The sun rose sluggishly over the blood-soaked earth, casting its pale light across the village that now resembled a battlefield. The air was heavy—thick with the stench of iron and burnt ash, and even the birds dared not sing. Both Eamon and Derek had left the village.
A group of Town Councilmen, clad in grey and deep maroon robes with brass sigils, arrived at the edge of the village. They halted as soon as the scene unfolded before their eyes.
Gasps. Staggered breaths. One of them dropped to his knees, retching into the bushes.
Hundreds of bodies lay strewn across the streets and near a large house at the far end of the village—lifeless limbs tangled together; their faces contorted in horror. Blood had dried on the dirt roads like cursed ink.
Council Head Gerard, a thick-bearded man known for his skepticism and pride, stood frozen. His voice cracked as he whispered, "By the stars… what happened here?"
Another councilman muttered, "This… this is a massacre."
"No," Gerard replied hollowly, "this is something worse."
He turned to a younger official beside him. "Alert the royal garrison immediately. Use the blue-sigil hawk. This cannot be handled by our city guard."
Before the man could run, a loud trumpet blast echoed across the morning sky.
The councilmen turned.
Several black carriages thundered toward them, flanked by over twenty cavalrymen in obsidian armor. On each carriage was a silver crest—the Phoenix of Aldoria, wings raised, flames licking its tail.
The blood drained from the councilmen's faces.
"It's… it's the Royal Family's seal," someone whispered.
The carriages came to a halt with militant precision. The horses neighed, their armor clinking, and the front line of soldiers dismounted swiftly.
From the grandest carriage in the center, a tall figure stepped out.
He wore a dark blue cloak embroidered in silver lining. A thin, long blade hung from his waist, gleaming as though it thirsted for blood. His black armor bore a faint purple sheen, and his eyes were colder than winter itself. The man's presence silenced the breeze itself.
Sir Toren Kael — the Crimson Shadow.
One of the ten Royal Knights of Aldoria, he was more myth than man. Whispers said he never blinked in battle. That he could kill with a flick of the wrist. That even nobles dared not speak when he entered the room.
Behind him stood Kasper, his advisor, a sharply dressed man with silver spectacles and a scroll-case hanging from his belt.
The councilmen bowed deeply, their knees nearly touching the blood-soaked earth.
"Stand," came Toren's voice. It was calm, almost too calm. "Now speak. What happened here?"
Council Head Gerard stepped forward, swallowing the dryness in his throat. "Sir… we… we just arrived. We received word from one of yesterday's survivors. He told us this was orchestrated… by a fraud from our city named Kern."
Toren's eyes narrowed. "Go on."
Gerard continued. "Kern had infiltrated the city under the guise of nobility. This village had discovered his deception… or rather, one farmer did. Fearing exposure, Kern lured villagers into hunting down the farmer and his grandson—claiming they were cursed. They killed the grandfather. But when they returned last night to kill the boy…"
Gerard hesitated.
"…Torkes appeared. Low-born demons of the shadow realm. They killed everyone—villagers, Kern's men. Everyone."
Kasper scoffed. "Torkes? In this realm? Do you expect us to believe that nonsense?"
Gerard wiped sweat from his brow. "We doubted it too, but… Sir, the bodies. Please. You will see."
Kasper exchanged a look with Toren. The knight nodded once.
"And where is this Kern now?" Kasper asked flatly.
Another councilman replied, "He fled. The survivor said Kern used his men as bait and escaped under the cover of darkness."
Kasper sighed. "Of course he did."
Toren's gaze sharpened.
"Where is the house?"
"Follow us, Sir. We will show you."
They moved in silence, led by the councilmen through the battered village lanes. The soldiers marched in formation behind them, their boots thudding rhythmically on blood-soaked ground. No one dared speak. The only sound was the caw of a lone crow circling above the carnage.
Finally, they reached the last house at the village's edge.
Even Toren halted at the sight.
The front yard of the house was littered with bodies. Some still clutched pitchforks and broken blades. Others had no weapons at all. Children with their eyes wide open. Women in sleeping robes. Elders curled in protective postures. They had all died in agony.
Toren stepped forward. His boots sank slightly in the congealed blood.
He whispered, "How did this go unnoticed?"
Kasper's voice was strained. "There are… there are over two hundred corpses here."
Gerard swallowed hard. "More than half the village is dead."
Kasper knelt beside one of the bodies. He touched the wound on the man's neck, then looked at the scorched black burn marks around it.
"This was not done by men," he muttered. "These wounds are… corrosive. The essence of shadow."
Toren didn't blink. "This many Torkes appearing in a single place… that hasn't happened since the Fall of Fourth Holy War."
Kasper stood. "You think it's connected?"
"Perhaps. Or something worse."
Just then, a soldier approached. "Sir Toren. The survivor has arrived."
Toren turned.
Two guards escorted a bloodied man—limping, wounded, barely able to stand—into the circle. His left arm was bandaged with dirty cloth, and his face was pale.
The man looked up at Toren and immediately fell to his knees. "M-my lord… forgive me… I survived only by chance…"
Gerard gestured toward him. "This is the man who told us everything. He was part of Kern's group."
Kasper raised an eyebrow. "Interesting."
Kasper narrowed his eyes as he crouched beside the injured survivor, a man covered in blood and grime, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and exhaustion.
"Did you see anyone summoning the Torkes?" Kasper asked, his voice low, sharp. "How did they suddenly appear?"
The man—Ang, the only survivor—shook his head rapidly, flinching at the question as if it were a blade. "I don't know," he muttered. "I swear, I don't know how they got here. We didn't summon them. We came to kill the boy. The old farmer's grandson. Kern gave the order."
Toren and Kasper exchanged a quick glance. The boy again.
Ang continued, spitting blood before speaking. "We killed the old man first. He was alone. His grandson wasn't there when we arrived. We thought it would be easy. After we were done with the old man, we returned to the village. But then, sometime past midnight, Kern got word that the grandson had returned. So, he gathered all the men—left the women and children behind in the village—and brought us here to finish the job."