THE STORY CONTINUES....
The swamp answered before anyone spoke.
A low tremor rippled through the ground, subtle at first, like the slow turning of something immense beneath layers of mud and rot. The abandoned orc village groaned in response—wooden structures creaked, bone pillars rattled softly, and stagnant water shivered in shallow pools between huts.
Then the statues rose.
They did not emerge violently. There was no explosion of mud, no dramatic eruption. Instead, the swamp seemed to part for them, as though it had been waiting. Thick, sludge-soaked stone bodies lifted themselves free with agonizing slowness, dragging centuries of filth along their jagged forms. Each movement sent waves through the mire, the earth trembling beneath the merchants' feet.
The ground shook hard enough to knock several of them off balance.
Lanterns swung wildly. Horses screamed.
The air itself felt heavier, compressed by an unseen pressure that made breathing difficult.
"What… what is that?" one of the merchants whispered, his voice thin and trembling.
Before anyone could answer, something far worse happened.
A figure surfaced briefly near the edge of the village—a distorted silhouette half-formed from mud and shadow. It wore Simon's face.
The likeness was perfect. The same eyes. The same mouth. The same faint scar along the jawline.
Then, without warning, the thing raised both hands and tore its own face apart.
Skin peeled back like wet cloth. Flesh stretched, split, and fell away in strips, revealing nothing underneath but darkness. A sound like tearing parchment echoed through the fog. The figure let out a warped, mocking laugh—and then it sank back into the swamp as if it had never existed.
Silence followed.
Thick. Suffocating.
The four mercenaries drew closer together instinctively, weapons shaking in their hands. They were not trained soldiers, not adventurers hardened by monsters and magic. They were survivors—men who had learned to fight because the world had given them no other choice.
Alfred stepped forward, placing himself between the merchants and the open swamp. Golden Qi flickered faintly around his body, reacting to the threat even before he consciously summoned it.
Armin stood beside him, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the mud.
Then it struck.
A long bone erupted from the swamp like a spear, pale and jagged, moving with terrifying speed. Before anyone could react, it punched clean through the chest of the nearest mercenary.
Blood sprayed.
The man gasped, eyes wide in disbelief, before a second bone lashed out, impaling another. The remaining two barely had time to scream before the appendage twisted violently—and dragged all four of them into the mud.
Their cries were cut short, swallowed by the swamp as if they had never existed.
"No—!" Alfred lunged forward, Gravetoll flashing as he swung toward the retreating bone.
Too late.
The swamp smoothed itself over. Only ripples remained.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the ground shifted again.
Another strike came—faster this time—aimed directly at one of the merchants. Alfred reacted instantly, intercepting it with the remains of a fallen wooden gate. The impact shattered the wood, but the bone recoiled, retreating into the mire before Alfred could pursue.
It was testing them.
Learning.
Armin's breath slowed. His mind sharpened.
"This thing isn't random," he said quietly. "It's hunting."
Without waiting for approval, he extended his hand. Thin strands of mana spilled from his fingertips, weaving themselves into invisible threads that stretched outward in a wide perimeter around the group. The technique demanded extreme focus—one miscalculation and the threads would snap instantly.
"I need timing," Armin said, sweat forming along his brow. "Perfect timing."
Alfred closed his eyes.
Mana observation expanded outward from him like a pulse, brushing against the swamp. He felt it then—a distortion, subtle but unmistakable, moving beneath the surface.
"It's coming," Alfred said. He opened his eyes and pointed to himself. "Target's me."
The strike came in the next instant.
The bone shot upward—straight into the trap.
The threads snapped tight, glowing faintly as they bound something invisible. The air warped violently as the creature struggled, its pressure crashing down on them like a wave.
Armin dropped to one knee, teeth clenched.
"I can't hold it!" he shouted. "Do something—now!"
One of the merchants stepped forward, panic etched into his face. "The artifact," he said. "The one around your neck. We can seal it."
Alfred did not hesitate. "Do it."
The merchant—Cairo—ran to one of the carriages and returned moments later with a green jade pot etched with complex runes. Alfred removed the artifact from his neck and placed it inside.
A black bead detached from the pot, hovering slightly above its rim.
"Fill it with mana," Cairo said urgently. "When it's about to break—throw it."
Cracks spread across the bead as Alfred poured his mana into it. The ground shook violently. Armin screamed as blood ran from his nose, the pressure nearly crushing him.
The invisible creature thrashed.
Then Alfred threw the bead.
The air screamed.
A sound like tearing reality echoed across the village as the creature's form was forced into visibility for a brief instant—distorted, wrong, screaming in rage before it shattered into sand and was absorbed into the bead.
The bead glowed red.
Cairo grabbed it and sealed it back inside the pot. The runes flared once—then went dark.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then the ground trembled again.
Alfred's senses flared.
"Simon," he said sharply.
He sprinted toward an abandoned hut, crashing through the doorway. Inside, Simon lay slumped against a wall, blood streaking his armor. Alfred lifted him without hesitation and carried him back.
Potions were uncorked. Liquid light flowed.
Simon gasped awake, eyes burning with fury.
"I'm not done," he growled.
Alfred looked toward the swamp.
Something was still coming.
TO BE CONTINUED.....