The villagers pinched their noses, their expressions twisted in anger. The stench was unbearable—rotting flesh and sickness clinging to the air like a curse.
Among them, a particularly fat man stood out, his round face contorted in disgust. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his breaths labored from the simplest of movements. His clothes, once finely tailored, strained against his bulk.
His beady eyes darted left and right before he stepped away from the group, moving with an unexpected stealth for his size. He glanced over his shoulder once—just once—before slipping into Ren's home compound, his fingers curling around the matchstick in his pocket.
Ren and Lyra walked through the bustling marketplace, though Ren's strides were hurried.
"We're done, right? Time to go," Ren muttered, already angling toward the exit.
Lyra grabbed his sleeve, pulling him back with a huff. "Ren, patience. You act like I'm dragging you into battle."
"With you? I might as well be."
She grinned. "And yet, here you are."
Ren sighed, rubbing his temple. "Fine. Five more minutes."
"Ten."
"Six."
"Eight, final offer."
"Seven."
"Deal." Lyra smirked in victory as they turned toward a blacksmith's forge.
The building was old, its walls darkened by years of smoke and soot. The forge glowed at the back, casting flickering shadows across the room. Rows of weapons lined the walls—swords, daggers, axes—all meticulously arranged. The air smelled of hot iron and burning coal.
Ren picked up a longsword, testing its weight.
Lyra leaned over his shoulder. "Hmm. Sturdy, elegant, a little too noble-looking for you, but hey, I won't judge."
Ren rolled his eyes. "Not everything has to be a joke, Lyra."
Lyra ignored him, grabbing a dagger with an ornately curved blade. "Ooooh, look at this beauty. Perfect for assassinations. Not that I'm planning any." She glanced at Ren. "Unless you give me a reason."
Ren gave her a blank stare. "That's concerning."
She twirled the dagger between her fingers. "Is it?"
Before Ren could respond, a deep voice rumbled from behind them.
"That weapon doesn't suit your hand, boy."
They turned to see the blacksmith—an older man, broad-shouldered and covered in soot. His arms were thick with muscle, his apron stained with years of work.
Ren glanced down at the sword he was holding. "Why not?"
The blacksmith folded his arms. "Your grip is too stiff for a blade that long. You'll overcompensate, and that'll slow your strikes. You need something balanced—lighter, but strong."
He walked over, scanning Ren before reaching behind him. "Try this."
He pulled out a sleek, slightly curved sword, its weight evenly distributed. Ren took it, adjusting his grip. Immediately, it felt… right.
The blacksmith nodded in approval. "That one will move with you, not against you."
Ren tested the blade, giving it a light swing. The motion was effortless.
Lyra whistled. "Well, well. Looks like our little workaholic has a future in something other than breaking his back all day."
Ren ignored her, his fingers tightening around the hilt. "I'll take it."
After the exchange, they stepped outside.
Ren glanced at Lyra, then at the sword in his hand. He hesitated, then said sincerely, "Thanks, Lyra. This was… worth it."
Lyra blinked. For a moment, she was silent. Then, she grinned. "Damn right it was."
Lukas watched the flames dance, his expression unreadable.
He had seen vengeance before. Seen men break under loss. Seen beggars become kings and kings become corpses over a single grudge.
But this?
This was different.
Ren wasn't the type to cry or curse the heavens. No.
People like him—quiet, hardworking, kind—they didn't scream. They didn't threaten.
They endured.
And when men like that snapped?
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't messy.
It was calculated.
Cold.
Final.
Lukas exhaled smoke from his pipe, eyes never leaving the flames.
"If you're gonna bury a man, you better dig two graves."
And looking at Ren now?
Lukas had a feeling someone just started digging.
Ren was almost there. His mother's frail form lay at the far end of the burning room, barely moving, barely breathing. His heart pounded against his ribs. Every step forward felt like wading through an inferno.
"Just a little more—"
Then, the air shifted.
For a single, horrible moment, everything froze.
A deep, guttural crack echoed through the room.
Ren's breath hitched.
His mother's body—bloated from the disease, her skin stretched to its limit—shuddered violently. Dark veins pulsed beneath her flesh.
Then—
She exploded.
A deafening blast tore through the room.
Ren barely had time to shield himself before the force hurled him backward. The heat slammed into his chest like a hammer, sending him crashing into a smoldering beam. Wood splintered. The world spun. His ears rang.
Thick, putrid black smoke rushed outward, filling every corner of the house. The fire greedily consumed it, twisting into eerie, unnatural shapes.
Ren gasped, struggling to focus. His hands trembled as he pushed himself up, his vision swimming. The stench—thick, toxic, wrong—clawed at his throat, burning worse than the flames.
The Black Curse.
The disease didn't just kill.
It built up inside the body—swelling, festering, twisting the very essence of a person. And when it reached its limit...
It detonated.
Ren had heard stories. Rumors. Whispers of entire villages vanishing overnight—houses torn apart, streets covered in scorched flesh.
He never wanted to believe them.
Until now.