The sun was a distant memory, hidden behind a perpetual haze of ash and dust that coated the sky like a thick, grey blanket.
The grey - brown expanse of the sky stretched as far as the eye could see, a dull and monotonous visual landscape.
The only sound was the soft rustling of the ash - laden wind, a faint, eerie whisper that sent a chill down the spine.
Ethan, Avery, and Victor trudged through the desolate wasteland, their boots crunching on the cracked earth.
The ground beneath their feet was dry and brittle, the sharp edges of the cracked earth digging into the soles of their boots with a harsh, grating sensation.
The air was thick with the scent of decay, a putrid, sickening smell that lingered in the nostrils like a bad memory.
It was a constant reminder of the world they had lost.
"Victor, you sure this place has what we need?" Ethan asked, his eyes scanning the rubble for any signs of movement.
The rubble was a chaotic mess of broken bricks and twisted metal, a jumbled visual that made it hard to spot any potential threats.
The old weaponsmith, with his grizzled beard and sharp eyes, nodded.
"As sure as I can be. This warehouse was a supply hub before the fall. We should find the herbs Avery's looking for, and maybe even some tools for my work."
Avery, the cheerful cook who had become a steadfast ally, adjusted the pack on her back.
The pack rubbed against her shoulders, a rough, uncomfortable feeling that she tried to ignore.
"I just hope it's not too late. Clara's getting weaker, and we need those nutrients."
Ethan felt a surge of determination.
He had a secret advantage, one he hadn't fully understood until recently.
The "Prophet's Eye," a gift from his heritage as a Keeper of Ruins, allowed him to glimpse into the immediate future.
It was like a fleeting vision, a shadow of what was to come, lasting only a few moments.
But it was enough.
As they approached the warehouse, the rusted metal door creaked open with a long, drawn - out screech that echoed through the stillness.
It revealed a dim interior, where the faint light filtering through the dirty windows created hazy, shadowy shapes.
Ethan's heart raced, and a familiar tingling sensation spread through his head.
He closed his eyes, letting the vision come to him.
They were inside the warehouse, surrounded by shelves of rusting supplies.
The shelves were covered in a fine layer of dust, and the rusty metal had a rough, pitted texture under the fingertips.
A figure, hidden in the shadows, raised a crude weapon and lunged at them.
Ethan saw the attack, the trajectory, and the exact moment it would strike.
He opened his eyes, a plan already forming.
"Victor, Avery, stick close. I'll take point."
Inside the warehouse, the air was stagnant, heavy and thick like a damp cloth over the face.
The silence was so profound that it seemed to press against their ears.
Avery's nose twitched as she caught the faint scent of fresh herbs.
The herbs had a sweet, earthy smell that cut through the stale air.
She moved with purpose, her hands deftly searching through the shelves.
The wood of the shelves was rough and splintered, scratching her hands slightly.
Victor, on the other hand, was like a kid in a candy store, his eyes widening as he discovered an ancient forging machine.
The machine was cold to the touch, its metal surface smooth but marred by years of disuse.
"Ethan, this is it!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement.
"With this, we can create weapons that will give us a real edge. No more scavenging for broken pieces."
Ethan nodded, keeping a sharp eye on their surroundings.
The shadows seemed to shift and move, creating an illusion of hidden dangers.
"Good find, Victor. Avery, how's the herb search going?"
"I've got enough for several batches of nutrient supplements," she replied, her hands filled with bundles of herbs.
The herbs felt soft and pliable in her hands.
"We should be able to help Clara and the others."
Ethan's heart lightened at the thought of Clara, the young orphan whose smile had become a beacon of hope in the wasteland.
But the vision from earlier nagged at him, and he couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom.
Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the warehouse, a thundering, rhythmic sound that grew louder with each step.
Ethan's "Prophet's Eye" activated again, and he saw the figure from his vision.
It was Tom, one of the survivors they had taken in, his eyes filled with betrayal.
"Tom, what are you doing?" Ethan demanded, his voice steady but tense.
Tom's face contorted with anger.
"You think I don't know what you are? You're a danger to all of us. I'm taking control now."
Ethan signaled to Avery and Victor with a subtle nod, and they quickly adjusted their positions.
Ethan's mind raced, calculating the best course of action.
He could feel the weight of the future on his shoulders, the responsibility of protecting those who trusted him.
"Move, now!" Ethan shouted, pushing Avery and Victor toward the back of the warehouse.
As they ran, Ethan's vision shifted, showing him the path of the incoming threat.
He could see the mutated beasts, their grotesque forms lunging toward them.
The beasts had a foul, musky odor that filled the air as they approached.
The door burst open, and a horde of mutated creatures poured in, their eyes glowing with a feral hunger.
The growls and snarls of the beasts were a deafening, terrifying sound.
Ethan's heart pounded, but he didn't hesitate.
"Avery, take Clara and get her to safety. Victor, cover us!"
Avery's face was a mask of determination.
"I won't let anything happen to her."
Victor, despite his age, moved with surprising agility.
He grabbed a makeshift weapon and fired it at the nearest beast, the primitive projectile finding its mark.
The beast let out a blood - curdling howl of pain, but more were closing in.
Ethan's "Prophet's Eye" flickered, showing him the path of least resistance.
He lunged forward, his movements precise and calculated.
He dodged the beasts' attacks, using their own momentum against them.
"This way!" he shouted, leading the group deeper into the warehouse.
They found a small, sealed room, the door reinforced with metal.
Ethan threw his weight against it, and it creaked open with a loud groan.
"Get in, now!"
Avery and Clara huddled in the corner, Avery's eyes wide with fear.
The cold, damp wall pressed against their backs, a chilling sensation.
Victor joined them, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Ethan stood at the door, his senses heightened.
The "Prophet's Eye" showed him the creatures' movements, and he prepared to defend their small haven.
The beasts pounded against the door, their claws scraping the metal with a harsh, screeching sound.
Ethan braced himself, his mind racing.
"We can't stay here forever. We need a plan."
Avery's voice was steady.
"We're not giving up. Not now, not ever."
Victor nodded, his eyes gleaming with determination.
"Ethan, you've got the vision. Lead us."
Ethan's heart swelled with resolve.
He knew the path ahead would be perilous, but he was ready.
He would protect his friends, no matter the cost.
The door shook under the pressure of the beasts, and Ethan's grip tightened.
"We'll get through this. We have to."
But the betrayal of Tom left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Trust was a fragile thing in the wasteland, and Ethan knew that to survive, they needed more than just strength.
They needed unity, and that would be his greatest challenge yet.
As the door groaned, Ethan's eyes met Avery's, a silent promise passing between them.
"We'll find a way out."
After the intense battle, they took a moment to catch their breath.
Ethan and Victor quickly checked their makeshift weapons, making sure they were still in working condition.
Avery gently comforted Clara, wiping the dirt and tears from her face.
They surveyed the chaos of the warehouse, stepping over the remains of the mutated beasts, the stench of blood and gore filling the air.
Their hearts were still pounding from the adrenaline, but they knew they had to move on.
The Bastion, a crumbling warehouse Ethan had cheekily dubbed "Hope's Last Stand," echoed with the rhythmic clang of Victor's hammer against steel.
Sparks flew, illuminating the old man's grizzled face, a canvas of wrinkles etched by hardship and time.
Ethan watched him, a knot tightening in his gut.
Victor was a lifeline, a grumpy, enigmatic lifeline, but a lifeline nonetheless.
His knowledge of ancient weapon - crafting was a whispered legend in the wasteland, a legend Ethan desperately needed to be true.
Avery, her face smudged with soot from the makeshift stove, placed a bowl of watery stew in front of Ethan.
"Eat up, Prophet," she said, her voice surprisingly warm despite the bleak surroundings.
"Keeps the vision clear, or so they say." Her teasing smile didn't quite reach her eyes, which still held a flicker of uncertainty, a residue of the horrors they'd witnessed.
Ethan forced a smile.
He wasn't sure if the stew would clear his visions, these flickering, three - minute glimpses into the future, courtesy of his damn "Prophet's Eye." It was more of a curse than a blessing, a constant barrage of possible futures, making his head spin.
He shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth.
It had a gritty texture, and the taste was a mix of dust and desperation, but it was warm.
Little Clara, her face still pale and gaunt, but with a spark of returning life in her eyes, sat beside Avery, quietly sipping her broth.
The broth made a soft slurping sound as she drank.
She was a constant reminder of what Ethan was fighting for – a future where children wouldn't have to scavenge for scraps in a world choked by ash and despair.
He ruffled her hair, the gesture a silent promise of protection.
"So, old man," Ethan addressed Victor, while secretly observing the old man's every move.
He noticed how Victor's hands moved with precision on the steel, and the intensity in his eyes as he worked.
Victor grunted, not looking up from his work.
"Boy's got no patience. Good steel takes time. Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither is a decent crossbow." He spat on the metal, the sizzle a stark contrast to the silence that followed.
Ethan's "Prophet's Eye" pulsed.
A flash – Victor, face contorted in rage, swinging that very crossbow… not at a raider, but at him.
Ethan's breath hitched.
He saw Avery scream, Clara cowering.
The image vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving him shaken.
Could Victor be trusted?
Was the old man playing him?
The stew suddenly churned in his stomach.
He pushed the vision aside, telling himself it was just one possible future.
But from that moment on, he was more vigilant.
He started to ask Victor more questions about his past and his motives, trying to gauge his trustworthiness.
"We need it soon, Victor," he said, his voice tight.
"Raiders are getting bolder." He didn't mention the vision.
Not yet.
He needed Victor, at least for now.
He needed that crossbow.
Victor let out a guttural chuckle.
"Bold, eh? Maybe they heard about the Prophet and his magic eye." He winked, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mixture of amusement and something else… something colder.
Ethan's unease intensified.
He felt a shift, a subtle betrayal in the air, like the scent of rain before a storm.
He looked at Avery, at Clara.
They were his responsibility.
And he'd protect them, even from a grumpy old weaponsmith with a possibly treacherous future.
He had three minutes to figure out how.
Three minutes to change the script.
The game was on.