Chapter 1 – [The Fate]
World: Warrior Fantasia
Timeline: 00092, Third Root
Arkhel was a thirty‑one‑year‑old Copper Rank adventurer, a man whose name carried a quiet weight in the small frontier town he lived in. For sixteen years he had survived the deadly life of an adventurer—long enough to see reckless youths die, long enough to learn that kindness was rarer than strength. In the last eight years, he had settled into alchemy, opening a modest shop beside his home. Behind it stretched seven carefully maintained flower and herb fields, each one cultivated with patience rather than ambition.
People trusted Arkhel. Beginners sought him out for guidance, and wandering adventurers often stopped by his shop to ask for advice rather than potions. He charged little, sometimes nothing at all. Some said he was wasting his talent. Others said he was simply tired.
Arkhel had a daughter.
That fact alone fueled endless whispers.
No one had ever seen his wife. No one remembered her name. And whenever someone dared to ask about the girl's origin, Arkhel's expression would tighten, his smile fading like a candle snuffed by unseen wind. The girl herself rarely left the house behind the shop. Arkhel claimed she was ill—that sunlight and long walks weakened her—but those who lived nearby felt something was… off. The house always seemed too quiet, even for a sick child.
Then, one night, something happened.
A ten‑year‑old boy from the neighboring house was playing outside with his cat, Kuro. The moon hung low, its pale light brushing the herb fields like silver dust. Kuro suddenly froze.
The cat's fur stood on end.
Without warning, it bolted, vanishing into the darkness with a terrified cry. The boy stood confused—until a faint bell sound echoed through the fields.
Clink.
Clink.
The sound came again, closer this time.
A cold chill crawled down the boy's spine. For a brief moment, his neck went numb, as if something invisible had wrapped around it. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. A long, wet tongue brushed against his cheek.
He ran.
But no matter how hard he ran, the path twisted unnaturally, and before he realized it, he was standing in the middle of Arkhel's flower and herb fields. The bell rang again—slow, deliberate, hunting.
Something was approaching.
The boy was never seen again.
By morning, twenty‑four more children had vanished.
Fear spread through the town like rot. Parents searched the streets, guards doubled their patrols, and the air itself felt heavy. Something unseen lingered, watching.
A nine‑member adventurer party arrived soon after, bearing a quest issued by the guild: the subjugation of a Corrupt Priest of the Abyss, a humanoid magical entity rumored to wield forbidden knowledge. According to regulation, such a hunt required at least ten members—two Silver Rank, three Copper Rank, and five Iron Rank adventurers.
The townsfolk urged the party to recruit Arkhel as a guide.
Reluctantly, he agreed.
The mission proceeded… almost too smoothly.
The corrupt priest was slain. The reward was claimed and divided evenly. That night, the party ate together, laughing in relief. The missing children were found the next morning—alive, hiding in farmers' fields, claiming it had all been just a prank.
Some laughed.
Some felt uneasy.
Arkhel felt dread.
Reality shattered soon after.
A faint bell echoed.
The children's faces twisted unnaturally. Blood poured from their eyes and mouths as they laughed—high, broken sounds that scraped against the soul. One of the Silver Rank adventurers clutched his head, pain exploding behind his eyes.
"I remember you now," he whispered, blood streaming from his ears. "Auren."
He tore the quest poster from the wall and burned it with pure Qi. The illusion peeled away, revealing the true quest .
This was a ghost town.
Crucified corpses lined the streets. Eyes, tongues, and hearts were missing. Pools of dried blood stained the ground. And at the center stood an empty cross… bearing his name and around it were his teammates crucified.
The adventurer collapsed, screaming.
The bell rang behind him.
The illusion broke like glass.
He saw the alchemy shop—the house—the light within. Dragging the bodies of his fallen comrades, he crawled forward as the fields transformed into living nightmares. Flowers became serpents. Roots became centipedes. Spiders tore into his flesh, but he refused to stop.
He reached the door.
The wounds remained.
A girl helped him inside.
Then Arkhel appeared.
"No more pretending," the adventurer said weakly. "Just do it, Auren."
Arkhel's eyes turned black.
"Long time no see, brother."
The basement opened.
Diana emerged.
A horror stitched from flesh and tentacles, her back covered in the faces of devoured children. The adventurer screamed as memories returned—the bell, the cat, the past.
This was not an illusion.
This was a replay of a long‑buried massacre.
Desperation gave him clarity.
He stabs his own arm, grounding himself in pain. He remembered Elen—the elf beast tamer. He threw his dagger, controlling it with mana strings, reaching for her summoner pouch.
Too slow.
Arkhel's knife severed his hand.
The beasts appeared.
The summoning pouch got activated summoning elen's tamed beasts.
A terracotta baboon. Two centaurs. A black night lion. A crow.
They attacked.
Arkhel was torn apart by the baboon—but even as he died, dark tentacles rose, devouring him in turn healing himself.
The beasts fled with the adventurer, hurling him from the window and running into the forest.
He awoke later some time.
He drank a healing potion—and vomited.
Its "Blood," he whispered.
The forest fell silent.
Then the bell rang again.
And something began to chase them.
To Be Continued.