A teenager with a tired face and sunken eyes walked slowly between rows of burning tents. Smoke rose from the ruins of a village that had just been ravaged by war. His name was Daren. His body was thin, his skin darkened with soot, and in both hands he still held a short spear that had become blunt at the tip.
That day should have been a day of celebration. But all that remained were still bodies, and the ground soaked in blood.
In the middle of the ruins, a tall figure stood quietly — wearing a black robe with the symbol ⚫ hanging on his chest. Behind him, shadows like liquid ripples continued to move, even though there was no wind.
"Is this victory?" Daren asked softly.
Kael stared at the young man with cold eyes. His body was covered in wounds, blood stuck to his cheeks and neck. But his eyes were still sharp.
"This is not a victory. This is a reminder."
"What reminder?"
"That we are no longer fighting against humans."
Daren lowered his head. "Then why do you keep killing them?"
Kael was silent for a moment. From behind the smoke, a howl was heard. Not human. Not animal. Something that has lost its form…
"Because they are more than halfway to becoming something else."
A few hours earlier.
The Conqueror's forces had surrounded the Third Valley, the last stronghold of the ⚫ cultists in the north. But as they pushed through, what they found was not human.
Not an army.
But…
Children crying in the corners. Mothers holding knives, standing trembling. Old men chanting prayers in a language that sounded like the whispers of a nightmare.
Lieutenant Farun stared at Kael, doubtful.
"Is this a trap?"
Kael shook his head. "This is worse."
And as they moved deeper…that's when the screaming began. Human bodies twisted grotesquely. Eyes turned black. Fingers lengthened. And from the walls, living shadows crept out.
⚫ was no longer just a symbol. It had become a gate.
Now, the village was nothing but ruins.
Kael sat in the ruins, staring at his left hand. The scratches there... haven't stopped bleeding. But not ordinary blood.
There was black ink seeping slowly from the pores.
Daren looked at him in fear.
"You… you too—"
Kael nodded slowly. "Yes."
"But you're still conscious."
"Not necessarily tomorrow."
Lonely.
Then, Kael opened a small scroll from his shirt pocket. Map. But not an ordinary map. This is a dream map—made by a Seer who was burned by his own visions.
In the center of that map: a pulsating ⚫ symbol.
"Our next destination…" Kael pointed to a point to the south, "…not a place. It's a person."
"Who?" Daren asked.
"The one that can rewrite dreams."
From behind the shadows, someone was stalking them.
His eyes are all white. Mouth sewn shut. But his hands continued to write in the air, forming invisible letters.
He looked at Kael and Daren... then smiled.
"The old one is waiting," he whispered, though his mouth never opened.
And behind him, the sky cracked for a moment.
The sun... blinked......
The sky above the ruins of the human fortress was still a deep red, as if the wrath of the world had not yet subsided. Black smoke rose from the remains of battle. The ground cracked. The air was heavy with the scent of blood and ash.
In the midst of it all, Gorath stood still. His body was covered in wounds, but none of them made him waver. The darkness around him pulsed softly, as if breathing with him.
He looked out at the desolate field, then slowly stepped forward, past piles of corpses and useless weapons.
"This is just the beginning," he murmured.
From the mist, a black-winged creature emerged. It was as tall as a tower, its face covered by a bone helmet. It bowed before Gorath.
"Sir, the eastern region has been cleared. No resistance remains."
Gorath nodded slowly. "The holy city is our next destination. Prepare the shadow troops. We will depart at nightfall."
The creature vanished into the mist, and Gorath looked west. In the distance, the golden towers of Elhar City stood proud, shining like hope. False hope.
Meanwhile, inside the fortress of Elhar, a human general slammed his fist on the table in anger.
"Gorath has slaughtered three of our garrisons! What are you waiting for?!"
An old priest bowed his head slowly. "He is no mere monster. He is a curse. We cannot deal with him by ordinary means."
The general growled, but did not answer. Everyone knew the words were true.
As night fell, the sky seemed to close in on itself. The stars were nowhere to be seen.
And from the shadows, thousands of entities emerged—Gorath's army. They made no sound, needed no warning. Their eyes glowed red, their bodies like solid smoke. They were not living beings. They were the will of darkness.
Gorath stood before them, his robes billowing softly in the stillness of the wind. He raised his hand.
"City of Elhar. Open the gates. Or we will open them for you."
And with a calm stride, he began to walk. Every footprint he left scorched the ground.
The conquest had begun.