In the middle of a dilapidated village square, paved with rough stones, stood a majestic man clad in a pristine white armor, its edges adorned with gleaming silver that reflected the light of the setting sun. At the center of his chest, the engraved emblem of the sun seemed to pulse with radiance, dancing with every slight movement he made. His posture remained straight and resolute despite the pressures around him, while his sorrowful eyes gazed at the roaring crowd that surrounded him from all sides.
Before this imposing sight, the soldiers stood alert, holding their iron shields defensively as they tried to ward off the relentless barrage of projectiles. Stones flew from every direction, striking the shields with sharp sounds, while rotten vegetables scattered through the air, leaving behind dark stains with a foul stench on the ground and the armor. Shouts of anger and curses echoed all around, some understandable, others spoken in an unfamiliar primitive tongue.
On the opposite side, a group of strange-looking creatures led the assault. Their bodies bore a mixture of human and beastly traits, their faces distorted with partial human features fused with sharp fangs or wide, glowing eyes. Their long, powerful fingers clutched rocks and decayed objects before hurling them with force at the man and the soldiers around him, as if releasing a deep, seething fury that burned within them.
The man in white armor, named Alytheon, remained standing firm amidst the chaos, but he was not indifferent to what was happening around him. On the contrary, there was something heavy, crushing, accumulating in his chest, evident in his expression. His eyes, which once shone with determination, had dimmed like a sky burdened with sorrowful clouds. His lips were stiff, as if he were holding back weighty words, unable to speak them. The sorrow etched on his face was not mere passing grief; it was the sorrow of a man who had lost something precious—something that could never be retrieved, something that burned inside him like an ember that would never fade.
Beside him stood another man, completely different from him—tall and imposing, his massive frame exuding strength. He wore a brilliant red armor, as if it had been forged from the flames of battle itself. On his back rested a colossal black war hammer that gleamed despite the dust and chaos surrounding them. Unlike Alytheon, his eyes burned with fury and determination, but sorrow was an inseparable part of them as well. His voice was deep and commanding as he said:
"Alytheon, let's go! Things are as bad as in the other villages… There's no point in staying here! Come on, move quickly!"
But Alytheon did not move immediately. He merely turned his head slightly, gazing at the roaring crowd—their faces twisted with anger, fear, and hatred—the falling stones that his soldiers could barely defend against. He exhaled slowly, as if even his breath had grown heavy, as if leaving was not a simple choice. His sorrowful eyes no longer looked outward but deep within his soul, where painful memories lay buried, memories he could not escape.
Alytheon stood frozen in place, like a statue, as the echo of the old woman's words resounded in his mind like the tolling of a heavy bell. His weary eyes widened slightly as he saw the elderly woman emerge from the crowd, her sharp, round eyes glowing with fury and deep-seated pain. She advanced slowly, her frail legs barely supporting her, the bandages covering her limbs and even one of her eyes revealing a long history of suffering—of wounds that never healed, of pain far older than this moment.
When she hurled the sack filled with ash at him, it felt as though the air itself had grown heavier. The ash swirled in the air like the spirits of the dead, clinging to his face, to his once-pristine white armor, now tainted with black stains. Then came her words, as sharp as a blade:
"Your curse shall be immortality… Absolute immortality, a fate not even the gods themselves have known!"
His eyes narrowed, his body trembled for a moment, as if an invisible blade had pierced his chest. This was no mere threat—it was a decree, an irrevocable judgment, a destiny woven into the very fabric of time.
"Your punishment shall be that everyone who has loved you, who has been loyal to you, or who has ever stood by your side, will be cursed just as you are—forever, Alytheon!"
Then the old woman collapsed onto the ground, dust rising around her as her words lingered in the air, heavy as an inescapable fate. Alytheon could not move immediately, his body bound by something unseen—by the terrifying realization that everything had ended in a way he had never foreseen.
Yet, despite it all, he took a step forward, ignoring the screams of the crowd, ignoring even the stones still flying through the air. He needed to know—to ask—to understand, but…
"Alytheon, no!"
A woman suddenly appeared before him, her silver hair flowing beneath a tall sorcerer's hat, her deep blue eyes reflecting profound concern. She wore a dark blue robe that billowed in the wind, standing before him like a barrier, her hand outstretched to stop him.
"Don't go! Things will only get worse!"
His gaze met hers—not with defiance, nor with obedience, but with something else entirely. Fear… A fear he was not used to seeing in her eyes.
Elytheon looked at the old woman lying on the ground, her frail body trembling silently amidst the swirling dust. But before he could move, before he could fully grasp the weight of her words, another voice rang out—a different voice, filled with innocence laced with heartbreaking despair.
"Grandmother! Grandmother, please, don't leave me!"
He turned quickly and saw a little girl, no older than ten. Her dark hair was tangled from the chaos, and her large, owl-like eyes shimmered with heavy tears. She ran toward the old woman, her small hands reaching out as if trying to grasp something intangible—something slipping away from her against her will.
"My father, my mother, my siblings... buried under the rubble! Please don't leave me alone!"
She collapsed beside her, her thin arms wrapping around her grandmother's body as her tears fell like a river, seeping into the cracked earth, mixing with dust and ash.
Elytheon stood there, stunned, unable to speak. The pain he had felt before was nothing but a shadow compared to what he was witnessing now—a living, crushing tragedy unfolding before him, and he was powerless to change anything. His heart felt as heavy as stone, as if it had absorbed all the sorrow around him.
But before he could take a step, before he could even attempt to process it, another voice interrupted—deep, calm, yet firm.
"Ragarath and Valeria are right, Elytheon."
The voice came from one of the soldiers behind him, a man with sharp features and weary eyes, looking at Elytheon as if watching him fade before his eyes.
"We have to leave... without doing anything. Things are truly bad."
The moment was suffocating. Even the air itself felt frozen, thick with ash, anger, and an inescapable sorrow. Elytheon felt as if everything was pulling him toward a decision he could not escape—a reality growing darker with each passing second.
Elytheon turned slowly, as if carrying an unbearable weight on his shoulders. His tired eyes, still bearing the deep imprint of sorrow, shifted toward the man who had spoken his name.
"Darcian, but..."
He didn't finish his sentence, as another voice interrupted—firm, yet tinged with exhaustion.
"Darcian is right, Elytheon."
The speaker this time was Serinus, an elf with strong features, but his voice carried a clear sense of resignation and acknowledgment of reality. He stepped forward, arms crossed, his gaze drifting over the devastation surrounding them.
"The destruction caused by your fight with Nephilim was immense. This isn't the only village that was destroyed. The others are suffering as well. We can't do anything now... it's over."
Then he exhaled slowly, as if he hated his own words as much as he believed in them.
"We need to return home now. Tomorrow, we'll see what must be done."
There was something cold in his words—something sharp, like a blade. There was no more argument, no more hope of fixing what had happened tonight.
Then Darcian spoke again, this time with more urgency, as if his patience was running thin.
"Elytheon, Serinus is right. We must leave... now."
That sentence was the final seal. There was no time for hesitation, no space for second thoughts. The only choice left… was to walk away.
Amidst the weight of silence and sorrow, another voice came—calmer, yet more resolute.
"Come, Elytheon. Let's go... and don't look back."
The speaker was Valinor, a tall man with stern features, clad in steel-gray armor, a sword hanging at his side. His voice was different from the others—it held neither anger nor exhaustion, only a clear conviction: there was no point in staying here.
Elytheon didn't answer, but he felt a heavy hand rest on his shoulder for a brief moment before Valinor turned and walked away with the others.
As they moved further from the ruined village, the rhythmic sound of their footsteps drowned out the whispers of the wind and the crunch of debris beneath their feet. But suddenly... a strained voice called out behind them.
"You... nothing will kill you... except the blade of an innocent soul..."
Elytheon froze, his body tensing for a moment—but he didn't turn, just as Valinor had said.
"You are cursed... you wretched hero..."
The old woman had regained consciousness, her frail body trembling as she struggled to rise, but her gaze was unwavering, filled with dark knowledge.
"You are cursed... the worst curse... You will suffer forever..."
Each word struck him like a hammer on his chest, pounding against his soul, but he showed no reaction.
"And starting tomorrow night... it will all begin."
She fell silent for a moment, then raised her voice again, as if proclaiming an unbreakable prophecy:
"Be ready, Elytheon... Be ready, Elytheon!"
But Elytheon did not turn, did not respond. He simply kept walking, his steps heavy, his eyes darkened by an overwhelming sorrow, as if all the pain he was meant to bear had multiplied that night.
And as his group disappeared into the night, sorrow consumed them all.
But none were more drowned in it... than Elytheon himself.