The tent was quiet, aside from the occasional groan of canvas stretched by desert wind.
Morning sun had been up for hours, but the Oasis was still shrouded in an unnatural silence. Even the traders, normally noisy at dawn, were reluctant to make noise in the vicinity of the tent he occupied.
Vaen sat cross-legged within. Steam drifted lazily from the porcelain cup he cradled. The tea was cold. He did not notice.
His blind eyes stared forward with unnerving calm. His senses, sharper than steel, had already registered the approaching footsteps five minutes ago.
Tarun.
The boy hesitated outside the flap—again. That soft shift of sandal against sand was all Vaen needed.
"You're late," Vaen said, voice like dusk.
Tarun flinched. "M-My apologies, Master Vaen."
"Come."
The flap opened. Tarun slipped in like a specter. His head was still bowed, his gaze on the ground. Perspiration had darkened the back of his collar. His hands trembled slightly as he untied a cloth package from his belt.
"I've come with what you asked for," he said. "Concerning the ruin. or what they call the Arcane Remnants."
Vaen leaned forward, interested. "Speak."
Tarun gulped.
"There's no fixed location. No map. No coordinates. Some months ago, someone stumbled upon something—half-buried statues, broken arrays still pulsing with spiritual energy, strange bones made of white crystal. But they all lead to the same lost civilization: the Arcane Race."
He unfolded a yellowed parchment full of field notes. "They weren't human… not entirely, at least. Scholars think they were some sort of elemental race. Like elves in the northern myths. Tall, graceful, and. unnerving. Hair like silver wires, skin with a subtle glow, and their bones contained crystalline veins of Origin Qi."
Vaen's hand halted on his cup.
"Elemental affinity?
"Yes," Tarun nodded vigorously. "All Arcane were born attuned to one of the five elements. Their cultivation wasn't a matter of brute physical strength but—" he hesitated, searching for words "—of integration. They became one with the world around them. Everything they did, from daily rituals to warfare, relied on formations."
"Qi formations?" Vaen asked.
"Exactly. Spatial formations, light-bending illusions, even natural resonance shields. Some of their arrays were said to operate independently for decades. They never fought head-on. They made the battlefield fight for them."
Vaen's eyebrow rose, a little amused. "A civilization of cowards."
Tarun went pale. "No, Master, I didn't mean—"
"I didn't say it was a bad thing." Vaen took a sip of his tea, now only warm. "Go on."
"The Arcane Sanctum… that's what they call their central city. Or temple. No one knows for sure. It's rumored to be hidden somewhere in the Western Inner Region of the Great Desolate Forest. The closest hint is somewhere in the vicinity of the Tir'khal Basin. but no one who goes looking ever comes back."
"And why is that?" Vaen asked quietly.
Tarun moistened his lips. "Because they say the Arcane race didn't fall… they were annihilated."
The tent was colder. Even the desert wind outside paused, listening.
"There was an Origin Beast," Tarun whispered. "One that slumbered beneath their land. Some believe the Arcane were feeding it, keeping it asleep through spiritual offerings or sustained Qi fields. But something went wrong. It awoke."
"Do you know its name?
"No. Rumors only. But it was massive—larger than a palace. They say the skies turned purple for two days. Lightning flashed out of clear air. The entire region shook. And when it finally stopped… there was nothing there."
Vaen leaned forward slightly. "What about the beast?"
"Dead," Tarun said. "It died within days. The region couldn't sustain something of its caliber. The Origin Qi wasn't sufficient—in quantity or quality. It withered, same as the Arcane."
Vaen's eyebrows furrowed.
A civilization that could sustain independent formations, extinguished overnight. And the beast, a creature of raw energy, died because the world around it changed.
"Strength," Vaen murmured, "is meaningless when the world is against you."
He set the cup down, fingers tapping gently against the wood table.
"Any sign of artifacts?"
Tarun nodded. "Some. Damaged. Some salvagers returned with strange tools that would not function unless they were subjected to elemental offerings. A few scrolls—completely illegible. The script is alive. It shifts. Anyone who is not competent tries to read it loses their spiritual sense for a time. One man even lost his foundation realm somehow."
"Perilous," Vaen said with a lean smile. "And encouraging."
Silence descended again.
Tarun writhed. "Master, if I may…"
"You may not."
"I—I don't want to go with you," Tarun blurted out abruptly, then froze. "I mean… I'm not suited for ruin exploration. I'll only be in your way."
Vaen did not answer immediately. His expression was neutral.
"I didn't ask you to come," he said flatly.
Tarun's eyes grew wide. "Then why—?"
"I only needed your tongue. Not your legs."
Tarun's face seared with shame. "Yes, Master."
Vaen stood slowly, the motion precise. Blind, yet still he moved with purpose.
"Tell me, Tarun," he said softly. "Do you fear me?"
The question hung in the air, heavier than the heat outside.
Tarun bowed his head further, "Yes."
"Good. But don't mistake fear for understanding. You fear what I will do. But you don't understand why I will do it."
His tone was peaceful, almost gentle.
"I am not cruel, Tarun. I am inevitable at least for this world."
The boy did not say a word.
Vaen stood before the flap of the tent, back stiff, aura dampened. Yet the shadows in the corners of the tent seemed to shift—slightly—at his approach.
A lost ruin.
An erased race.
An erased beast.
A past consumed by silence.
It all shrieked danger. Doubt. Madness.
And Vaen's heart did not beat any faster.
After all, what did a blind man have to fear from ghosts?