[A reporter's POV]
They call me Farrel Ronfield, field journalist for the Central Chronicle. My job? To chase shadows and expose the truths others bury. When whispers of renewed Devil Cult activity began trickling in from this quiet region of the continent, I knew I had to come. Cults don't just vanish—they go underground, rot like maggots beneath the surface… and fester.
I've been here for two weeks now. Living cheap, eating worse. Asking questions in the taverns, bribing drunkards for half-truths, speaking to grieving families behind shuttered doors. Disappearances—children, elders, even guards—no common thread but one: they vanished without a sound.
This morning, I was near the old granary—an abandoned ruin choked in vines and mildew. I'd heard rumors, and I was following a lead. A half-burnt robe, strange symbols scrawled on a crate. My heart was pounding. I fished out my magical camera, began documenting…
That's when I felt the air turn cold.
