The first light of dawn painted the horizon in hues of pink and gold as Stonebridge stirred awake. A group of ten men stood at the edge of the village, their breaths visible in the crisp morning air. They carried an assortment of weapons—bows, spears, swords, and shields—most of which were more suited to hunting than warfare. Among them stood Eamon, his expression a mix of determination and anxiety.

Nearby, his mother Elara knelt before him, adjusting the clasp of his cloak with hands that trembled ever so slightly. Her eyes, filled with worry, searched his face as if trying to memorize every detail.

"Be careful out there," she whispered. "Stay close to your father and do as he says."

"I will, Mother," Eamon assured her, placing his hand over hers.

Garret, his father, approached and tried to lighten the mood. "Don't fret, Elara. I'll keep an eye on him. Besides, we're just going to poke around some old ruins. What could possibly happen?"

Elara shot him a glare so intense that it momentarily silenced the group. Eamon half-expected sparks to fly from her eyes and set his father alight. The other men shifted uncomfortably, casting sidelong glances at one another.

"Just bring him back safe," she said firmly.

Garret nodded solemnly. "You have my word."

Old Merrick stepped forward, his staff in hand. "Time to depart. The day's not getting any younger."

With final farewells and a chorus of "Take care" from the gathered villagers, the expedition set off toward DartRidge—the lost village.

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The journey was uneventful, the path winding through dense forests and over gentle hills. Stonebridge was as isolated as a place could be, tucked away on one of the Fringe Isles far from the mainland and perilously close to the Wasteland of Shards. The land was modest, lacking in valuable resources, which meant few outsiders ventured this far. Occasionally, they might encounter a wandering trader or someone seeking refuge from troubles elsewhere, but such occurrences were rare.

The men traveled light, carrying only essentials. They camped under the stars, sharing stories around the fire to pass the time. Eamon found himself walking alongside Tomas's father, Edgar, who regaled him with tales of his youth.

"You know," Edgar said, poking at the campfire with a stick, "they say DartRidge was once a thriving place. Traders from the mainland would come through, bringing goods and news."

"What happened to it?" Eamon asked.

Edgar shrugged. "No one knows for certain. Like Merrick said, all we know is that they vanished."

Eamon glanced at Merrick, who was seated a short distance away, gazing into the flames with a thoughtful expression. The elder had been quiet for most of the journey.

"Best get some rest," Garret advised, clapping a hand on Eamon's shoulder. "We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

Eamon nodded and settled into his bedroll, the murmurs of conversation fading as sleep claimed him.

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On the second day, they reached Dartridge just as the sun began its descent. The village was a ghost of its former self, with dilapidated buildings standing like skeletal remains against the darkening sky. Overgrown weeds and vines choked the pathways, and the air was thick with the scent of decay.

"This place gives me the creeps," muttered one of the men, clutching his spear a little tighter.

"Stay alert," Merrick cautioned. "We don’t know what we might find here."

As the group cautiously entered the village, a palpable tension settled over them. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of old wood or the rustle of leaves stirred by the wind.

Eamon felt a strange sensation prickling at the back of his neck. Activating his Arcane Sense, he reached out with his newfound abilities. Immediately, an unsettling energy washed over him—a faint but pervasive aura that seemed to emanate from all around.

"Something’s not right here," he whispered to himself.

While the others began to methodically search the abandoned houses, Eamon felt drawn toward the edge of the village. The pull of the strange energy was stronger there, tugging at his senses like an insistent whisper.

"Father," he called out.

Garret approached, concern etched on his face. "What is it, son?"

Eamon pointed toward a cluster of trees near the outskirts. "There’s... something over there. I can feel it."

Garret frowned but trusted his son’s instincts. "Alright. Lead the way."

They made their way to the spot, and Eamon stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed on the ground. "Here."

The soil looked undisturbed at first glance, but there was a subtle unevenness, as if the earth had been hastily replaced.

"Help me dig," Eamon urged.

Without questioning further, Garret and a few others joined in, using their hands and tools to claw at the dirt. As they dug deeper, a chilling discovery emerged: bones—human bones—layer upon layer of them.

A collective gasp rose from the group.

"By the gods," one man whispered, stepping back.

"There are so many," Edgar said, his voice trembling.

The sight of the mass grave sent a wave of revulsion through the men. Some turned away, their faces pale, while others stared at the bones with a mix of shock and disgust.

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"What could have done this?" Garret wondered aloud, his face tight with horror.

"We should turn back," one of the men suggested, his voice shaky. "This place is cursed."

"We can’t leave now," another countered. "We have to know what happened here."

Merrick, his face grim, placed a hand on Eamon’s shoulder. "We’re here for answers. If we leave now, we may never know the truth."

The weight of their discovery hung over them, the air heavy with the stench of death and decay. Eamon felt bile rise in his throat as he stared at the remains of the villagers, his heart pounding in his chest. His Arcane Sense pulsed with the energy of the dead, and the unease gnawed at him like a living thing.

Before anyone could speculate, a low growl echoed from beyond the trees. The men snapped their heads up, weapons at the ready.

Emerging over the crest of a hill was a creature unlike anything they had ever seen. It stood on four muscular legs, its body covered in matted fur stained dark with what looked disturbingly like dried blood. Its eyes glowed a fierce crimson, and sharp fangs protruded from a snarling maw. Veins pulsed visibly beneath its skin, and as it moved, droplets of blood dripped from its claws, sizzling when they touched the ground.

"What in blazes is that?" Edgar exclaimed, fear edging his voice.

"Form up!" Merrick commanded. "Protect each other!"

The men moved instinctively, creating a defensive circle with shields raised and weapons pointed outward. Garret pushed Eamon behind him. "Stay back!"

The creature let out a deafening roar, the sound reverberating through the air. Without warning, it charged, moving with terrifying speed.

An arrow whizzed past Eamon's ear, striking the beast in the shoulder. It barely slowed, swiping at the nearest villager with a massive paw. The man flew backward, crashing into a crumbling wall.

"Hold your ground!" Merrick shouted.

Spears jabbed toward the creature, but it dodged effortlessly, its movements fluid and predatory. It lashed out again, claws tearing through a shield as if it were parchment.

Eamon’s heart raced in terror as he watched the beast tear through the group. What am I doing here? The fear rose in his throat like bile, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. The village’s best hunters—men he had grown up respecting—were falling like wheat before a scythe. I’m not ready for this. His mind screamed for him to run, but something inside—something far deeper—kept him rooted to the spot.

Garret swung his sword, managing to slice into the beast’s flank. It snarled, whipping around to face him. Before Garret could react, the creature struck, its claws raking across his chest. He stumbled back, blood staining his tunic.

"Father!" Eamon cried out.

Without thinking, he broke from the protective circle, rushing toward Garret.

"Eamon, no!" Merrick yelled, but it was too late.

Adrenaline surged through Eamon’s veins, and in that moment of desperation, everything seemed to slow. The mana pulsed around him, clearer than ever before. He could feel the weight of his father’s life hanging in the balance. There was no time for hesitation.

Instinctively, he drew upon the wind, activating WindStride and willing it to carry him forward, faster than he had ever moved before. But as he rushed toward the creature, the wind faltered. His control slipped, and for a terrifying moment, he stumbled. No, not now! His fear nearly consumed him, but he pushed through it, forcing the wind back under control.

He dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the creature’s snapping jaws. His father lay helpless, bleeding heavily, and the sight pushed him beyond his fear. I won’t let it end like this.

His eyes locked on the creature’s injured leg, the spear still embedded in its side. Without hesitating, Eamon drew his dagger, heart pounding. He called on the wind again, but this time not to move—it was different. He willed the wind to wrap around the blade, to sharpen its edge, to turn the simple dagger into something far deadlier. Please, let this work.

The blade shimmered faintly as the wind gathered around it, forming an invisible edge. With a roar of desperation, Eamon leaped toward the beast.

His dagger found its mark, plunging deep into the creature’s eye. It let out a blood-curdling howl, thrashing violently as dark ichor sprayed from the wound. Eamon yanked the blade free, landing unsteadily as the creature reeled back, blinded and disoriented.

The men around him stared in disbelief as the beast staggered, its strength draining rapidly. Finally, with a shuddering groan, it collapsed, its body twitching one last time before lying still.

Breathing heavily, Eamon stood over the lifeless creature, his hands trembling. The air around him was thick with tension and disbelief, but he couldn’t focus on any of it. His eyes locked onto his father, who lay bleeding nearby. Father.

As he rushed to Garret’s side, a small, glowing window appeared in the corner of his vision:

-----

New Skill Unlocked: Wind Blade (Active)

Coat your weapon in wind, sharpening the blade with a deadly edge. Wind Blade enhances slashes and thrusts with precision, making strikes faster and more lethal. Works best with melee weapons. Requires concentration to maintain, and prolonged use drains mana.

-----

But Eamon ignored the notification. His heart pounded with fear for his father’s life, his hands already moving to apply pressure to the wound. There was no time to celebrate or reflect—Garret needed help, and nothing else mattered right now.

"I'm fine," Garth insisted through gritted teeth, though pain etched lines around his eyes.

Merrick approached cautiously, eyeing the fallen creature. "Is it... dead?"

"I think so," Eamon replied, still catching his breath.

As he stepped back from his father, something caught his eye—a small glint near the beast's head. Kneeling down, he saw a tiny red stone rolling out from the wound where he'd stabbed it. It was similar in appearance to the golden stone he had found in the ruins but much smaller, no larger than a pebble.

He picked it up, feeling a faint warmth emanating from it. The stone pulsed gently, and he sensed a residual energy within.

"What is that?" Merrick asked, peering over his shoulder.

"I'm not sure," Eamon admitted. "It came from inside the creature."

"Careful with that," Garth cautioned. "We don't know what it might do."

Eamon nodded, slipping the stone into a pouch. "I'll handle it carefully."

The other men began to gather, tending to the injured. Two had suffered serious wounds, and one lay unmoving—life barely clinging to him.

"We need to leave," Edgar urged. "There could be more of those things."

Merrick agreed. "He's right. We're not equipped to deal with this."

"But what about the villagers who died here?" Eamon asked, gesturing toward the mass grave. "We can't just leave them like this."

Merrick placed a hand on his shoulder. "We will honor them, but first we must ensure the safety of our own people."

Reluctantly, Eamon conceded. "Alright."

They made preparations to depart, creating makeshift stretchers for the wounded. The mood was somber as they retraced their steps, the weight of their discovery heavy upon them.

As they moved away from DartRidge, Eamon couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched.

Unseen by the group, hidden among the twisted trees, a shadowy figure watched them in silence. It was the same creature that had emerged in the ruins, tasked with a singular purpose: retrieve the fragment. Its form was indistinct, cloaked in swirling darkness that blended seamlessly with the shadows of the forest. Crimson eyes burned with malevolent intent as it tracked the group’s every step.

The creature moved closer, intent on completing its task—but as it stepped forward, its body slammed into an invisible force. A hiss of pain escaped its lips as its blackened skin sizzled upon contact with the unseen barrier. The creature recoiled, pulling its hand back in frustration. It snarled, baring jagged teeth as smoke rose from the charred edges of its form.

The barrier. Even without the fragment powering it, the barrier held strong.

The creature prowled along the edge of the barrier, testing it in different places, but each time it tried to push forward, the same sizzling burn repelled it. It glared at Eamon and the group with furious red eyes, but it remained silent, unable to break through the protective magic that surrounded them.

After a few long moments, when the group had disappeared over the horizon, the creature straightened. Its body flickered like a shadow caught in the wind, and without a word, it turned and began retreating back toward the ruins.

The barrier wouldn’t hold forever and it would return.