Confusion. Fear. Agony.
The young boy walked through the silent village, his small feet stepping over lifeless bodies. He recognized these people—neighbors, shopkeepers, the kind old woman who always gave him sweets—but now, they felt like strangers. The warmth of life had left them, their stillness more alien than if they had been replaced with stone statues. His mind refused to grasp the truth, shielding him from the horror. It felt as though a thick fog had settled inside his skull, numbing him, keeping him from collapsing under the weight of what he saw.
There were no wounds, no signs of struggle. Just stillness. As if the entire village had simply… stopped.
He followed the main road, once alive with chatter and footsteps, now littered with the fallen. It was the path people took to the farms, to the river where they washed their clothes and filled their water jugs. But today, the only movement came from the wind, stirring dust across the motionless forms of men, women, and even animals. Goats, dogs, chickens—none had been spared.
"Everyone is dead."
The words echoed in his head, a cold and absolute truth that no child his age should have to understand.
His legs trembled. Each step grew heavier as the truth pressed down on him, stealing what little strength remained. His knees buckled, and he fell forward. Instinct made him throw his arms out, but the rough dirt still scraped his palms and knees. A sharp sting of pain shot through him, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache inside.
And then, finally, he cried.
The sobs came in waves, raw and desperate. Was it the pain in his hands? Or was it something deeper—an understanding that had finally sunk in? That no one was coming to help him. That he was truly alone.
The village lay silent. The sky stretched vast and indifferent above him. And the boy, small and broken, wept among the dead.
***
Jose hated this assignment.
Every few days, they were sent to check the villages near the border of Ventes and Raumhant, looking for survivors, gathering information. And every time, they found the same thing—destruction. At first, it had been horrifying. Now, it was just frustrating.
No matter how often they warned the villagers to flee, they refused. Stubborn farmers and old fools who clung to their homes, believing war wouldn't reach them. And every time, the result was the same.
Jose clenched his jaw as he trudged along the dirt path, the worn leather of his boots scuffing against the stones. He was at the back of the group when the captain's voice cut through the silence.
"Hold."
The squad stopped immediately. Jose pushed his way forward, dodging the other warriors until he stood near the captain—a hulking man with a body carved by battle, his face a tapestry of scars. He crouched beside a corpse, poking it with the hilt of his sword.
"This village might be done for," the captain muttered.
"Dumb bastards," someone cursed from behind.
The captain ignored them and rose to his feet. "Keep moving. There might still be someone alive."
The squad obeyed, stepping over the fallen as they advanced toward the village. Jose lingered for a moment, his eyes narrowing at the body the captain had examined. Something about it felt… off.
Unlike the others he'd seen before—bodies slashed open, frozen in terror, their blood staining the dirt—this one was different. There were no wounds. No blood. And its face...
It was disturbingly neutral.
Jose frowned. It didn't make sense. He had seen the work of raiders and soldiers before—death was always violent. But this? It was as if the person had simply collapsed and died without struggle.
He was about to investigate further when the group moved ahead, forcing him to abandon the body and catch up.
The deeper they went, the stranger things became. The trees lining the road thickened, their massive branches intertwining to form a canopy so dense that only slivers of sunlight pierced through. The air grew colder, heavier. More bodies littered the path—dozens of them. And just like before, not a single one bore any visible wounds.
Then, at last, they reached the village.
It sat in a small clearing, a cluster of simple stone houses with wooden roofs, their age evident in the cracks and wear. The main road ran straight through, branching off into smaller trails leading to various parts of the settlement.
The massacre was absolute.
Jose swallowed hard as his eyes swept over the scene. Entire families lay motionless outside their homes, their unfinished meals still on wooden plates, tools abandoned mid-task. It was as if death had come without warning, without mercy.
"This is… unnatural," one of the warriors muttered.
"An ability user?" another guessed, voice laced with unease.
No one had an answer. But every man in the squad felt it—that creeping, invisible force slithering beneath their skin, whispering that something terrible had happened here. And perhaps, something even worse was still lurking nearby.
Jose's fingers twitched toward the hilt of his sword, but something else caught his attention.
Their captain was acting strangely.
Normally, in a situation like this, his blade would be drawn, his orders sharp and cautious. But now, he just kept walking, his expression unreadable as he stepped over the fallen, barely sparing them a glance. It was as if he wasn't here to investigate the village at all.