They returned to the village. Orm was over the moon about the Weaver's venom pouch.
"You guys really managed to take down a monster like that?!" he said, eyeing the dripping sack of gore in Kellta's hands.
He quickly disappeared into a storage room, muttering something about needing to preserve it properly before it lost its potency.
Elion cleaned himself up using a small basin and a cloth. He was filthy—his hair matted with blood and dirt. The water turned black almost immediately, but at least his body felt a little cleaner.
He let out a slow breath, smiling.
His soul felt… whole. The sensation lifted his mood, it seemed like the perfect time for a walk.
He got dressed and stepped outside. The village was quiet, peaceful. Though he still attracted wary glances, a man eventually approached him. He looked to be in his seventies, with his back hunched and short grey hair. Two small black horns protruded from his skull.
"Young Light-Walker!" the man called, catching up to him. His blue eyes held a hint of weariness, though he hid it well.
"If I may, are you free at the moment?" he asked.
"Yeah. Just got back from a hunt. I was thinking of taking the rest of the day off."
"Ah, good. I need a bit of help. My grandson's sick, and no one else wants to lend a hand. Would you be kind enough to assist an old man?"
Elion eyed him suspiciously.
"What do you need help with?"
"It's a simple task, really. We need to feed the well. I'm getting too old to carry the offering."
Feed… the well?
Elion suddenly recalled his dream—the one where he spoke to a well.
"Why do you… feed the well?" he asked, cautious.
"To appease the voice," the old man said solemnly. "To stop it from ravaging the village like it did the last one. Everyone thinks I'm crazy, too young to remember what happened before. Only my grandson helps me. But now he's sick."
So… it's some kind of talking well?
Usually, Elion would have politely refused. But he was intrigued—and he didn't have anything better to do.
"Alright. I'll help," he said.
The old man smiled warmly.
"Great. I knew not all Light-Walkers were evil bastards."
Charming.
"My name's Lorath," he said, offering a handshake.
"Elion." The young cook shook his hand.
"If you'll excuse me, we must go now. It's already been too long since the last tribute."
Lorath led him to a barn on the first plateau. The place stank of livestock. He pointed to a freshly killed four-legged beast. Blood still seeped from its wounds.
"We need to bring that Ock to the old village. Don't worry, it's not far."
Elion sighed.
And I just washed up. Great.
He grabbed the creature by the front legs and slung it over his right shoulder.
"Let's go," he grumbled.
As they walked, Lorath rambled about the old village—destroyed nearly a century ago by some powerful creature that now lurked at the bottom of the well. The only way to keep it there was to offer tributes.
It sounded like total nonsense to Elion.
Especially since Lorath hadn't even lived through the destruction himself. Just stories passed down from his parents.
"If you hear the voice, don't listen," Lorath warned. "It speaks in a lost tongue. I think it can drive people mad if they hear too much."
Elion nodded absentmindedly.
Stone foundations began to rise from the overgrown landscape: the ruins of the old village. In their center stood a well. Only darkness lay within.
"O Well of Desolation," Lorath called down. "We have come bearing the tribute."
After a pause, a smooth male voice echoed up:
"Great. The voices are acting up again. About time—I was getting hungry."
Elion instinctively took a step back.
The voice. It spoke in the human language.
Misreading his hesitation, Lorath urged,
"Don't listen too closely! Hurry—throw it down before it gets impatient!"
But Elion didn't move. He peered into the well, activating his ability. At the bottom, he saw a humanoid shape made of bright chromatic threads. A soul—a strong one. Likely an Unlocked.
He looked at Lorath.
Better to get rid of him before starting my… conversation with the well.
It sounded crazy.
He hurled the Ock down the well. After a long silence, the sound of flesh smacking stone echoed upward.
"Thank you," the voice echoed back, politely.
"We should leave. Who knows what lurks in the dark?" Lorath said, satisfied.
But Elion lingered.
"You go on ahead."
"Why? What are you going to do?" the old man asked, suspicious again.
"I want to study the site. I might not look like it, but I'm a historian," Elion half-lied.
"Oh! You're interested in the village too?" Lorath said enthusiastically. "I can help you—been looking around this place for ages."
Goddamn it, take the hint.
"No. You go," Elion said firmly, almost threateningly.
Lorath stared at him, searching his expression.
"Alright, but don't talk to the well. Not unless you don't value your life," he muttered, disappointed, before finally walking off.
As soon as he was gone, Elion turned back to the well.
"Who are you?" he asked.
A few seconds passed.
"A human," the voice replied, trying to sound casual, but Elion heard the excitement.
"I can see that. What are you doing down there?"
"I'm on vacation," it joked.
"Right. I'm not here to judge your hobbies, but seriously, why are you down there?"
"I fell."
Elion clenched his fists. This was getting irritating.
"I can see that. Be more precise—or would you rather rot down there?"
Silence stretched on for a moment.
"…I'll answer your questions. But first, get me out. The decor here is less than ideal."
"Oh, I'd love to rescue you, like the charming prince that I am. But how do I know you won't try to kill me once you're free?"
The voice chuckled.
"You have my word. And a Sorcerer of my esteem never breaks it."
Sorcerer? From the First River?
What the hell is he doing down there?
After a moment, Elion said,
"I'll be back."
"Wait! Don't go, please." The voice sounded desperate.
"Calm down. I'm just going to get a rope."
The well went silent, unconvinced.
"I, the great Elion, will keep my word and rescue you," he declared, mimicking the sorcerer's theatrical tone.
An awkward laugh echoed up the hole.
"If the 'Great Elion' says so…"
Before the voice could respond further, the young cook turned and left. He heard it saying something, but he was already too far away.
Should I help him?
There wasn't much reason not to. He had seen this exact moment in his sleep—and his dreams had once saved his life while fleeing from the Class V.
Of course, he wouldn't be Elion if he didn't doubt everything. Still, his group was at a standstill. If the man in the well was what he seemed, he might be the key to finding the First Finger.
He was probably not newly Unlocked—his soul would have unraveled by now. Having a First Finger on their team would be invaluable.
But could he be trusted?
He might abandon them the first chance he gets and pursue Nexus on his own—he didn't need the First Finger like they did.
As the silhouette of the current village came into view, Elion made his way to Orm's house in search of a rope long enough to reach the bottom of the well.
A strange request, but the shaman obliged, providing enough rope to tie together into a long coil.
Eshrod passed by, eyeing the ropes trailing behind him.
"What the hell are you doing with that?" she asked, intrigued.
There was no point in lying—and she wouldn't believe the truth anyway.
"I'm going to get a sorcerer out of a dark hole," Elion said casually.
She gave him a long look, then waved a hand dismissively.
"Alright, have fun with your… sorcerer."
Luckily, he didn't run into Lorath on the way back. The old man would've had questions.
Standing once more before the well, Elion called down.
"I'm back."
After a pause, the sorcerer answered.
"Nice. Trust me—I never doubted your word for a second."
"No need to clarify," the young cook muttered, tossing the rope down.
When he felt a tug, he started hauling it back up. It was incredibly deep, much deeper than a well should be. After a good moment of pulling, a bony hand reached over the rim. A gaunt, bearded man pulled himself free.
His long hair and beard were as black as the void, giving him a wizardly look. He wasn't wrinkled—not that old, then. His eyes were a beautiful, deep blue.
"Why are you naked?" Elion asked bluntly.
His skin was covered in markings—runes that looked like a mix of a crude imitation of the golden runes created by the Pale Witch and the glyphs of enchantment created by the humans. Only his face lacked the weird tattoos.
"I… burned my clothes while trying to escape," he said, making no effort to cover himself.
Elion sighed in defeat.
"So, who are you?"
The man smiled, raising his chin and spreading his arms wide, palms raised toward the sky as if trying to look grand.
"I am Lumos of the Well, Legendary Sorcerer of the First River," he declared, as though Elion should've known that already.