The shadow army, with vengeance seething within them, scoured the darkened forest, their forms blending seamlessly with the shadows of the trees. Around gnarled trunks and through hidden caves, they searched relentlessly for the perpetrators—the ones who caused their master such unbearable grief. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath as they moved, a silent storm of rage and power.

They were not alone in their anger. Nyx’s sorrow echoed through their bond, sharpening their focus. Her pain was theirs, and they sought nothing less than total retribution.

Among the towering pines, the shadow goblins hissed and pointed toward a faint flicker of firelight. They crept closer, staying out of sight, their silver eyes glowing faintly in the dim. After some time, they found them—a group of 25 bandits seated around a roaring fire. Their laughter and boasting rang through the night, their voices filled with mockery and pride as they admired the treasures they had stolen from the village.

“Look at all this,” one bandit said, holding up a gilded chalice. “And those cowards couldn’t even fight back.”

Another cackled, kicking over a sack of jewelry and coins. “That church put up a little resistance, but nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Len and Ryu exchanged a glance, their silver forms shimmering with anticipation. Without a word, Len reached out to the shadows around the bandits and relayed the information back to Nyx.

Nyx felt the message like a pulse in her mind. The shadows had found them. She stopped mid-step, her breath catching. For a moment, she stood frozen, her fists trembling by her sides. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest, a mix of sorrow and fury welling up in her throat.

“Uriel,” she whispered, her voice cold and deliberate. “Where?”

“They are southeast of your current position,” Uriel replied calmly. “Shall I prepare a strategy?”

Nyx’s lips curved into a cold smile. “No need. I’ll handle this myself.”

She teleported closer to the bandit camp, her silver hair gleaming faintly under the moonlight. Hidden in the shadows just beyond the clearing, she took a moment to observe them. Her gaze burned as she watched them laugh over the stolen treasures, her mind replaying the cries of her village.

The bandits, still engrossed in their jollity, froze as they noticed a figure approaching. At first, it seemed insignificant—a small silhouette in the darkness. But as the figure came closer, a chilling stillness settled over their camp. The air grew unnaturally cold, and the jovial laughter faded into silence.

The leader of the bandits, a tall man with a muscular frame draped in a tattered fur coat, narrowed his eyes. His scarred face twisted into a smirk as he turned to his second-in-command, a wiry man with a missing tooth and a constant sneer.

“Who’s this little thing, eh?” the leader said, his voice a mix of mockery and curiosity.

The second-in-command squinted at the figure, leaning on his chipped broadsword. “Looks like a kid,” he muttered. “Maybe someone left behind. Shouldn’t be hard to deal with.”

The leader gave a lazy nod. “Go on, check it out.”

The wiry man shrugged, moving forward with a saunter. His confidence oozed with every step as he approached the figure, who had now stopped just outside the firelight.

Nyx stood there, her silver hair catching faint flickers of the fire’s glow. Her dark veil obscured her eyes, but the faint streaks of tears running down her cheeks glistened in the light.

“What’s this?” the second-in-command sneered, circling her like a predator toying with its prey. “A little lost lamb?” He chuckled, glancing back at the camp. “Hey, boss, it’s just some crying kid!”

Nyx’s voice was quiet, almost inaudible. “Why did you do it?”

“What was that?” the man taunted, leaning closer. “Speak up, girl!”

Nyx repeated, her voice trembling but clear this time. “Why did you kill them?”

The bandit leader, still lounging near the fire, barked a laugh. “Why? Because we could. Because they were weak. And you know what happens to the weak?” He leaned forward, his grin spreading into a menacing sneer. “They get crushed.”

The bandits erupted into laughter, their cruel jeers filling the night air.

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Nyx’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. The tears on her cheeks seemed to evaporate as her body stiffened with quiet rage.

“Aw, don’t cry now, little one,” the second-in-command said mockingly. “Here for revenge? That it?” He reached out, grabbing her by the shoulder.

Nyx didn’t flinch. Her voice dropped to a low murmur. “Uriel…”

“Say no more,” Uriel’s calm, steely voice echoed in her mind.

In an instant, the man’s head flew from his shoulders, landing with a sickening thud at the leader’s feet. Blood sprayed in an arc, painting the dirt crimson.

The bandit leader shot to his feet, his expression twisting into shock and fury. “What the—?!”

Uriel’s voice, steady and cold, echoed in Nyx’s mind.

Nyx, now under Uriel’s control, raised her hand. Her voice was low and emotionless.

“Come forth.”

The shadows surged forward like a tidal wave, swallowing the bandit camp in darkness. Tendrils of black and silver smoke spiraled out, solidifying into monstrous shapes. The shadow army attacked without hesitation, their glowing eyes burning with vengeance for their master’s pain.

The once-boisterous bandits now screamed in terror.

“What the hell are these things?!” one of them shouted, swinging wildly at a shadow soldier. His blade passed through the smoky figure, only for another to appear behind him, a shadowy dagger plunging into his back.

“Fight back, you cowards!” the leader roared, but his voice wavered as he watched his men fall one by one.

Swords, knives, and daggers clashed in a cacophony of chaos. The shadow soldiers were relentless, their movements swift and precise, cutting down the bandits with eerie efficiency. Blood splattered across the camp, staining the ground and pooling beneath lifeless bodies.

The shadows took no prisoners, ensuring each death was as brutal as the destruction they had caused in the village. The bandits’ screams echoed into the night, their once-mocking laughter replaced by cries of agony and desperation.

Amid the carnage, the leader clutched his weapon tightly, his knuckles white as he stared down Nyx.

“You think your little tricks will scare me?” he spat, though the trembling in his voice betrayed him.

Nyx didn’t respond. Her amethyst eyes glowed faintly beneath her dark veil, her silence more terrifying than any words could be.

Within moments, the camp was quiet. The ground was littered with bodies, and the acrid stench of blood hung thick in the air. The shadows stood still, their forms barely flickering as they awaited their next command.

The leader, now the last man standing, stumbled backward. His chest heaved with labored breaths, his weapon trembling in his hand.

“What… what are you?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Nyx stepped closer, her shadowed form cutting through the haze of smoke and blood. In a blur of motion, her blade flashed, severing his arm at the elbow.

The man screamed, clutching the stump where his arm had been. Blood gushed onto the ground as he fell to his knees.

“You… you can’t kill me!” he snarled through gritted teeth. “I’m not going to die at the hands of some… little girl!”

Nyx said nothing, her silence cold and suffocating. She stepped forward, her blade dripping with his blood.

The man lunged at her with his remaining arm, but she moved faster. In one fluid motion, she severed his other arm, sending him sprawling onto the blood-soaked ground.

Now hopeless, the man knelt before her. His body trembled, and his face contorted in pain and disbelief.

He looked up at her, his voice breaking. “I… I guess this is the end, huh?”

Nyx stared down at him, her expression unreadable. She raised her blade, her voice cold and devoid of emotion.

“This is justice.”

With a swift motion, her blade struck true. His head fell to the ground, rolling to a stop near the feet of a shadow soldier. The leader’s lifeless body slumped forward, joining the rest of his men in death.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One Month Later

Whispers spread across the continent, carried by travelers and traders who spoke in hushed tones about the village’s destruction. It was tragic, they said. No bodies were left in sight when others came to investigate, only rumors of what had happened.

But those who searched further found something else. On the outskirts of the forest, near the shattered remnants of the village, there was a quiet, unmarked graveyard. Freshly turned earth covered hundreds of bodies, each grave adorned with flowers of all kinds. Delicate white lilies, vibrant marigolds, and tiny forget-me-nots bloomed despite the cold season, their presence almost unnatural.

Whoever had done it, the people whispered, had taken great care to honor the fallen.

But that wasn’t all they talked about.

In the forest clearing not far from the village, the bandits who had caused the massacre met a brutal end. Their heads were displayed on tall wooden spikes, blood still staining the earth below. Each spike was inscribed with glowing, jagged runes—symbols of justice, vengeance, or perhaps something darker. The runes shimmered faintly, their eerie light visible even from a distance, as if imbued with a lingering energy.

Some travelers swore they heard faint whispers when they passed the clearing, though no one dared linger long enough to understand the words.

The sight terrified even the bravest hunters and mercenaries who heard about it. Many refused to go near the area, speaking of curses and dark sorcery. Kings, Nobles and guild masters were shaken. The tales painted a picture of a shadowy, rogue sorcerer or a forgotten constellation exacting vengeance.

The whispers soon reached the ears of nobles and kings. The tragedy of the village was one thing, but the massacre of the bandits was another. The brutality, the runes, the unexplainable energy—this was no ordinary act of vengeance.

A warrant was issued across the kingdoms. Whoever was responsible for the massacre was to be captured and brought to justice. Some called for imprisonment. Others demanded execution.

But there were those who believed the perpetrator wasn’t an enemy, but a vigilante. A savior.

In quiet corners of taverns, whispered theories spread.

“A monster couldn’t have done it. It was too precise.”

“Whoever buried those villagers… they cared for them. This wasn’t random.”

“But the bandits? Their deaths were brutal. This wasn’t justice. It was vengeance.”

The stories grew wilder with each telling. A rogue constellation, a dark sorcerer, a fallen hero seeking revenge. But no one could agree on the truth.