Edmund's face was grim, each step burning his lungs.

He tried to shake the fatigue weighing down his limbs, but it was relentless.

Open wounds stretched across his chest, blood oozing steadily as he clutched at his chest armor, attempting to slow the flow.

Blood and sweat stung his eyes as he forced himself to look away from the decaying bodies of the Undying scattered in pieces around him.

Their twisted forms lay motionless, but the words of the creature he had slain echoed in his mind.

“So...passes the last...light of...a dying...world.”

The words haunted him, feeling less like a threat and more like a prophecy, filling him with a deep unease.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to his feet, every muscle protesting in agony.

With a trembling step, he made his way toward the pile of dust and ragged clothes of Malachai.

A part of him wished to believe that killing Malachai would stop the spread of the plague, that somehow it would be enough to save the people.

But he knew, deep down, that his journey was only the beginning.

As he turned to assess the battlefield, a rustling sounded from the undergrowth, freezing him in place.

A low growl pierced the silence, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Slowly, he turned, gripping his greatsword with renewed focus.

But instead of another monster, a lone wolf emerged from the shadows, its silver fur gleaming in the moonlight.

The animal’s gaze was calm, studying him with an intelligence that felt almost human.

It tilted its head slightly, then vanished back into the forest, leaving Edmund breathless with relief.

He watched the wolf go, something about its presence filling him with awe.

Swallowing his anxiety, he clenched his shoulder, where pain radiated from his wounds.

He forced himself onward, one step at a time, knowing he had to reach the nearby village by dawn.

His body was on the verge of collapse, his blood loss sapping his strength with each passing moment, but he pressed forward.

The journey was grueling.

Every step sent jolts of pain through his battered body, he clenched his teeth and pushed on.

In the distance, he could see a faint glow—the light in the village flickering as the sun hid slowly.

His heart lifted with hope, as he quickened his pace, enduring the pain with every hurried step.

When he finally entered the village, an eerie silence loomed.

Once, this place had been filled with life, the sounds of laughter and children’s voices echoing between the homes.

Now, it was quiet, dark, and abandoned.

Edmund could feel the lingering fear, the desperation that had driven the villagers to flee, leaving only emptiness.

As he neared the village square, a shadowed figure emerged from the darkness, cloaked and hooded.

Edmund’s hand instinctively moved to his greatsword, but he stopped short as the figure raised a lantern, casting light over a familiar face beneath the hood.

"Edmund,"

said Bertrand, his voice heavy with relief and worry.

Lines of exhaustion etched his face, but there was a spark of hope in his eyes as he took in Edmund’s battered form.

"What happened to you?"

Bertrand’s gaze traveled over the blood-streaked armor, his worry deepening.

Without another word, he moved to support Edmund, grabbing his arm to help him stay upright.

"Here, let me help you,"

Bertrand insisted, guiding him carefully toward a nearby house that still stood intact.

Edmund’s vision began to blur as they reached the door, his strength fading rapidly.

Bertrand managed to open the door just as Edmund lost consciousness, slumping into Bertrand’s arms.

“Edmund!”

Bertrand cried, struggling to hold him as they stumbled into the safety of the house.

Days passed in darkness.

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It wasn’t until three days later that he finally opened his eyes, blinking against the dim light filtering through the window.

As his vision cleared, he took in his surroundings—he was lying in a bed, his body covered in bandages.

The faint, earthy scent of herbs lingered in the air.

Beside him, Bertrand sits, watching with a mix of relief and exhaustion.

He placed a cup of tea on a small table near the bed.

“This will help with your recovery. Your wounds are still fresh, so take it slow,”

he said, his voice gentle yet firm.

Edmund reached for the tea, the simple action reminding him of his injuries.

He sipped it slowly, feeling its warmth spread through him, soothing his sore throat.

He glanced down at his body, bandaged and weakened, painfully aware of how far he was from being able to wield his sword at the moment.

“What happened to the people?” Edmund’s voice was rough and weary. “Are you alone? Where are the other villagers?”

A shadow crossed Bertrand’s face.

“They’re gone, Edmund. They fled as soon as news of the plague reached them. I did what I could—warned everyone to leave while there was still time. I left the city myself and tried to reach as many villages as I could, telling them to go.”

Edmund nodded slowly, struggling to absorb the weights.

He’d seen the damage, but hearing Bertrand’s words made it real.

The plague’s reach was relentless, villages lives uprooted.

Even the strongest had fled, leaving homes abandoned to the horrors that hunted the land.

“I’m surprised you stayed, Bertrand,”

Edmund said quietly.

“Not many would, especially with the Undying so close.”

Bertrand gave a faint, weary smile.

“Faith doesn’t allow for hesitation, Edmund. There’s still work to be done in this world, even if it’s surrounded by shadows.”

His gaze softened.

“And besides, someone has to stay, to help whoever’s left.”

A surge of gratitude and regret welled up in Edmund’s chest.

Bertrand had been more than a friend, more than a priest.

They had grown up together; though Bertrand wore the robes of the priesthood, he was like a brother.

Now, Bertrand was one of the last ties Edmund had to the world as it had been before everything changed.

“What happened to the church before you left the city?”

Bertrand’s expression darkened, his eyes hardening.

“They knew about the plague long before they told anyone. They covered it up to avoid panic, worried that if word got out, it would lead to riots and chaos. Instead of helping, they secluded themselves.”

His voice held a bitter edge.

Edmund felt anger in Bertrand’s words. The church, the institution that was supposed to protect, had abandoned the people.

“After I learned the truth, I did what I could. I got the information out to the clans, the guilds—anyone who could prepare. But against this plague, and the ravenous creatures it brings with it… there’s little anyone can do. In the end, I had to flee, too, without looking back.”

Edmund nodded in silent understanding.

The plague wasn’t a mere sickness; it was a consuming darkness, something that left not just death but devastation.

Entire towns have vanished in days.

But the church, hiding in its walls, had chosen safety, even as the world crumbled around them.

He took a breath, as though trying to steady himself against the weight of what he’d learned.

“And what about the plague itself?”

he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Bertrand’s face grew grim, his shoulders slumping.

“It spreads faster than anything we could have expected. Whole villages emptied within days, towns overrun by those who’ve… turned. The plague… it doesn’t just kill. It consumes. And then, well…”

He trailed off, but Edmund didn’t need to hear the rest.

He had seen the hollow-eyed husks, the Undying, who walked mindlessly.

“But,”

Bertrand continued, a flicker of hope lifting his face,

“there’s a rumor. A sanctuary in the north. They say the monks of the Shadowed Vale know something about the origins of the curse—the plague. Maybe there’s something there that could help.”

The word “hope” felt foreign to Edmund, almost laughable after all he had seen.

Yet, as Bertrand spoke, he found himself wanting to believe. If there was even a sliver of truth in the rumor, it might be enough to turn the tide.

“Then I have to go,”

Edmund said, setting the cup aside. The words felt solid, unshakable, and the weight of the decision settled over him like armor.

Bertrand shook his head slowly, his expression filled with concern.

“You’ll go when you’re ready, Edmund. Your body may heal, but the wounds go deeper. You carry burdens beyond these scars.”

Edmund wanted to argue, to insist he was ready, but Bertrand’s words hit close to the truth.

He had borne too much loss, seen too many deaths. Deep down, he knew he wasn’t whole. He would never be whole, not truly. But he couldn’t just sit idle.

“I’ll leave you to rest,”

Bertrand said, rising to his feet. “Remember—rest is part of the journey, too.”

As the door clicked shut behind Bertrand, Edmund’s mind drifted back to the lone wolf he’d seen in the forest, its silver fur gleaming in the moonlight.

It had been unafraid, watching him with eyes that seemed to understand.

He wondered if, like him, it was also searching for something in the shadows.

When he awoke hours later, his body felt lighter, though the ache of his wounds remained.

Slowly, he dressed.

Edmund examined his battered armor, his fingers tracing over deep dents and the unmistakable claw marks that scored the metal.

It was clear that it couldn’t protect him any longer—it was a miracle it had held up at all.

With a sigh, he scratched his head, wondering how he’d face whatever lay ahead with no proper armor.

Bertrand approached, holding a lighter set of armor, its leather and metalwork gleaming faintly in the dim light.

“This should help,” Bertrand said, offering it to Edmund. “I found it in the blacksmith’s workshop. Belong to him, or at least someone in the village.”

Edmund took the armor, running his hand over the lighter plating, appreciating how it felt both sturdy and flexible. It wasn’t like his own, but it would do.

“I saw what shape your armor was in,”

Bertrand added.

“I had to find you something usable. Those claw marks… Edmund, what did you fight? It looked like you faced a monster.”

Edmund’s face darkened. He swallowed, as though forcing himself to relive it.

“I fought something beyond anything I’ve seen. One of the Apostles, they called him, a follower of some dark god. I don’t know all the details, but I think this creature—and maybe the plague itself—was made intentionally, like someone’s experiment went horribly wrong. When I faced him, he looked like an Undying, but much bigger and stronger. His speed… I barely kept up. It’s a miracle I’m alive.”

A shiver ran through him as he remembered the fight—the Apostle’s twisted, monstrous form, its piercing eyes filled with rage and something even darker. That night had nearly been his last.

Bertrand listened, his brow furrowing as he absorbed the story.

“An Apostle… of a dark god? That means sorcery—or maybe some dark alchemy.”

He looked troubled, lost in thought, as he considered this new, troubling information.

“If someone or something is creating these creatures and spreading this plague, then this is no ordinary curse. I’ll look into it more, find out what I can. But you—you need to go north. See if the monks of Shadowed Vale can tell you anything more.”

“There’s no time to waste,” Edmund replied, fastening the satchel to his side and giving Bertrand a grateful nod.

Bertrand placed a firm hand on Edmund’s shoulder, his gaze intense. “Go with the gods, Edmund. And remember—you carry the light of those who came before.”

Edmund nodded, feeling the weight of the blessing and the hope Bertrand placed in him. He pulled the lighter armor on, Greatsword hanging on his back, fastening the last of the buckles.

With one last look at Bertrand, he turned and stepped out, his mind already fixed on the journey north.