The hero ordered the troops to make camp—it was already deep into the night, and even he knew the forest wasn't safe for travel after dark. With tired feet and heavier hearts, the soldiers obeyed.
Fires sparked across the clearing, and the scent of smoke mingled with the unnatural chill clinging to the air.
Like the others, Will was handed a small piece of dry bread and a flask of water. The bread was stale, almost stone-like, and the water tasted like rust.
But hunger gnawed at his gut, and he ate without complaint. The slaves were given the scraps, of course.
Fifteen in total—some young and handsome, others muscular, strong-bodied. None looked like criminals. None looked like they belonged here.
Why had they been captured? Why were they being transported like cattle?
Not far from him, the old man and the muscular slave made their own fire, isolated from the hero's party.
The "heroes" didn't want to share a curse, didn't want to risk contamination by the lower class.
Sylas sat near the flickering flames, legs pulled to his chest. Around him, others did the same, quiet and watchful beneath the blood-hued moon.
The forest whispered.
Sylas laid beside the carriage to sleep, the cold ground beneath him more forgiving than he expected. Silence crept in. But it didn't last long.
Grum… grum…
Sylas's eyes fluttered open, confusion lingering for a moment before the sound returned—wet, guttural, and close. He froze. It was too quiet, too still.
The wind had stopped. Even the fire's crackle seemed afraid to speak.
He sat up slowly, heart pounding, and turned his gaze beyond the dim glow of the campfire.
In the thick darkness of the trees, shadows moved—no, crept. Something was out there. It slithered through the underbrush without a sound.
Then he saw it.
A monstrous figure emerged from the treeline, hunched and grotesque. It had no eyes, no nose—just thick, pulsing flesh and limbs too long to be human. Its skin looked like decaying stone, and yet it moved with a silent grace that made Sylas's blood turn cold.
The creature stepped into the edge of the camp like a ghost, unnoticed by the resting soldiers.
It pounced.
Its clawed arms gripped a nearby slave—a young boy, no older than
Sylas—and before the boy could even scream, the thing dragged him into the shadows. A sickening crunch followed. Blood splattered across the grass.
Sylas gasped, eyes wide with terror. Another figure darted into the camp.
Then another. These monsters weren't attacking with rage—they were hunting. Calmly. Efficiently. One by one, slaves
vanished into the dark.
He couldn't speak.
His mouth opened, but no sound came. Panic gripped him like a vice.
Then, somehow, he found his voice.
"MONSTER!" Sylas screamed, stumbling backward. "MONSTER!"
His voice cracked, raw with fear.
The soldiers jolted awake, hands scrambling for weapons. One of the young soldiers closest to Will didn't hesitate. He surged forward, drawing his sword in one clean motion.
The monster leapt at Sylas.
Everything slowed. Will saw its limbs stretch mid-air, its formless head aimed at him like a predator leaping for its prey. He couldn't move. His body betrayed him—frozen in fear.
Steel flashed.
With a single, brutal swing, the young soldier sliced through the creature's neck. A splatter of black blood painted the grass. The headless body twitched, collapsing with a heavy thud beside Sylas.
Sylas fell backward, breathing hard, his hands trembling. He looked up at the young soldier—his armor dented, his sword dripping.
"It's okay," the soldier said quickly, eyes scanning the treeline. "We'll handle it. Stay close."
But Sylas didn't believe him.
From the darkness came a sound like rushing wind—but it wasn't wind. It was footsteps. Dozens. No—hundreds.
The hero's voice cut through the panic. "Formation! Hold the line!"
The soldiers jumped to position, forming ranks in front of the carriages. Shields raised. Swords ready. A practiced formation—but their faces were pale.
And then they saw what was coming.
An army of monsters surged from the forest like a living tide.
They tore through trees and stones, their howls silent, their presence like a living nightmare. Each one shaped like a man but far stronger—twisted limbs, swollen muscle, grotesque forms molded by hatred and hunger.
The hero stepped forward and raised his hand. A spiral of flame erupted from his palm, lighting up the forest like a second moon. The firestorm crashed into the first wave of creatures, incinerating dozens on impact.
The battle began.
Steel clashed. Blood sprayed. The soldiers fought like seasoned veterans—but they were outnumbered, and exhaustion crept into their movements. For every monster slain, two more emerged.
Sylas dove into the carriage, panting, heart still pounding against his ribs. The other slaves huddled inside, some praying, some weeping, all powerless.
The young soldier returned briefly, kneeling by the carriage door. He pressed a small dagger into Sylas's trembling hands.
"Protect yourself if it comes to it," he said.
Then he was gone—rushing back into the chaos.
And all Sylas could do was grip the dagger, eyes wide, body frozen, as the screams of men and the roar of monsters filled the night.
Silence.
Not the kind that settles after battle—this was unnatural. Heavy. Suffocating. It pressed down on the survivors like a curse.
Sylas swallowed hard, forcing his trembling hands to part the curtains of the slave carriage. Just a glance, he told himself.
What he saw nearly made him recoil.
A man—the Hero stood alone amid a mountain of monster corpses, his armor torn, soaked in blood. Around him, the aftermath of chaos: six soldiers dead, their mangled bodies strewn in the mud, and five slaves lifeless, their eyes glassy with terror frozen on their faces.
Three official carriages was there but .
Now only one remained.
And it was the slave carriage.
The attack had been sudden. A planned route, blessed and marked—yet somehow, monsters had ambushed them. It wasn't just tragedy. It was sabotage, or something worse.
Sylas's breath hitched as orders rang out.
> "Chain the slaves."
The Hero's voice wasn't cruel, just... resigned. Hollow.
He hesitated with every word, his eyes lingering on the corpses. He didn't want this. But beside him, the priest stood tall, robes unstained by blood, lips curled in righteous venom. His influence was obvious—like a whisperer behind the throne.
The Hero turned away.
Soldiers moved in with chains.
Sylas was dragged from the carriage, metal cuffs snapped onto his ankles and neck—heavy, biting. Cold. No different from the others.
They marched.
The destination: The Forsaken Temple—a place spoken of in hushed, bitter tones. A place where men didn't return.
The journey was brutal.
Each step was a war against the weight of iron and hunger. The stale crust of bread they were given felt like mockery. Sylas's legs shook beneath him, his breathing shallow and ragged.
His vision blurred.
He stumbled once. Then again.
A young soldier—barely older than Will—noticed. His eyes, unlike the others, held something rare.
Kindness.
> "Here. Drink this…"
The boy offered a small flask of water, hands trembling as he looked over his shoulder.
Will reached out, parched lips parting.
SLAP!
The sound cracked through the air like a whip.
The priest's hand hung midair, having struck the boy clean across the cheek.
> "You fool!" he roared. "That's holy water! And he—he's a slave of the unholy gods! Do you want the heavens to curse you?!"
The soldier flinched, hand rising to his stinging cheek.
> "Y-Yes, Priest. I'm sorry…"
The water was snatched away.
Will stood there, throat dry, the moment gone. He wanted to protest, to scream—is kindness a sin now? But exhaustion held his tongue hostage. His legs quivered beneath him.
Another slave collapsed beside him. Then another.
Some died. Some fainted.
But Sylas… he clenched his teeth.
He couldn't fall here. Not yet.
He still had a dream to chase.
And even if that dream was buried beneath blood, chains, and the lies of the faithful…
He would crawl for it.