"Help meee!"
Desperate scream echoed through the ruins of a village that Valen had stumbled upon. Moving at a steady, deliberate pace, he stepped deeper into the shattered remnants of the terrain. Ahead, a well-dressed man clad like a noble came into view.
"Hey! You there! Help me!"
The nobleman ran toward Valen, grabbing his clothes in panic. "Please I'll pay you anything, just help me!"
Valen stared at the man with cold disdain and shoved him back. "Don't touch me with your filthy hands."
The nobleman recoiled, stunned. "How dare you! I could buy yo..."
His words were cut short by a sudden spray of blood. In a single motion, Valen had cut his head.
"Shut up already," he muttered.
In the distance, a Ghoul charged toward him, snarling. Valen leapt to the side, only to realize the creature wasn't aiming for him—it was after the nobleman's corpse. Before it could reach the body, Valen struck, his blade slicing clean through the monster's chest. The creature dropped, lifeless. With a flick, he shook the blood from his sword and sheathed it.
"What a filthy place," he said, moving deeper into the ruins.
A little farther in, he came upon a dead horse and a man whose eyes had been devoured. A crow was already feasting on the corpse.
"Is... is someone there?"
The eyeless man spoke weakly, still somehow alive.
Valen approached slowly. "Don't worry. It's over now," he said softly, adding with a whisper, "May your next life be better."
He drew a short dagger and slid it into the man's throat swift, clean, merciful.
"What the hell, noble! That was bullshit! leaving your own man behind just to die by my hands."
Valen's voice was low and gravelly, barely more than a growl.
His face was dirty with blood some fresh, some already drying into a dark crust along the sharp line of his jaw. His crimson eyes, heavy half-closed like he hadn't slept in days, radiated a quiet fury. Beneath a tangle of windblown black hair, his gaze pierced through the ruin-stained air like burning coals in a dying hearth. He didn't look angry. He looked disappointed with the lies, the screams, the filth of men pretending to be better than monsters....
He wiped his cheek with the back of his glove, smearing the noble's blood across his skin. Then, almost absentmindedly, he tasted it with a flick of his tongue. His expression twisted in disgust.
"Ugh... disgusting. I definitely prefer animal blood," Valen muttered, spitting to the side.
The coppery taste lingered, bitter and foul like the man it came from. He wiped his mouth again, his red eyes narrowing with silent contempt as he goes ahead into deeper place of this village.
"Ah... I need to find a place to sleep," Valen muttered, his voice rough with exhaustion. "A week on the road without rest... even monsters dream."
He wandered deeper into the ruined village, boots crunching on debris and bone, until he reached the edge of a long-forgotten cemetery. Beyond the rusted gates stood a crumbling church, its steeple leaning like a drunk about to fall.
Inside, silence reigned—cold and hollow. Three coffins rested in the nave, untouched by time or scavenger. Valen's eyes scanned them and settled on one: elegant, black oak with delicate golden inlays. It looked almost too fine for a place like this.
Without a word, he hoisted the coffin onto his back, as if it weighed no more than a bundle of firewood, and stepped back into the dying light of day.
As he walked, something flickered at the edge of his vision. A black cat. Just for a moment.
Valen froze. "Her again?"
But the cat, startled by his presence, bolted into the shadows.
"Ah… not her after all," he said, disappointment curling in his voice.
After a while, Valen found a half-collapsed house at the edge of the village, its roof sagging and walls leaning like they were held up by wind alone. Pushing the creaking door open, he stepped into what remained of the kitchen.
With a heavy thud, he set the coffin down. The impact startled a swarm of rats and spiders hiding in the corners. Dust exploded into the air like an ancient curse disturbed.
"Caughhhh"
Valen coughed harshly, waving a gloved hand in front of his face as the dust clung to his lungs.
While he climbed into the coffin, the wood creaking beneath his weight. As he pulled the lid shut over himself, his voice was barely a whisper in the stale air:
"Crimson... watch over me, please."
The sword resting nearby leaned against the wall like a silent guardian suddenly pulsed with a radiant green glow. The light shimmered across the cracked walls, casting dancing shadows.
A promise.
It would protect him. Even in sleep....