THE STORY CONTINUES FORWARD
The tornado collapsed miles away from the swamp.
It did not disperse gently.
It vomited them onto the road.
Bodies hit dirt, stone, and broken cobble with bone-jarring force. The wind screamed one final time, then died—as if whatever carried them here refused to come closer.
Armin woke first.
His face was pressed against cold ground. Not mud. Not rot. Stone.
He opened his eyes.
Walls.
High. Grey. Scarred.
A city gate.
Perkol.
Smoke drifted above the ramparts in thin, exhausted trails, not from battle—but from daily fires that had burned too long without hope. The air smelled of ash, iron, and old fear.
They had escaped.
But not into safety.
---
People were already gathering.
Not cheering.
Watching.
Silent figures in worn cloaks and patched armor stood at a distance, eyes hollow, hands close to weapons that looked more ceremonial than functional. No one rushed forward to help. No one screamed.
They had learned better.
Alfred groaned and forced himself upright, one arm hanging uselessly, armor cracked and blackened. Blood had dried into dark lines along his jaw. His golden Qi was gone—completely drained, like a furnace reduced to cold ash.
Simon lay nearby, chest rising shallowly. His spear was gone. His blue mana was quiet. Too quiet.
The merchants were alive.
That alone felt unnatural.
The mana cube shattered the moment it touched Perkol's boundary stones, fragments dissolving into harmless light. The artifact Alfred wore had gone completely dark—its runes burned out, cracked beyond repair.
Yorin was the first merchant to speak.
In a whisper.
"…We lived."
No one answered him.
---
The gates opened slowly.
Not wide.
Just enough.
A squad of city guards emerged—tired men and women with rusted insignias and eyes that had seen too many arrivals like this. Their captain took one look at the group and stiffened.
"Swamp survivors," he muttered. "Again."
Again.
That word hit Armin harder than any blade.
They were escorted inside without ceremony.
---
Perkol was dying.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Buildings leaned inward as if ashamed to still be standing. Market stalls sat half-empty, their goods low-quality and overpriced. Adventurers moved through the streets in small, suspicious groups—no banners, no loud laughter, no pride.
A city that once fed on exploration now survived on avoidance.
People stared at Armin.
Not with curiosity.
With recognition.
Some crossed themselves. Others backed away.
One old woman whispered, "He have a weird shadow almost inhuman…"
Armin didn't look down.
He could feel it now—heavy, cold, unfamiliar.
Leon's gift.
Or his curse.
---
They were taken to the local guild hall.
Or what remained of it.
The symbol above the entrance—once a proud crest of steel and flame—was cracked down the middle. Inside, the hall was dim, lanterns flickering weakly, boards creaking under too many ghosts.
The guildmaster was young.
Too young.
He listened in silence as Alfred gave his report. No interruptions. No disbelief. Just quiet horror settling deeper with every word.
When Alfred finished, the man closed his ledger slowly.
"…The swamp has awakened," he said.
Not a question.
A sentence.
Simon laughed weakly. "It never slept."
The guildmaster didn't smile.
---
That night, Armin sat alone on the guild roof.
The city below whispered with uneasy life. Bells rang for curfew—not holy bells, but warning bells. Different from his bell.
He clenched his fist.
The Thunder Dragon Sword lay beside him, darker than before. He hadn't unsheathed it since the swamp. He wasn't sure he could.
Alfred joined him quietly.
"You should leave," Alfred said.
Armin didn't answer.
"This city can't protect you," Alfred continued. "And you attract things. Ancient things."
Armin finally spoke. "So do you."
Alfred smiled faintly. "Not anymore."
Below them, somewhere deep beneath Perkol's streets, something shifted.
And far away—
The bell rang once.
To be continued....