Hunched and sallow-faced farmers carried their tools in small groups, exiting the city gates and heading to the fields beyond. They were the lowest of the low, the underclass farmers, whose meager plots of land lay outside the city walls.
In contrast, the upper-class farmers, who owned land within the city limits, enjoyed a comparatively better quality of life. Their crops were shielded from war and looters, and their livelihoods depended solely on the whims of the weather, barring any unforeseen disasters.
For the underclass farmers, however, life was fraught with constant threats. Beyond bad weather, they also had to contend with the unrelenting shadow of war. One misstep could mean losing not just their land, but their lives.
This was a chaotic era of perpetual conflict, a time when nations clashed endlessly, and the lives of commoners were worth less than the dirt they tilled.
These people, the underclass, lived like weeds—unseen and unloved, yet stubbornly resilient, clinging to life in the harshest of conditions.
"Looks like it's going to be a good year," an old farmer remarked as he trudged along the dirt road, his sunken cheeks betraying years of hunger and toil. "We haven't had an invasion for months now."
"Yeah, maybe we'll actually harvest enough to last through the winter this time," another replied, his tone tinged with cautious optimism.
Though their clothes were tattered and their bodies gaunt, a rare glimmer of hope shone on their faces. Peace, no matter how fleeting, was a treasure in these times.
But life has a cruel way of shattering even the smallest hopes. Even without war or famine, disasters often struck without warning, upending lives in an instant.
"What's that? Rain clouds?" a young farmer asked, pointing to the horizon. His voice trembled with confusion rather than excitement.
Far in the distance, at the place where earth met sky, a dense black haze was spreading unnaturally fast. It didn't look like any storm cloud they had ever seen.
"Doesn't seem like rain clouds to me," an older farmer replied, narrowing his eyes. "Rain clouds don't move that quickly, and there's no wind."
He held his hand up to the sky, feeling for a breeze, but the air was eerily still.
The black mist continued to surge forward, its ominous advance quickening. The farmers' unease deepened as they realized the haze wasn't floating above the ground like normal clouds but was instead a dense fog creeping across both earth and sky.
"Run!" one old man shouted, his voice cutting through the mounting panic. His instincts, honed by years of surviving in a war-torn world, screamed that danger was imminent.
Without hesitation, the farmers abandoned their tools and fled back toward the city.
The distant black fog had already caught the attention of the city's guards. Alarmed, they reported the phenomenon to the city lord and the commanding general.
Soon, the two stood atop the city walls, their expressions grave as they observed the encroaching fog.
"I sense death," the city lord murmured, his voice heavy with dread. His ornate robes fluttered faintly as he scanned the horizon.
"This is no ordinary mist," the general said, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. Unlike the lord, he was clad in full armor, exuding a commanding presence. Below him, soldiers moved with precision, taking their positions along the wall.
"Attack!" the general ordered as the fog drew within a thousand meters of the city. A barrage of radiant weapons and dazzling spells hurtled toward the advancing black mass.
For a moment, the barrage seemed to disrupt the fog, causing it to ripple and stir. But any hope was short-lived; the fog quickly absorbed the attacks and returned to its undisturbed state.
The general's face darkened as he realized the futility of their assault. The black mist continued its relentless march, creeping ever closer to the city.
From above, the scene was horrifying. The fog enveloped the city like a monstrous predator swallowing its prey. Within moments, the once-bustling city was completely shrouded, its vibrant life extinguished in an oppressive silence.
For a brief time, faint, glowing lights flickered within the fog—a sign of desperate resistance. But one by one, the lights dimmed and vanished, leaving only the oppressive darkness of the fog.
When the black mist finally began to retreat, the city it revealed was unrecognizable.
The once-vibrant streets were now eerily quiet, the buildings reduced to crumbling ruins. The city walls, once a symbol of protection, were weathered and cracked as if aged by centuries in mere moments.
No living soul remained. The entire city had been hollowed out, leaving behind only the haunting evidence of a desperate, futile struggle.
"You call this training?" Muria asked, his expression as calm as ever as he faced the towering figure of his instructor. "You brought me here for 'fun'? This is what you meant by teaching me?"
The giant beside him—hulking, iron-skinned, and impossibly strong—scratched his bald head sheepishly. Despite his imposing appearance, he looked almost apologetic under Muria's withering gaze.
"What do you want from me, kid?" the giant rumbled. "What could I possibly teach you? Or better yet, what do you think you need to learn from me?"
Muria crossed his arms, considering the question. "Nothing," he finally said, his tone blunt but truthful.
"Exactly!" the giant exclaimed, slapping his massive hand on the table between them. "If there's nothing to teach, why waste time pretending? Might as well enjoy ourselves instead."
"That still doesn't explain why you dragged me to this place," Muria countered, his voice tinged with irritation. "I'm just a kid."
"Ah, right," the giant said, laughing awkwardly. "You act so mature that I keep forgetting you're just a little squirt."
"I'll remember this," Muria replied, his voice low and deliberate.
"Remember what?" the giant asked, puzzled. "Planning to hold it against me when you're older? Fine, fine, I'll make it up to you then. How about a second round here when you've grown up?"
Muria's lips twitched as he suppressed the urge to retort. Instead, he turned and walked away, leaving the giant behind in the raucous, dimly-lit hall they had entered.
"Suit yourself," the giant called after him, unfazed. He had no reason to worry about Muria's safety; the boy's strength surpassed that of anyone else in the city, save for himself.
As Muria stepped onto the bustling streets outside, he noticed the uneasy commotion spreading through the city. People were running, shouting, their faces pale with fear.
His golden eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze toward the horizon. There, the source of the panic became clear: the same black fog that had consumed the city earlier was now advancing toward this one.
"That thing…" Muria murmured, his voice laced with a strange mix of curiosity and hunger. A faint black and crimson aura began to emanate from his body, swirling like a living flame.
"It's calling to me," he muttered, almost to himself. "Why do I feel like… I want to devour it?"
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