Under the hood of midnight, the scene at Rave U’s edge was chaos—smoke thickening, air simmering with the sharp tang of metal and blood. Word had flown fast: a high-stakes convoy was rolling out, supposedly carrying something rare, something dangerous. The kind of haul no thief in their right mind would ignore, and The Black Arrows—a gang with a reputation for leaving nothing but bodies behind—was ready to take a crack at it.
They tracked that convoy to a grim, fenced-in disposal yard on the outskirts. The whole place stank of secrets, guards at every corner, floodlights scanning the scene like the eye of some mechanical beast. The Black Arrows saw it and knew—whatever lay hidden was as valuable as gold, maybe more. They were armed, mean, and all-in. The lead banger spat, cocking his shotgun. "*Hand it over, or we’ll rip it out of your bones!*"
But before any hands could go up, someone’s finger slipped. A single round flew wide, sparking off one of the containers. And with that single shot, fate cracked open.
The bullet struck, and a dark hiss filled the air, like a sleeping beast disturbed. The container buckled, and something thick and unnatural began to leak from its seams, a midnight mist creeping out, cold and inky, swallowing the light around it. The Arrows backed up, guns raised, but the fog didn’t care. It moved like it was alive.
The cargo wasn’t gold, drugs, or cash—it was *The Evanescent Field*, a dark, toxic byproduct from the raw energy harvested out of Adrian’s ancient dungeon core. Power like that, a dark essence stripped from old magic, left a residue beyond control. Contained, it had potential; unleashed, it was deadly. And that’s just what happened—a careless bullet set it free.
The Black Arrows had no chance. The mist rose, thick and sticky, snaking toward them. They tried to run, only to find it curling around their ankles, sinking into their skin like oil, drinking them in like a parasite. It poured over them, inch by inch, until they felt it deep in their bones, corrupting their very bodies. Flesh grew dark and slick, eyes glassed over, each one hollowing out, melting into the black. It wasn’t quick; it was agonizing. Screams echoed through the night as they clawed at themselves, trying to pull free, but the mist swallowed them whole, leaving nothing but shadows in their place.
But the mist didn’t just eat flesh. It devoured spirit, feeding on malice, anger, greed—every ounce of violent intention it could absorb. The dark fog thickened, fueled by their hate, binding together the shattered souls of the Arrows and merging them with the twisted essence of the Evanescent Field. Imps from the nether realms caught the scent, drawn to the darkness like moths to flame. They appeared from nowhere—vicious little devils with horns and claws—and were immediately swallowed by the mist. They, too, fed the hungry fog.
And as the fog grew denser, thicker, it hit a critical point. The energy turned inward, compressing in a raw, violent wave that felt like it was about to tear reality itself. When it finally exploded, the result was an implosion that ripped a crater into the earth, the whole yard collapsing like a sinkhole. But as the dust cleared, something else crawled out of the dark pit left behind.
What emerged weren’t men; they were Cambions—part human, part demon, their glossy black skin gleaming like obsidian in the moonlight, dark energy pulsing just beneath their flesh. Their eyes burned cold, piercing as starlight, and they looked upon the world with the hunger of creatures who had been reborn in hate. Each Cambion carried remnants of who they had been, their memories hazy and fractured, like dreams half-remembered. But there was one thing they all shared now: power. Raw, dark, and unending, a strength that turned their insides electric with hunger.
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The energy twisted their very essence, each Cambion standing as a living conduit of the Evanescent Field. They weren’t merely drawing people in; they were predators, parasites feeding on the living essence of those around them. They didn’t speak to lure others in—they whispered in minds, sending telepathic tendrils that slithered through thoughts. It started with promises of power, visions of vengeance, the solution to every problem you thought couldn’t be solved.
The whispers spread through the streets, insidious as dark magic. Local thugs, down-and-out gamblers, troubled students from Rave U, and people barely holding on to sanity found themselves caught in a spell. At first, they resisted, brushing off the visions, but the whispers dug deeper, gnawing into their minds and igniting desires long buried. Each step toward Area Zero felt like a relief, the dark haze promising solace and strength to anyone willing to reach out.
The unlucky souls who entered didn’t just find eerie silence—they felt their very essence being siphoned off, drawn into a hungry void. Some barely made it through the borders, coughing up dark wisps as they staggered out, glassy-eyed and drained, their minds shattered beyond repair. Most, however, never emerged. Each soul consumed added to the Cambions’ power, amplifying the influence of Area Zero until the cursed ground seemed to pulse with life, spreading its reach like veins stretching across the city’s heart.
Even beyond the borders, whispers continued to creep through minds, spreading like wildfire. With each passing night, Area Zero grew. Veins of dark fog snaked through alleys, tendrils stretching, embedding themselves in buildings, and consuming small pockets of life in Ravetham. The borders were meaningless—the mist found ways through cracks, doors, even drifting through windows, seeking new prey, slowly transforming entire blocks into dark, haunted landscapes.
Word traveled fast to Don Cappo, the mayor of Ravetham. A kobold well-versed in the city’s underbelly, Cappo was a calculating and quick-witted leader who’d kept Ravetham’s chaos in check for years. He understood the gravity of this threat, but he also knew a public response was needed if he was to keep the city from devolving into panic. On the morning after the fog’s eruption, he called a city-wide address from his podium outside the town hall, his face a mask of grim determination as news cameras clicked and whirred.
“People of Ravetham,” he began, voice resonant and sharp. “Our city stands on the edge of something dark—an infestation has claimed the area now known as Area Zero. It is a place of horror, a place none of you should approach.” Cappo’s sharp eyes scanned the crowd, each word striking like a blow. “Let me be clear: Area Zero is quarantined. Any trespassing will result in immediate, decisive action. This is not a test of courage but a survival measure.”
He took a breath, weighing his words, knowing well the influence he needed to wield. “The President, Kaelen Valrath, is aware of this threat and is already working alongside local law enforcement and magical containment specialists to control its spread.” He nodded, giving a reassuring look. “This is not the first time we’ve faced dark forces, and it will not be the last. But you, the people of Ravetham, are resilient. Trust in the strength of our city, our people, and our leadership.”
With a final glare toward the cameras, Don Cappo stepped down, the severity of his warning leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.