The rain poured ceaselessly, hammering down in a relentless cascade. The thunderous clatter of carriage wheels resounded on an old stone bridge spanning a great river. Through the thick curtain of water, one could barely make out the silhouette of a carriage pressing forward into the darkness. When the carriage reached the center of the bridge, a figure suddenly leaped out, clutching a bucket tight in one hand before plunging into the raging waters below.
The furious current seized the man's body and carried him downstream, battering him along the way. He struggled to swim, one hand clasping the bucket as though it were his last hope, the other flailing against the torrent. Yet the surge of water proved too strong to fight. At one point, his leg slammed against a submerged rock, snapping bone; pain shot like lightning through his body, but he had no time to dwell on it. Survival—and protecting the bucket—were all that mattered.
He was carried a great distance before finally finding a moment to grab hold of the riverbank. With what little strength he had left, he hauled himself out of the water. Limping on his injured leg, he dragged himself along the bank until he came upon the wreck of an old shed. Its rotting wooden walls were riddled with holes through which rain still trickled, filling the air with a damp, musty smell. Debris lay scattered in every corner.
Luckily, the rain had begun to subside. Overhead, the full moon shone, casting pale light through the collapsed roof. He set the bucket down gently, his hands trembling. Then he opened it, rummaging for a sheet of paper and a pointed crystal shard. The shard was transparent but contained something bizarre within: a lump of brain matter riddled with mouths and teeth, with twisted nerves coiling about one another.
Using the moonlight, he read the instructions on the paper and followed them step by step. He took out a knife, cut the palm of his hand, and let the blood drip onto the crystal while reciting strange words written on the page. Slowly, the clear shard turned a deep crimson. Once the ritual was complete, he pulled out a small vial of ash-colored liquid, uncorked it, and drank it down. In the next moment, he seized the sharp crystal and stabbed it into his chest—straight into his heart.
Fresh agony rippled through him. His face contorted; a distorted eye crawled out from his forehead, a sixth finger sprouted from his hand, and his mouth split into two sections. Wild-eyed, he searched for a nearby tree and, spotting one, pushed off with his one functioning leg, slamming his chest against the trunk as hard as he could. The impact drove the crystal further in, burying it deep into his heart.
He collapsed onto the damp ground. A terrifying sense of something trying to seize control of his mind flared up inside him. He wrestled with his own looming madness while enduring the physical pain. Time slipped by. Slowly, his vision began to warp, and his mutating body started reverting to a human form. Everything around him, however, had become twisted and nightmarish.
In the sky, the full moon turned into a giant pulsating brain, its coiled nerves slithering around. It possessed multiple, shifting eyeballs crowded into an impossible mouth, each eyeball rolling in different directions. A thousand writhing tongues extended in every direction, nauseating to behold. It stared down at him from above. The starless sky had become a sea of crimson like fresh blood.
He fell face-first to the muddy ground, his eyes sliding shut. Just before consciousness faded completely, a single sentence floated through his thoughts.
"Ah… so this is the truth."
And then the darkness claimed him. He lay unmoving on wet earth and grass, no light anywhere around, only the cold wind whispering through and the soft rustle of leaves. One last question flickered in his mind as the world faded:
When had it all begun, leading to this very moment…?
With the final spark of consciousness gone, his memories drifted to days long past—back to the time before everything began.
…...
Heavy gray clouds thickened overhead, blotting out the afternoon sun and darkening the sky. A light drizzle started to fall upon the parched ground, and soon it turned into a heavy downpour. Raindrops struck the earth, releasing the pungent aroma of wet dust, and the once-hard ground turned into patches of sticky mud. Those passing through had to yank their feet out of the mire with every squelching step, and wagons drawn by horses took detours for fear their wheels might become hopelessly stuck.
In a small rural village on the outskirts of the Kingdom of Hydelyn, a somber and unsettling air now clung to every corner. The village consisted of clusters of wooden huts and simple houses. Villagers had gathered at the local cemetery, where puddles of muddy water had already formed, to attend the funeral rites of those who had died under tragic circumstances.
A thin, pale smoke from the incense burned before three coffins floated upward, only to be swept away by wind and rain until it vanished. Elders stood at the front, praying and muttering incantations, heads lowered in remembrance of the departed. Soft, mournful music drifted in a slow, funereal rhythm, its somber melody intensifying the despair hanging over the gathering. Family and friends wept openly; some dabbed tears with cloths, others let them flow freely. Their hushed sobs melded in the gloom, a quiet chorus of grief.
Amid the crowd stood a man named Charles Ravencroft, a young detective dressed in dark tones. He had sharp features, brown hair, and eyes of a deep brown hue—he appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He watched the ritual with a calm face, though inwardly he was burning with questions about the strange occurrences in this village.
Charles was not originally from here. He had come at the request of Edmund, a well-off villager who had hired him to track down a precious heirloom necklace that had gone missing. Though Edmund could easily afford another necklace, this heirloom held deep sentimental value—it had been in his family for generations.
Before Charles arrived, Edmund had sought help from the guild in the capital city. He had hesitated to trust anyone in the village itself because an increasing number of villagers were dying mysteriously. Fearing thieves who might exploit the chaos, he opted to hire an investigator from the guild rather than rely on locals. The guild staff recommended an exceptional detective: Charles Ravencroft, known to have solved numerous perplexing cases.
Edmund initially questioned why someone of Charles's caliber would be assigned to a mere case of a lost necklace. The receptionist at the guild had explained that most other members were already busy, and Charles happened to be in the guild at that moment, so she introduced him.
Desperate to retrieve the necklace quickly, Edmund agreed and met Charles, a brown-haired man who had been quietly reading a job notice board. Edmund, still skeptical of the young detective—who looked barely older than twenty—decided to trust the guild's recommendation. In the end, they signed a contract with a fee of eighty crusédo, roughly equivalent to a couple of months' wages for a typical farmer, plus coverage for food, lodging, and necessary travel expenses. Charles accepted without hesitation, and they both set out for the village. Edmund remained uncertain if the young man was genuinely as skilled as people claimed.
His doubts vanished when Charles located the missing heirloom in short order. Thieves had taken advantage of the ongoing turmoil to steal it. In the end, Charles handled them decisively, delivered the culprits to the authorities, and returned the necklace to Edmund.
Yet, in the course of his investigation, Charles discovered a chilling puzzle about the series of mysterious deaths in the village—an enigma that gripped his curiosity. Determined to uncover the truth behind these grim events, he decided to stay.
Most of the casualties were farmers. Shortly before dying, they had exhibited signs of madness: seizures, convulsions, burning pains throughout their bodies. Over time, anyone experiencing those symptoms would waste away and perish, their skin pale and their fingertips and toes darkened, almost black, as though scorched by fire. Terrified villagers believed it the work of witches or vengeful spirits.
In the midst of this sorrowful funeral, as the last coffin was being lowered into the grave, a bizarre sound echoed from within—like someone knocking from inside the coffin. The startled pallbearers dropped the coffin in alarm, sending it crashing to the bottom of the pit with a thud that knocked the lid open. The corpse rolled out onto the ground, causing everyone—even the deceased's own relatives—to flee in sheer panic. Those who remained froze in horror, keeping their distance. Some trembled, goosebumps rising on their skin.
Terror filled the ceremony. It was eerily silent as the villagers circled around the body, each unwilling to go near it. Above them, dark clouds still blocked the sun, further deepening the chilling mood.
Suddenly, a young man's shout rang out, cutting through the tense quiet.
"Something terrible has happened! Another body has been found!"
He barreled into the cemetery, arms waving frantically. People gaped, fear mounting. Some whispered questions, others stood frozen in confusion.
"Another death? Who is it?" Edmund burst out.
"I—I don't know. The body was in such a horrifying state I couldn't look too closely. I just ran here for help!" the young man stammered, panting heavily, beads of sweat dripping down despite the cold weather.
"Where did you find it?" Charles asked in a sharp tone.
"In the woods just north of the village," the young man said, pointing toward the dense forest looming darkly in that direction.
Charles nodded and moved to lead the way but halted—he realized he had no idea how to navigate these woods or where exactly the body lay. He turned to the messenger. "I'll need someone to guide me."
The man raised his hand. "This way."
The villagers hurried after them, their footsteps hindered by the slick, muddy ground. Mud clung to their shoes, sucking at each footstep like it wanted to pull them deeper. Gnarled branches and broken limbs littered the path, torn down by wind and softened by the rain.
At the edge of the forest, they found city guards and a group of able-bodied men already waiting. Being only a small village, it lacked a sizable permanent guard, so local volunteers often had to lend a hand whenever danger arose.
They ventured into the dense, mist-shrouded woods. The only sounds were the soft snap of twigs and soggy leaves beneath their feet, while everyone remained on edge, dreading whatever they might find. Charles could feel his heart pounding.
They stopped at the base of a large tree. The guide froze in mid-step, terror apparent on his face as he stared past the trunk, swallowing hard before pointing a trembling finger. When the others looked where he indicated, gasps and cries of alarm erupted.
Before them lay the mangled body of a man, half-submerged in a pool of blood. Three wild wolves had been gnawing at the corpse. The city guards swiftly drew their pistols and fired a few shots to scare off the animals, which fled in different directions. Then the guards cautiously approached the remains, reloading their weapons and scanning the area for further threats.
It was a gruesome sight. The victim's clothes were torn, soaked in blood, and his limbs twisted unnaturally. The side of his abdomen had been chewed through, exposing the viscera, although the wolves appeared to have arrived not long ago. Still, there were other ominous signs—similar to the other mysterious deaths: the man's skin was ghostly pale, and the fingertips and toes had dark, almost black discoloration, as if burned.
Shaken by the horror, the villagers began muttering theories. Some insisted witches had cursed the village, pointing to the blackened fingers and toes. The uproar threatened to spiral until the guards intervened.
Then Edmund suddenly exclaimed, "Th–Thomas?!"
At the mention of that name, Charles turned to him. "Who is he?"
"He was the son of a friend I served with in the past. Thomas Wright. The boy had a habit of borrowing money and gambling it away. He rarely repaid his debts, so nobody cared much for him," Edmund explained with a heavy sigh and shook his head.
Charles acknowledged the information but asked nothing further.
Working together, everyone carried the grisly remains back to the village. They placed the body in the temple to await examination by a medical specialist arriving from the city the next day—nobody here had any forensic expertise.
On the way back, Charles overheard the anxious murmurs of the villagers:
"Another one… That's four now."
"It must be a curse on our village."
"Shh! Don't say it so loud. What if a witch is eavesdropping?"
Their fearful whispers set Charles's mind racing. He had no idea yet what strange nightmare he was unraveling, but it seemed there were many layers of mystery waiting to be peeled away.
That night, Charles had to ask Edmund if he could continue staying at his home for a while to make further inquiries. Edmund lived there with his young son in a simple single-story house, his wife having passed away long ago. Over dinner, Charles apologized for the inconvenience, explaining that he needed to remain in order to investigate the inexplicable deaths. Edmund did not mind, grateful as he was for getting his family heirloom back.
They dined on spiced roast chicken and green vegetable soup by candlelight in a small dining area for guests. Charles and Edmund sat across from each other, both preoccupied with the day's events.
During the meal, Charles brought up Thomas. "Edmund, there's something I want to discuss. You seemed to know that man who died in the forest."
Edmund froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his open mouth. He glanced at his son before turning back to Charles. "May we talk about this after we finish eating?"
Realizing the child was present and that he had chosen a poor moment, Charles offered a brief apology.
After dinner, they moved to the sitting room. The only light came from a single candle flickering on the table, and the sound of rain drummed steadily outside.
"So," Charles said directly, "Thomas Wright—how well did you know him?"
"I've known him for years. As I said, he was my old comrade's son, but we grew distant after he started getting into trouble," Edmund answered with a resigned sigh.
"You mentioned he borrowed money. Did he ever borrow from you?"
"Yes, once. He asked for a hundred crusédo, claiming it was for an investment. Later, I found out he'd gambled it all away. When I tried to get my money back, he cursed me out and threatened violence if I kept pushing the issue. That was the last time I ever spoke with him."
"So he racked up a lot of debts, then?" Charles probed.
"As far as I can recall, he owed nearly everyone he knew. And he never repaid a coin. He probably owed the largest sum to Reginald Vineyard, the fiancé of our late headman's former wife."
"I see," Charles murmured, eyes drifting in thought.
Edmund looked at him curiously. "Why do you ask these things?"
Charles met his gaze. "Because I want to know why Thomas ended up in the forest and how he came to such a terrible end."
"Hmm… I have no idea. I haven't spoken to him in so long. Maybe he was doing something shady and then got cursed by a forest-dwelling witch. That's what people are saying, anyway."
Charles arched an eyebrow. "Do you really believe in witches and curses?"
"I never used to," Edmund admitted. "But after seeing these bizarre deaths up close, I'm starting to think there may be something to it."
He folded his arms, exhaling heavily, and stared out into the night as if searching for answers in the darkness.
"When the physician from the capital arrives tomorrow," Charles said resolutely, "we'll hopefully know what's really going on here."
"Let's hope so…" Edmund replied softly. He forced a faint smile, though his eyes still betrayed dread of what might come.
All Charles could do was hope that once the doctor arrived, the truth behind the grim phenomenon plaguing this little village would finally come to light.