Volume 1 - Chapter 3 – Footsteps Toward the Unknown

The pale light of the core returned at last, banishing the darkness as the night stone drifted on. Ash adjusted the straps on his pack and continued forward, The grass shimmered beneath the midday glow, its blades swaying gently in the stillness. The land stretched out before him — wide, broken plains interspersed with scattered lakes and jagged mountain ridges in the distance. All quiet. All still.

But then he stopped.

A sharp crunch echoed through the grass.

Ash crouched low, eyes narrowing. A rusted sheet of metal jutted from the earth up ahead — massive, thick, and scarred with claw marks. It looked like part of an ancient metal door, ripped from its hinges and slammed into the dirt by unimaginable force. He crept toward it, keeping low, and peeked around the edge.

What remained of a structure lay scattered in rubble — blocks of stone, warped girders, and shattered machines half-buried in the grass. And among them…

Two Popper mutants.

Ash’s breath caught. These things were the result of RUIN’s botched experiments — mutants too unstable to control, dumped like trash onto the Shattered World. Their heads were grotesque: oversized bulging eyes that never blinked, and long, sinuous necks filled with swollen joints. Skin drooped like melted leather from their throats. But their arms were the worst — impossibly long, segmented like serpents, bending with a soft pop every time they moved.

Ash ducked behind the metal slab and slowly set his bag down.

From within, he pulled something crude: a cobbled-together armguard. Wires trailed from its core and a transparent soul gem pulsed faintly within its center — a soul capacitor, gifted to him by Toby. It was clearly handmade, the circuitry crude and uneven, but Ash had been told it could absorb soul energy from the fallen.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s give this thing a try.”

He strapped it to his forearm. As the buckles tightened, a warmth surged into his skin — like a second pulse had merged with his own. The circuits on the surface lit up with a soft blue glow, then faded.

It had connected.

Ash stared at it a moment longer, then nodded to himself. He picked up his polearm, grabbed a nearby stone, and moved forward — slow and silent.

The Popper pair were feasting. One bent low, teeth gnashing through the corpse of a horned beast. Its neck twisted grotesquely as it tore a chunk of meat free, then slithered it into its mouth with twitching jaws. Ash crouched again, hiding in the tall grass. One of them paused, its owl-like head pivoting in impossible angles to scan the ruins. Then it returned to its meal.

Now.

Ash stared at the creatures a moment longer, then nodded to himself. He picked up his polearm and began creeping forward through the tall grass — slow, silent, every step measured.

The Popper pair were feasting. One bent low, teeth gnashing through the corpse of a horned beast. Its neck twisted grotesquely as it tore a chunk of meat free, then slithered it into its mouth with twitching jaws. The other sat still, its malformed body twitching occasionally, eyes darting in different directions.

Ash crouched again, waiting. One of them paused mid-bite, its owl-like head pivoting in unnatural angles to scan the ruins.

He didn’t move.

When the creature returned to its meal, Ash reached down and picked up a nearby stone.

Now.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, he hurled it toward a pile of carved stone blocks a few meters away — remnants of the structure’s old foundation. The rock clanged against the mossy edge and bounced down with a thud.

Both Popper heads snapped toward the sound.

The nearer one rose slowly, sinewy limbs shifting beneath its sagging flesh. It hunched low, then began dragging itself toward the noise — joints clicking and popping with every movement. It reached the base of the crumbled block pile, sniffed the air, then placed its long fingers onto the moss-covered stone. Muscles twitched. In a jerky, contorted motion, it began to climb — hoisting itself up like a twisted marionette. At the top, it paused, turning its malformed head this way and that, scanning the area in eerie silence.

Ash didn’t wait.

He was already moving — eyes locked, feet light, death whispering at his heels.

Ash stepped from the grass and raised his polearm high, ready to cleave it from skull to spine — but the Popper’s neck twisted unnaturally backward, and its lidless eyes locked with his mid-chew.

“Shit—!”

Ash swung down hard. The Popper dodged with unnatural speed, but not fast enough. Its right hand dropped to the dirt, severed clean. It let out a bone-chilling shriek, and its remaining hand flared — claws snapping out like razors from elongated fingers.

Ash jumped back, but the second Popper was already charging down the stone block. It lunged with both arms, and Ash blocked — making sure to catch the impact on its hands. If one of those snake-like arms latched onto his polearm shaft, it would coil around and slice through his defenses in an instant.

That’s what made these things so damn dangerous — they weren’t brute strength monsters, but predators built for unpredictable reach and sickening agility. You had to keep just the right distance.

But then — pop. Pop. POP.

The handless Popper came in from the side.

Ash caught the strike with his polearm — but then the mutant did something unexpected.

It swung the bloody stump of its wrist.

The impact struck the polearm — and a jet of warm blood sprayed across Ash’s face, blinding him.

“Ghh—!”

He staggered back, vision drowned in red, wiping furiously at his eyes.

Then came the tightening pressure around his polearm — the severed wrist was coiling around it like a snake, trying to rip it from his hands.

Ash had no choice. He let go and ran, wiping his eyes with one hand as he stumbled through tall grass. He needed just a second — just one clear breath.

He gave it one good wipe, blinked through the blur — and the second Popper was already there.

Its arm slammed down. Ash rolled away, but its momentum didn’t stop. The right arm snaked around his waist, claws digging deep into his back.

“Agh—!”

Pain exploded down his spine. The mutant pinned him in place, raising its left hand for a killing strike. Ash caught it mid-air, holding it back with both arms — but he was losing. The Popper was stronger. And worse…

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Its neck was twisting back — ready to launch forward and tear out his throat.

Ash’s fingers scrambled at his pouch. He felt a cold orb — pulled it free — and slammed it against the Popper’s face just as it lunged.

The frost orb detonated.

Shards of blue crystal burst outward, piercing into the Popper’s bulging eyes and face. The mutant shrieked and stumbled back, clawing wildly at its head, trying to rip the ice shards free as they shimmered from its eyes.

Ash hit the dirt hard, back slick with blood. The other Popper — the handless one — charged in again, berserk, swinging wildly with its one good arm. Ash rolled and ducked, dodging each frenzied strike,  He was slowing down. Bleeding too much.

He grabbed another orb — this one black — and smashed it against the ground.

A thick black fog exploded outward, swallowing the area in choking smoke.

Ash vanished into it.

The Popper lashed out in every direction, blind and enraged. Its clawed arm finally connected — with something soft.

A wet crack echoed through the mist.

When the smoke cleared… it realized.

Its claws were buried in the still-living body of its ally — the one blinded and flailing, ice shards still embedded in its eyes.

The handless Popper froze.

Then — Pop. Pop. Pop.

The Popper’s head twisted at the last moment, just enough to see the flash of the blade arcing for its neck.

But it was too late.

Ash came from behind, polearm slicing through sinew and bone in one clean motion.

One strike. One severed head.

The last Popper dropped.

Ash limped forward, bracing himself with the polearm. The blinded mutant was still writhing weakly. He stepped over it — and drove the weapon down through its chest.

It shrieked. Then went still.

Ash panted, drenched in blood, his muscles trembling from pain and fatigue.

“Fuck…” he gasped. “Next time I’ll just avoid them.”

He reached into his pouch and pulled out a light green core orb, radiant and pulsing. He smashed it against his back. The orb burst in a flash of healing light — and the pain began to fade. Flesh stitched itself shut. His strength returned in slow waves.

Then he noticed something.

A green speck of light had begun to glow within the soul gem embedded in the soul capacitor.

A strange warmth spread through him — not just healing… something deeper. Something permanent.

He swung his polearm a few times, testing his movement. His grip felt steadier. His focus sharper. Even his vision — cleaner.

“…I take that back,” Ash muttered. “I can’t say it’s much, but… I do feel a bit sharper.”

He strapped his bag back on and continued toward Bernswick, boots crunching softly against frost-lined grass.

Behind him, in the ruined stone and scattered bodies, a single Popper finger twitched.

Unseen.

Ash paused at the crest of a worn ridge, eyes scanning the slope below. The village clung to the hillside beneath him, stone homes and dirt paths spreading outward like the roots of a tree — quiet, weathered, and still. Surrounding it were patchwork fields, crooked fences, and scattered barns slumped under the weight of age. Thin plumes of smoke rose from chimneys, and distant figures moved slowly between rows of struggling crops.

But higher up the hill, overlooking it all, stood the mayor’s manor — a sharp-edged structure of black stone and red tile, surrounded by a warped iron fence. Even from here, it looked like it didn’t belong. It didn’t watch over the town. It loomed.

Ash narrowed his eyes, then pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head — didn’t want any problems.

He descended the path and stepped onto the gravel road. Familiar streets stretched out ahead, quiet and unchanged. The same buildings stood where they always had, their stone walls cracked and mossy. Time hadn’t touched this place — not in any way that mattered.

He slowed to a stop and turned.

His eyes settled on a charred ruin at the edge of town — a burnt-down house swallowed by overgrown vines and thick, twisting bushes. The old fence was half-broken, barely holding back the wild nature creeping in.

Ash stared at it.

For a long, silent second.

Then a voice broke the stillness beside him.

“You a traveler?”

He glanced over. An old woman had stepped up next to him, short and hunched, one hand resting on the crooked fence as she peered into the ruins.

“Something like that,” Ash replied, his voice low.

She nodded, stepping a bit closer.

“If you’re a merchant looking to buy this property, give up. Many have tried. Mayor won’t sell it to anyone. Says it’s meant to stay like this — a warning to the rest of us.”

Ash said nothing, but the woman kept talking, her voice tinged with the bitterness of old rumors.

“A long time ago, a family lived here. Good people. The man took in a demihuman woman and her son. Eventually, he married her — made her his second wife. They lived happily, or so it seemed. But the mayor, he… well, he didn’t like that. Claimed the woman and her boy were dangerous. Said they were a threat.”

Her fingers tightened slightly on the fence.

“Then one night, it happened. The mayor showed up at the house with RUIN soldiers. Said it was time to remove the woman and her boy — claimed they were too dangerous to be allowed to stay.

But by then, it was already too late. The story goes… that evil demihuman child had murdered his parents and locked himself inside.

So Bernswick gave the order. The RUIN soldiers burned the house to the ground. Said it was justice.

Ever since, no one’s been allowed to rebuild. The mayor keeps it like this on purpose — a silent warning to the rest of us.

A reminder that demi-humans are dangerous — unpredictable, unstable — and that they don’t belong here.

Anyone who sees one is expected to report them to RUIN… or directly to the Bernswick family.”

Ash clenched his jaw, eyes fixed on the overgrown ruins.

What a load of crap. Lies. All of it. That bastard Bernswick…

He didn’t say a word. No use stirring trouble.

But the old woman kept going.

“Now that RUIN’s gone, and Bernswick himself is barely ever seen, things have quieted a little. But as a visitor… I’d recommend you keep your distance from the mayor’s two sons. They strut around like thugs, making life hell for the rest of us. You’ll know them when you see them — smug bastards, dressed like nobles, with giant golems following them like lapdogs.”

Ash kept his head low, voice calm.

“I heard there’s an adventurers’ guild here. Built a few years ago. Do you know where it is?”

The woman brightened — clearly happy to have someone to talk to, even if only for a short while.

“Oh yes, yes, I know it. I’ll show you. Let’s walk. You can tell me more about yourself along the way.”

Ash hesitated, then nodded.

They walked side by side through the streets. The old woman chatted about local gossip, festivals that no longer happened, the weather, and her aching joints. Ash shared only what he had to — a brief mention of the ruined land, and his recent encounter with the Poppers. She listened with wide-eyed wonder, occasionally gasping at his story or shaking her head at the dangers outside the town.

All the while, Ash kept his hood low, avoiding her eyes.

Eventually, she stopped and pointed with her cane.

“This is it.”

Ash looked up.

The building ahead was weathered and leaning slightly to one side, with a rotting sign creaking on rusted hinges. Shutters hung loosely from cracked windows, and the wood siding was warped with moisture and time.

It barely looked like it was still standing.

Hardly what I’d call a proper branch office.

He turned to the old woman — still looking down — and gave a soft, sincere nod.

“…Thanks.”

Then, without another word, he stepped toward the door and disappeared inside.

Ash stepped through the creaking door of the adventurers’ guild.

The first thing he noticed was the silence.

The air inside was stale, the lighting dim, and the once-polished floorboards were scuffed and dulled by age. A thick layer of dust blanketed the corners, and cobwebs stretched lazily across the rafters like forgotten banners. A handful of tattered posters clung to the old quest board, fluttering slightly in the draft. Ash glanced at them in passing — monster hunts, herb gathering, caravan escort work. Routine, low-level stuff.

But a few stood out.

Several were yellowed and brittle — quests for missing people dating back fifteen, maybe twenty years. Names. Faces. Faded sketches clinging to hope that would never return.

Then one more caught his eye.

“Assistance needed at the Gears Mines.”

He lingered on it for a moment. That had been his go-to job back when he was a teenager — familiar terrain, predictable danger.

He turned toward the front desk.

A lone receptionist sat behind it, chin resting in one hand, eyes half-lidded in boredom. Her uniform was wrinkled, and a half-drained cup of something lukewarm sat beside a small pile of unfiled paperwork.

Ash approached quietly.

“What happened to this place?” he asked. “Looks like it’s falling apart.”

The receptionist blinked and sat up a little straighter. “Ugh… the mayor’s damn sons. They wrecked the place.”

Ash raised an eyebrow.

She leaned forward, voice thick with irritation. “Used to be decent around here. But then those two brats got into a fight with some adventurer and dragged it inside. Cracked the support beams, tore up the lobby. Scared off half the regulars. And of course, their father didn’t lift a finger.”

Ash gave a small nod. So the old woman’s warning was right… best to avoid them.

“Where is everyone?” he asked. “It’s even emptier than I expected.”

“The branch manager was ordered to take the staff to Evergreen,” she said. “Big emergency down there. Took all the receptionists with him. Most of the adventurers too. Sounds like a lot of work is shifting in that direction for now.”

Ash looked around again. “So… you’re the only one left?”

She waved a hand lazily. “Pretty much. There’s a temporary guild master still here, but he mostly just naps in the back.”

Then she eyed Ash more closely.

“So, what’re you here for? Trying to register?”

Ash shook his head and reached into his cloak, pulling out a weathered card.

“No. I’m already a member.”

She took it and tilted it toward the light. The name etched across the top read simply:

Ash.

No other information — no class, no origin.

Her brow furrowed — until her gaze dropped to the stars beneath the name.

She froze.

“…Six stars?”

She stared, stunned. “But… the ranks only go to five…”

Ash said nothing.

“I—I’ll be right back,” she stammered, clutching the card and hurrying toward the guild master’s room.

The door creaked open a moment later, and out stepped a tall man with broad shoulders and tousled blond hair. His posture was sluggish, his half-lidded eyes barely alert — as if he'd just been pulled from the middle of a nap.

“Name’s Sigurd,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head. “Acting guild master while everyone’s off dealing with Evergreen. So…”

He held up the card and looked it over.

“…How’d you get this?”

Ash met his eyes. “Check the back.”

Sigurd flipped the card over — and paused.

A handwritten message was carved into the surface, followed by a formal signature. His expression shifted slightly.

“…Well. That explains it. Officially signed by the guild master of evergreen himself.”

He handed the card back.

Ash tucked it away. “I was handed this quest regarding the abductions — from Toby. He said your branch had the report on the incident, so I came here first.”

Sigurd gave a short nod. “Receptionist — go get the report on the abductions.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, already moving toward the side room. The sound of shuffling papers soon followed, mixed with the creak of opened drawers.

Sigurd crossed his arms and leaned back slightly. “So… what’s your connection to Toby?”

“He’s my uncle,” Ash replied. “He used to bring me work hunting mutants and beasts and other difficult jobs.”

Sigurd smirked faintly. I Guess that makes you the ghost.”

Ash blinked. “The what?”

“The ghost,” Sigurd repeated. “That’s what folks around the guild's started calling you. High-level jobs would get cleared out without anyone seeing who did it. No names, no credit claimed. Just completed and gone. Didn’t know it was one guy.”

Ash shrugged, offering no answer.

The shuffling stopped.

The receptionist returned, carrying a slim folder. “Here’s the report.”

Ash accepted it and flipped it open, scanning the first page.

“Witness address?”

“Listed at the bottom,” she said.

Ash nodded. “I know the area. Thanks.”

He turned to leave, but Sigurd called after him.

"Watch your back out there," Sigurd said with a faint smirk, his tone half-serious. "If the beastmen get you too, there’s not going to be anyone left to come looking.”

Ash didn’t reply — just raised a hand in a lazy thumbs-up as he pushed open the door and stepped back into the harsh midday glare.

Dashing through the grasslands, Arcea burst into view — skidding to a stop near a massive, half-buried metal door. Its twisted hinges jutted from the soil like rusted bones, and beyond it sprawled the aftermath of Ash’s brutal fight. Ruined machines. Cracked stone. Scattered limbs. Blood painted across the dirt like an artist gone mad.

Arcea’s green eyes widened with curiosity. She had never seen creatures like these before — long-limbed mutants with grotesque features, their bodies now crumpled and lifeless. She approached the nearest one, a headless Popper, and crouched down beside it.

She nodded to herself.

“Dad must’ve done this,” she said with quiet confidence. “I need to move faster — can’t let him have all the fun.”

But as she stood and turned toward the second Popper’s corpse, she paused.

Its face was intact. Twisted. Ugly. Like a skinned frog left in the sun too long.

She took a step closer, brow furrowed — and that’s when she heard it.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The thing lunged.

Its swollen neck stretched like a spring-loaded trap, maw snapping forward with a wet crack — aiming straight for her face.

“AHH!”

Arcea screamed and jerked back just in time, the jaw missing her by inches. Her instincts surged — and before her mind caught up, her body reacted. She gripped her makeshift metal weapon with both hands and brought it down with all her strength.

BOOM.

The earth shook.

The Popper exploded into a red mist.

Chunks of flesh splattered the nearby ruins. Bones cracked. The crater beneath her feet spread wide, and her weapon embedded itself deep into the mutant’s chest — or what little remained of it.

But Arcea didn’t stop.

She swung again. And again. And again.

Each strike shook the earth. Each impact sent dust and shattered stone into the air. The ruins trembled around her, brittle walls collapsing from the sheer force. The Popper had long since died — but she didn’t care.

Only once there was nothing left — not a limb, not a shred, not even a tooth — did she finally stop. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, sweat clinging to her brow, her arms trembling.

She looked down at her weapon. The metal was slightly bent now, warped from the repeated blows. She gave it a flick, sending blood and meat flying from the edge, then rested it on her shoulder.

Arcea turned, eyes scanning the path her father had taken — the crushed grass and scattered blood leading toward the far-off village nestled against the hill.

“I’m coming, Dad,” she whispered, a faint grin tugging at her lips.

And with that, she started walking again — slow at first, letting her energy return. But once her legs felt strong beneath her, she broke into a jog.

Then a sprint.

Toward Bernswick.

Toward whatever came next.

Ash walked slowly along the dirt path that wound through the farmland just outside Bernswick. The crops here grew in dense, uneven patches, climbing in lazy spirals around rusted equipment and half-rotted fencing. As he moved, he thumbed through the folded quest report in his hand, scanning its contents with an increasingly furrowed brow.

On day XX of month XX, a group of beastmen attacked several workers on the southern farms and abducted them. A single survivor managed to hide beneath some warped boards next to a wagon coated in manure. The strong scent likely masked his presence as he witnessed the events unfold.

He continued reading.

The attackers were described as bipedal and muscular, with clawed limbs. They wore scavenged clothing. It’s unclear if they are new RUIN experiments or some rogue tribe of beastman demi-humans. After the assault, they fled northwest with the abducted victims.

Ash stopped in the middle of the road and exhaled sharply, tapping the edge of the paper against his hand.

“Beastman demi-humans…? That makes no sense,” he muttered, irritation flaring in his voice. “Demi-humans aren’t a uniform race — they’re all unique. Every child is born different. Looks, abilities… no two are ever the same.”

He shook his head.

The quality of this report is laughable. I should’ve expected as much from a guild stuck in a farming village.

With a sigh, he folded the report and tucked it away as a farmhouse came into view at the edge of the fields. It stood two stories tall, well-built but modest, surrounded by freshly tilled soil and drying laundry. He stepped up to the door and knocked firmly.

A moment later, a middle-aged woman answered. Her expression was cautious, eyes narrowing slightly as she looked him over.

“How may I help you?”

Ash kept his tone friendly.

“I’m from the guild. I came to speak with a man named Rick.”

The woman groaned softly. “Didn’t you ask him everything the first time?”

"I’m just here to ask Rick if there’s anything else he remembers about the beastmen."

She crossed her arms, clearly annoyed. “Fine. Come in.”

Ash stepped inside and followed her through the entry hall. The house was clean and warm — the air filled with the scent of baked bread and something stewing in a pot. As they passed the kitchen and dining area, Ash noticed a few other women lounging or busy with chores. Judging by their ease, he guessed they were Rick’s other wives.

The living room itself was a step above what he expected from a farmer’s home. While not extravagant, it was tastefully decorated — better chairs, finer curtains, polished wood shelves. Ash caught himself lingering on the fireplace mantle, where a few ornate trinkets rested beside a silver-framed family photo.

In the corner, nestled into a wide armchair, sat Rick.

The woman motioned to one of the chairs. Ash nodded and took a seat, while she leaned down and whispered briefly to Rick.

Rick shifted slightly, adjusting his posture as he looked toward Ash.

“Your place is… nicer than most farms I’ve seen,” Ash noted.

Rick gave a short laugh. “Got lucky. One of my wives is the daughter of a merchant from the lower Grand Lift. Every now and then, he visits with gifts that make this place look better than it is. But don’t let it fool you. We’re poor. Everyone in Bernswick is.”

Ash gave a small nod.

“Anyway,” Rick continued, “what did you come all the way out here for? I already told the guild everything.”

“I was handed this quest regarding the abductions,” Ash said plainly. “Wanted to know if there’s anything else you noticed — even something small about the beastmen.”

Rick leaned back, thoughtful. “Hmm… it all happened too fast to get a good look. But…”

He snapped his fingers. “There were a few things that stood out. Even though they acted like crazed beasts, they showed moments of coordination — like they knew what they were doing. I swear I even heard them speak our language. Not clearly, but enough to catch it.”

Ash’s brow rose slightly. “That’s helpful. If they’re intelligent, then they’re not just wild monsters. Some kind of mutant, maybe.”

Rick nodded slowly. “Could be.”

Ash started to stand. “Well, thanks. That actually helped — even a little info goes a long way.”

Rick raised a hand. “Wait. I just remembered something else.”

Ash paused.

“There was this weird liquid,” Rick said. “Dripping from their claws. Looked like it was steaming, almost. One of the farmers tried to run — got slashed across the leg. Right after that, she collapsed. Like… like her legs just gave out. Couldn’t move. They picked her up like she weighed nothing.”

Ash frowned. “Some kind of paralytic venom, then.”

Rick nodded. “Seems that way.”

Ash exhaled slowly. “Thanks again. I won’t disturb you or your wives any longer.”

He stepped outside and closed the door gently behind him, taking a moment to scan the quiet farmland stretching out in all directions. A warm breeze passed through the rows of crops, rustling leaves and bending stalks with a soft whisper.

Ash turned back toward town, adjusting the strap on his pack.

“I should stop by the market,” he murmured to himself. “Grab more core orbs. And maybe some food… before I head out.”

Then, lowering his head and keeping to the path, he made his way back toward Bernswick’s main square — thoughts already racing toward what lay ahead.

Arcea finally arrived in Bernswick.

Her feet padded lightly against the packed dirt road as she crossed the threshold into the village, and her eyes lit up like twin emeralds. Her curiosity ignited into a roaring fire. Everything was new — everything strange. Stone chimneys puffed gentle trails of smoke into the mid-day air, and rustic timber homes leaned slightly from age and weather. Faded signs hung from crooked nails above storefronts, and the scent of baked bread, sweat, and livestock clung to the breeze like invisible threads tugging at her nose.

She spun slowly in place, taking in every detail. Children laughed in the distance. An old man pushed a wooden cart full of cabbage across the street. Wind-chimes jingled from a balcony overhead, and chickens scattered as a dog barked and gave chase. Arcea’s lips curled into a grin, her excitement barely contained.

She had never seen anything like this.

Her gaze darted from rooftop to rooftop, down alleyways and through shuttered windows. The people, the smells, the shapes of buildings — even the cobblestones beneath her toes felt like another world. Her heart raced as she wandered forward, drawn deeper into the unfamiliar life of the village like a moth to glowing flame.

But then... she felt it.

A subtle shift in the air — a tension. Like a string being pulled tight.

Her grin faded as she noticed the stares. Men paused in their work to eye her warily. Women pulled their children closer. A blacksmith muttered something under his breath as she passed. Their eyes weren’t filled with wonder like hers — they held something else. Distrust. Fear. Disgust.

Why is everyone staring at me like that?

She slowed her pace, blinking. Her brow furrowed as the warmth in her chest gave way to unease.

Still, the scent of food reached her nose, warm and savory, and her curiosity pushed her forward once more.

She followed the scent of food to the main square, where a vendor stand served steaming bowls of stew. Drawn in by the smell, she approached.

“Can I get a bowl of soup? It smells really good!” she asked, her voice bright.

The vendor—a middle-aged woman—froze, eyes widening in shock.

“A demi-human…?” she whispered, glancing around nervously. Then, calming herself, she said curtly, “It’s not free. It costs shards.”

“Oh! Shards! I have some,” Arcea chirped, reaching into her bag. “Found a bunch in the forest!”

She pulled out two full handfuls of shards.

The woman’s eyes gleamed with greed.

“You’ve got just enough,” the vendor lied. “Give me everything in your hands. And if you want something to drink, that’ll cost another handful.”

“Alright!” Arcea said cheerfully, handing over the shards without hesitation.

The woman quickly prepared a bowl of stew and a cup of fruit juice, carrying them to a table nearby. “You can sit and eat over here.”

Arcea placed her bag and weapon beside the chair and began eating, glancing around the square as she searched for any sign of her father.

But the vendor was gone—and a hostile silence had crept in.

A crowd began to grow. Dozens of townspeople gathered around, glaring at her like she was some rare, dangerous beast. Their murmurs were filled with hate and suspicion.

Then came the heavy sound of armored footsteps.

The crowd parted as a man in noble attire strode forward, flanked by two towering golems. Behind him, the vendor returned, pointing at Arcea.

“She’s the one,” she said.

The man tossed her a few shards as a reward then she disapeared into the crowd, then turned his attention to the girl.

“Little devil,” he sneered. “Come with me. You’re not allowed here.”

Arcea looked up from her stew. “I’m not a devil. I’m a demi-human. And no thanks—I’m eating.”

Charles, the mayor’s son, flushed with rage.

“Listen here, you little bitch. I am Charles—the mayor’s son! You’ll do as I say, or I’ll beat you unconscious and drag you there myself.”

Arcea scowled, her appetite vanishing. She picked up another spoonful and defiantly kept eating.

“Don’t ignore me, you filthy bitch!”

He slapped the table, sending her drink and stew flying into her lap.

Arcea stood slowly, dress soaked and dripping.

“I tried to be nice,” Charles spat. “Now I’ll take you by force. Golems—knock her out. Don’t kill her.”

The crowd stepped back, eager to watch the show.

One of the golems lunged forward, its iron fist blurring toward her head with shocking speed for its size.

Arcea's reflexes kicked in. She sprang backward — just in time. The massive fist slammed into the table she had just been sitting at, pulverizing the wood with a deafening crack. Splinters exploded in all directions. The stone beneath fractured and crumpled under the weight of the blow, a shallow crater forming where the table once stood.

The second golem came from her right. Arcea grabed her makshift weapon and spun toward it, barely managing to raise her makeshift weapon in time.

Clang.

The impact was devastating. Her arms flared with pain as the metal limb connected. The force launched her like a doll through the air. She smashed through the wall of a nearby building in an eruption of wood and dust, vanishing into the shadows inside.

Her small body tumbled and skidded across the wooden floor before finally slamming into the base of an old hearth. Blood bubbled up between her lips as she groaned and pushed herself up, her dress torn and singed.

“These are bad people,” she muttered through gritted teeth, wiping the blood from her mouth. Her eyes glowed with something darker. “I guess I don’t need to hold back.”

A rhythmic pounding shook the floorboards as the golems approached.

One of them leaned into the hole it had made, its glowing red eyes scanning the darkness—

BOOM.

Its head exploded before it could react. A twisted chunk of scrap metal that used to be its skull was launched into the air, clanging across the square. Sparks showered the ground.

Arcea stormed out of the dust behind it, fury in her every step. She leapt onto the remains of the ruined golem, kicked off its slumped back, and launched herself at the second one.

She spun midair and brought her weapon down in a wide arc — the impact caved in the side of the golem’s torso. Metal shrieked. The golem toppled sideways, crashing down and crushing a fruit cart beneath it. Shards of shattered crates and crushed produce burst outward from the impact zone.

The watching crowd gasped, retreating farther, stunned into silence.

Arcea landed in a crouch, rising slowly as her eyes locked onto Charles.

“H-how are you that strong?” he choked out. His face twisted into a sickly smile. “You’re just a demi-human kid!”

He bowed awkwardly, sweat beading on his forehead. “I-I’m sorry— I thought you were someone else!”

Arcea stepped toward him, lowering her guard just slightly.

Charles’s expression darkened and a wide grin appeared on his face. With a sudden motion, he hurled a small earth orb at her face.

It exploded in a cloud of thick dirt and dust, blinding her.

“Agh!” Arcea gasped, dropping her weapon and clutching her eyes.

Charles snarled. “You should know your place, you bitch.”

He pulled out a second brown orb — this one larger — and slammed it into the dirt near her feet.

The ground beneath her erupted violently. A thick, blunt stone spike jutted upward and drove into her gut like a battering ram. Her body launched backward, twisting through the air before crashing onto the cobblestones. She rolled several times, coughing, gasping, trying to breathe. Her limbs shook as she tried to push herself up.

The second golem had recovered and was already stomping toward her, one step at a time.

“Grab that filthy bitch and bring her to the mansion!” Charles screamed, his voice cracking. “We’ll put her in a cage where she belongs!”

The golem reached down — its massive metal fingers spread wide like the jaws of a bear trap.

But Arcea didn’t flee.

She planted her feet and threw both arms upward, catching two of the massive fingers. Her small hands wrapped tight around the thick metal digits.

Her body trembled — but she didn’t budge.

Her face contorted in fury. With a snarl, she clenched down.

The metal groaned.

Then — CRUNCH. The steel warped and buckled under her grip. The fingers crumpled like clay, denting inward as her strength surged.

Arcea roared, spun in place, and began to turn — dragging the golem off balance. Her momentum increased as she pulled it into a full 360-degree rotation. The massive machine, still upright, began to tilt and lift.

With a final cry, she released.

The golem went airborne.

It flew through the air like a missile — an impossible sight — and collided with Charles just as he turned to run.

The impact sent up a plume of dirt and debris. The crowd screamed and scattered.

Arcea marched through the smoke, her eyes glowing with fury.

She retrieved her weapon from the ground.

Raised it high.

And with a savage roar, brought it crashing down on the golem’s chest — the same chest pinning Charles.

The metal shell detonated beneath the blow. Shards of armor and gears exploded outward in a fiery burst of sparks. Charles let out a bone-breaking scream from beneath, then fell still — unconscious or worse.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?”

Arcea froze.

Ash was there, face twisted in fury as he ran up.

He grabbed her by the hand and yanked her away.

They sprinted to the outskirts of town.

Once they stopped, Ash glared at her—and whack—brought his hand down on her head.

“Ow!” Arcea winced.

“Why are you here?” Ash demanded.

“I got tired of the forest,” she whined. “I just wanted to go on an adventure with you. Please don’t take me back!”

Ash’s glare didn’t fade.

“I should take you home,” he said darkly. “But if I waste time now, the abducted villagers might be dead by the time I find them.”

He sighed. “So you’ll have to come with me.”

Arcea lit up. And smiled brightly

Whack!

“Ow! What was that one for!?”

“You’re in trouble,” Ash growled. “You’re not allowed to smile.”

He turned and walked back toward the road. Arcea followed curiously as he knelt down and began burying something.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“A trick your mother and I use,” he replied. “We bury a note and leave sticks in a pattern we recognize. If she comes looking, she’ll know I found you—and that she doesn’t need to worry.”

Ash finished the marker and turned to her.

“Let’s go before they send more golems.”

He pulled out a light green orb and crushed it against her skin. A wave of healing light flowed through her.

“Feel better?” he asked.

She looked herself over, nodded.

“Good.”

He pointed toward the distant mountains.

“You see those? That’s where we’re headed. Let’s put as much distance between us and this town as we can before the next night stone passes.”

Together, father and daughter disappeared into the horizon, their silhouettes shrinking against the fractured terrain. The path ahead wound through patches of warped grass and uneven stone. In the distance, the Overlook Mountains loomed — dull, flat peaks that stood toward the sky, silhouetted against the ethereal blue glow of the planet’s exposed core.