance. But the Omen was faster, stronger, and far more deadly than any he had faced before. It parried Arwolt's blows with ease, its blade arms slicing through the air with terrifying precision.
Despite his valiant effort, Arwolt was no match for the creature. With a swift, brutal motion, the Omen's blade arm pierced through his stomach. Arwolt gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as he staggered backward. But in his last moment of life, he summoned all his strength and drove his spear into the Omen's right eye. The creature let out a screech of pain, stumbling back as Arwolt collapsed to the ground, his lifeless body joining Roselyn's.
"Dad!" Arnolt's voice broke as he watched his father fall. The world around him seemed to blur as rage and sorrow consumed him. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing with the memory of his parents' deaths.
With a roar of fury, Arnolt surged to his feet, his eyes blazing with a fierce determination. He yanked his father's spear from the Omen's eye socket, feeling its weight in his hand. The creature, now blinded in one eye and wounded, staggered, trying to regain its balance. But Arnolt wasn't going to give it the chance.
With both spears in hand, he charged at the Omen, his movements a blur of deadly precision. He attacked with a fury he had never known before, each strike aimed to dismantle the beast that had taken everything from him. The Omen's remaining eye widened in shock as it realized too late the mistake it had made in underestimating Arnolt's resolve.
Arnolt's strikes were relentless, his movements almost a dance of death as he targeted the creature's weak points. The Omen shrieked as he drove one spear into its chest and the other through its throat, silencing it for good. The creature crumpled to the ground, dissolving into a cloud of dust and Magicule. But even as it fell, Arnolt didn't stop. He turned, his eyes scanning for more targets, his rage unquenched.
He hurled himself at the oncoming Omens, his dual spears flashing in the dim light as he fought with everything he had. But no matter how many he defeated, more seemed to take their place. His strength was waning, his movements growing slower with each passing second. Despite his fury, he knew he couldn't fight them all alone.
Just when all hope seemed lost, the sound of a crossbow twanged through the air, followed by a series of rapid shots. Arnolt's heart leapt as he recognized the voice that accompanied the attack. "Hold on, Arnolt! We're here!"
Grennyn had returned, leading a group of fighters from the Adventurer's Guild. They surged into the village, their weapons cutting through the Omens like a scythe through wheat. Arnolt's knees buckled in relief as he realized help had finally arrived.
Among the newcomers was a striking figure—a knight whose armor shone like a warm dawn, her flowing cape regal and white, and her golden hair catching the light as it flowed with the wind. She armed herself with a sword in one hand and a shimmering dagger in the other. Her face, painted with white like that of a jester, gave her an air of otherworldly beauty. Her voice was both beautiful and commanding as she addressed Arnolt. "You have fought bravely, warrior. I am Alastir of Venatoria. Allow us to assist you in this battle."
The tide of battle quickly turned as the guild members joined the fray. They fought with a coordinated precision, each movement calculated to take down the Omens as efficiently as possible. As the last of the Omens were felled, Arnolt collapsed to the ground, his body trembling from exhaustion and the adrenaline that had fueled him. He stared at the sky, his mind numb as the weight of everything that had happened finally crashed down on him.
Grennyn rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. "Arnolt! Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.
Arnolt shook his head weakly, his voice hoarse as he replied, "My parents… they're gone."
Grennyn's expression softened, a look of deep sorrow crossing his face. He placed a hand on Arnolt's shoulder, offering silent comfort as the reality of the loss set in.
The village, once a haven of comfort and safety, had become a graveyard of broken dreams and shattered lives. As the snowy clouds began to thin and the sun set on the horizon, its fading light cast a harsh glow over the aftermath of the battle. Arnolt knew in his heart that nothing would ever be the same again. But as he looked into the weary, determined faces of those who had survived, he realized that giving up was not an option. The fight was not over, and he would need every ounce of strength he had left to see it through.