In a clearing ahead, buildings emerged through the mist—stone and wood houses with slanted, black-tiled roofs. There were signs of life: torches lit, fresh footprints in the mix of ash and mud that made the ground. But strangely, no people in sight.
Four humanoid figures approached the silent village.
At the front walked the shortest of them, clad in an oversized camo jacket with the hood pulled up and hands in pockets, a fierce demon mask hiding their face.
To their left strode a woman with dirty-blonde hair, carrying an unconscious girl on her back. Her arms were as black as the void above.
On the other side of the masked figure walked a young man with white, disheveled hair streaked with fading traces of black. His eyes held the look of someone lost and slightly crazy.
They entered the village square, walking straight toward a wooden platform where a large, dented bell hung from a rickety frame. Five figures waited beneath it. They stood tall, hands resting on weapons sheathed at their hips.
All had horns of varying shapes and sizes. Their sclera wasn't white but pitch black—like the void overhead. One stepped forward, clearly the leader.
He had raven-dark hair falling to the sides of his head, his face clean-shaven. His pupils burned orange like smoldering coals. He eyed the four visitors with heavy suspicion in his gaze. His armor, forged from some sort of tempered metal, was rough and clouded, betraying a long history of battles.
His voice carried authority.
"Light-Walkers. Why have you come here?" he asked, raising his hands to make them understand his desire to avoid a fight.
"We seek someone with healing proficiency," Kellta replied in their language, her accent purposefully clumsy and forcing her voice to sound deeper than usual.
The man blinked, surprised she spoke his tongue.
"How do you know our language?" he asked cautiously.
The fire-wielding imp lied smoothly.
"We crossed paths with your kind in the past. Picked up the basics."
He nodded, mildly impressed.
Turning to his squad, he shared a silent exchange through brief glances and subtle nods.
"Very well. You will be permitted to meet the shaman. But first—your weapons. All of them. We encountered others of your kind recently, and we're not eager to repeat that meeting."
Eshrod's expression tightened, but she held her tongue.
So, more survived…
Elion scratched the back of his neck.
"Fair enough," Kellta said coolly. She dropped her dagger to the ground.
Eshrod followed suit, placing Elion's sword beside it—she still carried it.
The man's eyes swept over the weapons, then fixed on Elion.
"That's it?" he asked. "You survived the wilds with just those?"
Elion shot a glance at Kellta. She gave a subtle nod.
"One of our swords broke during the journey," she explained.
Eshrod and Elion had briefed her on their journey before their meeting—it was safer if she alone did the talking. The translation rune would be too easy to spot and would raise unwanted questions.
The man seemed convinced, and a little impressed that they had survived while being this unprepared.
"Alright then," he sighed. "I am Dulan, hunter and protector of this village."
He gestured to the others.
"These are my squad: Guerla, Col, Wiok, and Lers."
Kellta gave a nod and introduced Elion, Eshrod, and Farha—briefly describing the mute girl's condition. She introduced herself as Scorched.
Why pick a nickname like that? It only makes her more suspicious.
Was she trying to sound fearsome? Or was it a jab at herself? Hard to tell with her.
After hearing about Farha, Dulan's posture stiffened, urgency overtaking his caution. Whether it was compassion or the fear of harboring a Kral-possessed human, Elion didn't care. They were being led deeper into the village.
As they walked, doors creaked open. Eyes peered through slats in wood and hide. Curious, wary gazes followed them—fear thinly veiled behind curiosity.
The village wasn't sprawling, but it wasn't tiny either. Soon they reached a larger building. Its dark stone foundation supported wooden walls covered in tanned hides. Red and golden runes were painted across it—glowing faintly.
Powerful enchantments surrounded the structure. A sign of a competent shaman.
Dulan knocked firmly.
"We have Light-Walker visitors. They require urgent help, Shaman Orm."
The door creaked open.
Elion had expected an old man hunched under the weight of wisdom, carrying a crooked staff. Instead, a youthful figure appeared—pale-skinned, blue-tinted hair that shimmered like moonlight. His horns curved neatly backward, following the arc of his skull. A dark robe embroidered in silver hugged his lean frame.
Orm stepped out, eyes sweeping the visitors. Kellta leaned in and whispered something.
His dark eyes widened.
"You can go, Dulan. Thank you," Orm said.
"But sir—"
"I'll be fine," Orm interrupted. "These guests mean no harm."
Dulan hesitated, scrutinizing the shaman's face before turning to the visitors, shooting Kellta with a fierce look. Then he gave a nod and departed.
The moment the door shut, Orm dropped the façade.
"What in the eight circles of hell are you doing here, Kel?!"
She removed the mask, revealing a faint, bitter smile.
"Hey, Orm. How has it been?"
"'How has it been?' Really? That's your opener?" His voice carried concern, not anger.
"Well… I wanted to see you," she said nonchalantly.
Orm coughed.
"The real reason, please."
Kellta sighed, glancing at Farha.
"We need a shaman. And… congrats, by the way. On taking your father's place."
Orm's eyes darkened.
"Yeah… thanks."
He studied the three humans behind her—like a merchant assessing damaged goods.
"They look like they've been chewed up by the underworld and spit back out." When his eyes fell on Farha, his brow furrowed. "Shit. How long's she been like that?"
"Four days. We had a setback…"
Orm cursed under his breath.
"Bring her to the circle. We don't have time to waste."
He turned and rushed through an inner door. They followed into a chamber filled with strange surgical tools—scalpels, pliers, and jars of cloudy liquid. The air was thick with the scents of blood and herbs.
At the center was a ring of smooth stone—about two meters across—etched with hundreds of connected runes. A smaller circle was placed to its right about a meter away from the big one, black lines linking it to the outer ring.
"Lay her in the center. Face down, neck exposed," Orm instructed.
Eshrod obeyed, lowering Farha gently.
Orm cursed again.
"No time to find a conduit."
"A what?" Elion asked, stepping forward.
"It's what powers the runes. We need to burn the soul of something in order to make the system work." He paused, looking at Farha's neck. "The seal is at breaking point. We don't have time to go beast hunting. I'll… I'll have to attempt the procedure without the help of the life runes…"
He didn't sound confident.
These must work like Kellta's runes; powered by the soul of the conjurer. If we're Unlocked, maybe…
But he knew full well what that entailed. Their Soul Integrity was going to get sucked away.
Elion glanced at his forearm.
[Soul Integrity: 32%]
How much will it drain?
No time to calculate. Orm was already beginning. Elion's heart twisted with guilt; he still felt as though he had betrayed Farha during the encounter with the Class IV.
He wanted to make things right—not for Farha, but for himself.
"I'll be the conduit," he said, his voice low.
Orm stared like he'd grown a second head.
"That'll kill you. Even beasts rarely survive one procedure."
"I'll help too," Eshrod added, stepping forward.
Kellta looked like she was about to speak, but Elion held up a hand.
"Not you. You've used your runes and fire too much. We don't know how close you are to unraveling."
She clenched her jaw but said nothing.
"With two conduits… maybe," Orm said. "But it would shorten your lifespans considerably."
This is about Soul Integrity. If we find the First Finger, we'll be fine. Though we'll need to go hunting for sure after that.
"We're fine with that," Elion said after a glance at Eshrod. "Just save her."
Orm nodded. His eyes softened slightly—touched, maybe, by their resolve.
He gestured to the smaller circle. Elion and Eshrod sat back-to-back within it.
"It might hurt," Orm warned, pricking his index and drawing a rune on Farha's neck using his own blood.
When he finished, the tapestry of runes started to glow with a golden hue. Energy rushed outward from the smaller circle, igniting all the symbols of the larger one.
Elion clenched his jaw as something drew at the power of his soul—a white-hot pressure siphoning his very being to feed the circle.