Chapter 1: Echoes of Ash

The air still tasted of death.

Even after a century, the weight of the Prime Evil’s descent lingered like an unhealed wound. Miasma—the corruptive force that emanated from the Crater—clung to everything, a heavy, sickening presence that never fully faded. The sky hung heavy, the light of the sun dimmed beneath a veil of ashen clouds, as though the very heavens bore the scars of that ancient battle. Some said the Crater to the east, the pit where the world had melted away, swallowed even light itself. That was where the nightmares had come from—the dead, twisted into the grotesque horrors known as the Un, clawing their way out of that endless abyss.

That was where Aric’s father had gone.

The village elders still told stories of how it had all begun—the battle in the heavens, the fall of the Prime Evil, and the descent of the Creator. In the end, both the Creator and the Prime Evil had perished. The Creator, in his final act, bestowed humanity with the ability to fight back—gifts of Talent, Labor, and Desire, supernatural abilities born of lineage, effort, and primal will. But for Aric, these were not just stories. His father, blessed with an unmatched Labor in swordsmanship, had been one of the countless warriors who marched into the Crater’s shadow, determined to fight the Un that had claimed half the world.

That was three years ago. No one came back from the Crater.

“Aric!” A sharp voice pulled him from his thoughts. Tavrin, the village overseer, stood nearby, his expression hard as stone. “The patrol won’t wait for your daydreams.”

Aric’s grip tightened around the old rifle strapped across his back—his Talent. Marksmanship was something that ran in his blood, passed down through generations of his family. His Talent allowed him to manifest the weapon with ease, its sleek black frame fitting perfectly into his hands. But the Talent felt hollow, a pale shadow of the strength his father had carried. While his father’s Labor was earned through years of relentless practice with the sword, Aric’s Talent had come naturally, almost too easily.

Still, it kept him alive out here, in the Deadlands, where the Un roamed in the wasteland beyond the village.

They moved in silence as they passed the last of the village homes. The worn wooden walls, stained by years of exposure to the elements, gave way to the cracked, barren earth of the Deadlands. The village was nestled on the very edge of these lifeless lands, a buffer between what remained of civilization and the yawning abyss that had consumed half the planet. The wind was still, unnaturally so, and the scorched earth stretched out as far as the eye could see. This place had been cursed since the Prime Evil’s fall, a scar on the world that refused to heal.

“Stay sharp,” Tavrin muttered, glancing around warily. “The Un have been seen closer to the village. We won’t be far from the Crater’s edge today.”

Aric’s heart pounded as they moved farther into the wasteland. His father had traveled this same path, disappearing into the Crater three years ago, one of countless warriors who had ventured into the abyss to drive back the Prime Evil’s army. They had all been lost, their bodies twisted by Miasma, their souls consumed by the darkness.

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Suddenly, a sound broke the silence—a low, guttural growl from beyond the ridge. Tavrin raised his hand, signaling for the group to stop. Aric’s pulse quickened. His hand instinctively went to the rifle at his side, his eyes scanning the horizon. There—just beyond the ridge, something shifted.

Tavrin motioned for the patrol to move forward, creeping closer to the ridge. As they reached the crest of the hill, Aric felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

Below them, crouched at the Crater’s edge, was a demon. No, not a demon—an Un. The creature was larger than most—its body twisted and deformed, patches of charred flesh visible through its tattered remains of armor. The Miasma radiating from its form was thick, pulsing with the same corrupted energy that had poisoned the land.

In its hands, it clutched something—a glowing shard that pulsed with a soft, ethereal light. The sight of it sent a shiver down Aric’s spine.

“That’s…” Tavrin whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief. “That’s a piece of the Creator.”

Aric felt the weight of those words press down on him. A shard of the Creator? Legends spoke of the Creator’s sacrifice, his divine essence scattered across the world to empower humanity against the Prime Evil. These shards were said to be fragments of the Creator’s soul, granting those who wielded them unimaginable power. But how could an Un—a twisted servant of the Prime Evil—possess something so sacred?

The Un’s head snapped up suddenly, its eyes locking onto them with a feral intensity. Without warning, it lunged toward the patrol, moving with an unnatural speed. Tavrin barely had time to draw his blade before the creature was upon them.

Aric swung his rifle from his back, taking aim in the chaos. His marksmanship was instinctual, his Talent guiding his hands. The shot rang out, piercing the air and striking the Un’s shoulder. It staggered but did not fall.

The creature’s gaze shifted to Aric. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, its eyes—burning with malice—seemed to soften, almost as if there was something…familiar about them.

It lunged at him, claws slashing through the air. Aric dove to the side, barely avoiding the attack. His heart raced. There was something different about this Un, something that gnawed at the back of his mind. He raised his rifle again, steadying his aim.

The Un snarled, advancing once more. But just as it was about to strike, it stopped. It froze, its clawed hand hovering above Aric’s head, its eyes locked onto his.

And then, to Aric’s horror, the Un spoke. “Aric…”

His blood ran cold. The voice was gravelly, broken, but it was unmistakable. He knew that voice. It had been the voice that had called to him when he was a boy, the voice that had taught him how to shoot, the voice that had promised to come back from the Crater one day.

“Father?”

The word slipped from his lips before he could stop it. The Un flinched, a flicker of recognition passing across its grotesque features. The glowing shard in its hand pulsed again, brighter this time, and Aric felt something pulling at him, a strange warmth spreading through his chest.

The Un—his father—staggered back, clutching the shard to its chest. For a moment, the madness in its eyes cleared, and the creature looked at Aric with something close to sorrow.

“I…failed,” his father rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “But you…you must continue. You must survive.”

Aric’s breath caught in his throat as his father lifted the shard toward him, his body trembling from the effort. “Take it… my Labor. The swordsmanship that was never yours.”

“No!” Aric shouted, his voice cracking. He wanted to run forward, to stop him, but his feet refused to move. The warmth from the shard grew stronger, and before Aric could react, his father pressed the shard against his chest.

A surge of power flooded through him, overwhelming and unfamiliar. The shard pulsed one last time before disintegrating into light, leaving behind only the hollow silence of the Deadlands. His father—what was left of him—collapsed, his body crumbling to dust.

Aric fell to his knees, clutching his chest where the shard had touched him. His father’s Labor—his mastery of the sword—was now his. But it didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like a curse.

The others in the patrol approached slowly, their faces pale with shock. Tavrin placed a hand on Aric’s shoulder, but the words he spoke were lost beneath the weight of what had just happened.

Aric stared at the ground where his father had fallen, his heart heavy with a grief he hadn’t prepared for. His father was gone, truly gone this time. And in his place, Aric was left with the burden of his Labor.

And the knowledge that the Un were more than just mindless monsters.