The ground trembled in an incessant rhythm as the earth quivered under the warriors’ feet. Small pebbles danced desperately up and down as if trying to escape the raging battle. Yet the impenetrable fog, so dense that it swallowed even the moonlight, enveloped the scene like a dark cloak. It seemed alive, twisting and curling as if intent on swallowing anyone who crossed its path.

The vague outlines of the clearing emerged from the gray darkness like ghosts from bygone times. The air was filled with a mixture of earth, blood, and fear, hanging like a leaden blanket over the scene.

Among the scattered corpses of fallen soldiers lay a man in green leather armor, his face frozen in a silent scream of death. The armor, made from the magical leather of the Pelliplanta plant, was torn and pierced in several places. Despite his mortal wounds, he seemed to have fought until his last breath, an experienced warrior, older and wiser than most of his comrades.

This Pelliplanta armor was no ordinary armor. It was crafted from a rare indigenous plant that bestowed inexplicable vitality upon its wearers. They were the pride of the tribal warriors who fought relentlessly in the chaos of battle, yet now many of them lay here, their bravery and strength shattered by the enemy.

A dark shadow moved relentlessly forward, also clad in green leather armor that was now swallowed by the fog. It was the survivor, marked by loss and sorrow, who fought his way determinedly through the impenetrable mist. His movements were resolute, even though he no longer had legs below the knees. He crawled undeterred over the bodies of his fallen comrades, each sight weighing heavily on his heart as he saw their contorted faces, frozen in death yet reflecting the horrors of battle.

The attacking enemies, gleaming in their invincible armor, had rolled through his tribe’s ranks like a murderous storm. No warrior, no matter how strong and brave, could halt these human monsters. They fell in seconds, a destruction that the attackers efficiently exploited.

As he glanced through the towering trees, tall as the Silvarbor of the land, a fleeting hope stirred within him. These ancient trees promised protection from the threats of the heavens and also confined the dangers of the land.

Yet in a single devastating moment, his hope was shattered. Not by his wounds or the blood loss from his own wound, which left a red trail to his stumps, but by the deadly spear that suddenly pierced his already wounded heart.

The man in the iron armor stepped forward calmly, pulling the bloody spear from the fallen man’s back, accompanied by a squelching sound. “He tried to flee, sir, and was likely the last,” he said calmly as he straightened up.

Slowly, the impenetrable fog began to dissipate, first timidly, then more quickly. Its unnatural power faded, giving way to the natural surroundings. In the center of the now clearer clearing stood a figure in a black robe with a deep red hood, breathing heavily.

Silver chains hung from his robe, a sign that he was an Illusionist of the Order of the Nebulans. He spat contemptuously on the ground and then spoke: “The Silvani tried to return to his tribe to warn the survivors who did not participate in the battle. Now we will deliver to them the message of our arrival. Follow me, men. Let us show these primitives what happens when you anger the gods.”

And so it came to pass that the sole survivor, who had fled into a fog, inadvertently sealed the fate of his culture.

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The hundred soldiers marched relentlessly toward their goal, unaware that a small boy sat in the middle of the battlefield. Surrounded by the corpses of his father and brothers, about six years old, he wore simple tunics held by a beautiful leather belt. But what was most striking and would make anyone who saw him pause were his eyes, which despite his fragile body showed not an expression of sorrow but of deep hatred. A hatred so intense that one might fear he could inadvertently summon a demon, were he a magician.

This hatred was not only directed toward the soldiers and the magician but also toward himself. When his family needed him most, he had failed. Out of fear, he had hidden himself on the edge of the clearing. He knew the soldiers’ destination; he knew they would find his village, yet he was helpless. Second by second, he remained motionless as his self-hatred grew.

After what felt like an eternity, the boy summoned the courage to stand up. Tentatively at first, then with increasing determination. Finally, he stood on his own feet and ran. Not directly behind the men who had wiped out his family but in a wide arc to avoid stumbling over the soldiers who had now moved ahead on the way to the village.

He swore to warn the villagers and save the last women remaining in the settlement. With a speed he had never known before, he ran through the dense forest, straight toward his settlement. The screams of the animals frightened him, because in the darkness, dangers lurked that even adults feared - predators that preyed on hunters and threatened the settlement.

With each passing moment, he hoped that his legs would carry him fast enough to warn everyone, that he was fast enough to escape the monsters he heard in the darkness. He hoped that the forest would engulf the men who were getting closer to their destination with every passing second.

But his body grew weak and collapsed as he saw in the distance the burning huts of his home. The smoke curled up to the sky, further darkening the village, already surrounded by dense forest. Only occasionally did a little light penetrate, casting the scene in ominous twilight. The sight before him appeared like a dark legend he had once heard.

The houses, carved deep into the tall treetops, burned brightly. Creaking branches crashed down from the treetops, while the wooden suspension bridges collapsed with a loud crash. Once they transported and supported life, now they collapsed into the abyss with everything they carried.

The fire itself seemed not to spread further, as if bound to this place. Yet there was silence. No cries reached the boy standing at the edge. No call for help, no cry of pain. The entire village had become a burning ghost town, where only the crackling of flames and the crashing of buildings could be heard.

The legends the boy had once heard came to mind. They were simple yet carried deep wisdom. “It is not the man before you who is your worst enemy, but the weakness that does not give you enough strength to strike him down.” These words had been instilled in him since childhood. Now he saw the truth in them.

One could not defend against invincible strength. One could only regret one’s own lack of preparation and dedication. In a moment of despair, the boy realized that all those who had told him these stories had been right. He had failed when it mattered, and now he saw the devastating consequences before him, enveloped in smoke and flames that consumed his home.

Yet the boy did not want to accept this. He had given everything to come here, only to find himself unable to do anything again. Today, his God did not seem to favor him. It was desperate for him to stand amidst his burning home.

From the burning debris that had fallen from the heights of the treetops, an arm protruded, twisted within itself, flesh separating from bones. Yet the hand still twitched vigorously up and down as if trying to grasp something.

Urgently, the boy rushed to the wreckage without hesitation, an without to extinguishing the fires that engulfed the wooden mesh that had once been a proud bridge. With wild determination, the lonely boy tore at the vines and planks to rescue the person who still lived. He continued despite blood running down his hand from the now burnt palms, yet this did not bother him because even under all the burning debris, the person was still alive, so the boy thought he could endure this slight pain.

More and more of the burnt and broken arm was revealed under the boy’s effort. It was a gruesome sight as, after several seconds of sweat-drenched exertion, the body was recovered. It was barely recognizable how the person might have looked once or what gender they might have been, as the entire body except for the arm hanging out was blackened flesh.

The boy did not stop, even when it became clear that the person could no longer be alive. He clung to the hope that they might still be alive, as the arm still twitched. But now his hope was shattered again, as no one could survive what had happened to this broken, burnt, and shattered body.

Suddenly, the arm shoots forward and grabs the boy’s arm. The grip of the burnt person was unbelievably tight and made the boy’s heart race with panic as he fell backward, startled by the sudden movement. The person under the debris groaned softly, and the boy, now with a wildly beating heart, approached slowly. He leaned his ear over the person’s head to hear what they had to say. They croaked into his ear with a hoarse, smoky voice, weak and barely audible, before falling silent.

But what he heard made him shudder:

“They are coming again.”