The wind howled over the jagged cliffs of Velmara's northern range, carrying whispers of things long dead. Asari stood alone atop a ledge, overlooking the crimson-hued valley below, where the sun bled into the horizon like a wound that refused to close. Aicha rested beneath the overhang behind him, her breathing light, nearly inaudible. The journey had been long, each step forward seeming to drag more of their soul into the earth.
Adamas, the boy from the northern village, stood nearby, staring at the strange relic he'd found—a chunk of obsidian-like material that hummed with low Eather pulses. "This land," he muttered, "feels wrong. It's like something watches every breath we take."
Asari didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on something distant, something invisible to others. He could sense it—something massive stirring beneath the bones of Velmara, older than legends, older than the land itself. And it was waking up.
The trio had passed through three abandoned towns in as many days. Buildings sat hollow like skeletons of the past. Doors swung on rusted hinges. Symbols were carved into the stone, warnings written in tongues no one should have remembered. Even the beasts of the forest had gone silent.
That night, the wind grew colder.
Asari sharpened his blade by the firelight, sparks flying with each stroke. The runes on the weapon pulsed with a dim red light—an ancient reaction to corrupted Eather in the area. Aicha sat across from him, eyes closed, meditating, her own control of Eather far steadier now than when she first began.
Adamas fed dry roots into the flames, glancing between the two older figures. He was still young, still learning, but even he could feel the wrongness in the air. Something in Velmara had cracked, and what was spilling out was not meant to be seen.
At midnight, the attack came.
It began with a sound—something between a scream and a bell tolling from the depths of the void. The fire dimmed as shadows lengthened unnaturally, curling and rising like sentient smoke. Figures emerged, hunched and malformed, their skin grey and eyeless faces drawn into twisted smiles.
"Stay close," Asari said, his voice like iron striking stone.
He moved with terrifying grace. In one breath, he was seated. In the next, he was in the air, blade drawn, the technique Ghost Walking: Hollow Veil making him blur like a shadow slipping through cracks in reality.
With a slash, the first creature was torn in half, black mist spilling from its wound. Aicha followed close behind, unleashing Eather Pulse: Crescent Divide, sending arcs of compressed energy to scatter the lesser beings.
Adamas hesitated only a moment before raising his relic. It shimmered, absorbing stray Eather from the battle, and he focused it outward in a defensive shield.
But the creatures didn't stop. They multiplied, crawling from the ground, shrieking in voices that mimicked the dead.
"This place is a grave," Aicha shouted, "and they're the echoes!"
Asari's eyes burned with red light as he activated a new stance. Devil Cry: Cataclysm Fang—a heavy Eather technique that cracked the ground beneath him. One swing sent a ripple of destruction outward, disintegrating everything in a cone of force.
Yet even then, the darkness didn't yield.
One larger entity stepped forward—humanoid, cloaked in robes made of stitched faces, its hands elongated and fingers ending in ink-black claws.
It spoke in a tongue none of them understood, but all felt the meaning: "Return. Submit. Drown in memory."
Asari charged, but the figure dodged with elegance unnatural for its size. Their clash shattered trees and ignited the ground. Aicha and Adamas could do nothing but support from the flanks, trying to contain the flood of lesser wraiths.
Then it happened.
The entity struck Asari across the chest, sending him crashing into a stone pillar. Blood mixed with Eather leaked from his mouth, but he stood. His expression didn't falter. It was cold, darker than ever.
"I won't kneel."
He stepped forward again and whispered, "Domain Art: Endless Dusk."
The world around them shifted. The sky turned black, the stars blinked out, and the land beneath them bent like soft clay. In this illusion-realm, Asari's control was absolute.
He moved faster than sight, striking the robed being through the chest. It screamed—but not in pain. In relief. As if release had come after centuries.
When the domain collapsed, only silence remained.
The wraiths evaporated. The fire reignited. And the wind fell still.
Asari collapsed to his knees. Aicha caught him before he fell further. Adamas stared at the aftermath, speechless.
"Are we safe now?" he asked.
"No," Aicha replied. "That wasn't the source… it was only a herald."
They knew now—the journey through Velmara had only begun. And what lay ahead was not salvation… but ruin.
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"Some shadows are not cast by light, but by memory—those are the ones that haunt forever."