Chapter 15 The Strange Hero of Kremherg

"Long ago, near an isolated village nestled deep within an ancient forest, there lived a young girl said to be blessed by the gods. Her eyes were as green as the lush woods, her smile as sweet as ripe berries, and her hair as dark and glistening as the starry night. To her, the world seemed bright and full of wonder, untouched by shadow or sorrow. Yet, as is often the way in such tales, her peaceful days were not destined to last. The winds of change stirred, though whether they would bring blessings or ruin, only time could tell.

One fine day, the girl and three of her friends ventured into the forest, baskets in hand, to gather berries for jam. Laughter filled the air as they worked, but their joy was interrupted by an unsettling commotion. Birds took flight, their cries echoing through the trees, and the branches trembled as though the forest itself were afraid.

“What’s happening?” one of her friends asked, voice trembling.

“I don’t know,” another replied, “but we should go back!”

The children froze, fear rooting them to the ground. Yet the girl, to her own surprise, felt something strange—a pull, a familiarity in the chaos, as if the forest were calling to her.

“Wait for me here!” she said suddenly, handing her basket to her friends.

“What? No, it’s dangerous! The night beasts could attack you!” they cried.

But the girl didn’t look back. Her feet carried her swiftly, as though guided by an unseen hand. “The gods will protect me,” she thought, her heart racing.

Deeper and deeper she ran, until the commotion abruptly ceased. Silence fell, broken only by her labored breaths.

“Am I too late?” she murmured, glancing around.

Just then, that strange pull stirred within her again, stronger than before. Trusting her instincts, she pressed on, and there, amidst the trees, she found him—a man, collapsed and wounded. His robes were tattered, and he wore a crude wooden mask, so poorly made it looked like a plank with three uneven holes. Beside him lay a broken spear with a horn at its tip, a weapon unlike anything she had ever seen.

“Oh no, what happened to you, mister?” she asked, kneeling beside him.

The man stirred, his voice hoarse and foreign, speaking words she couldn’t understand. Before she could respond, a rustling in the distance caught her ear.

“Is it the night beasts?” she thought, fear creeping into her chest. “We need to get out of here!” she urged the man, tugging at his arm.

But to her relief, it was not the beasts. Emerging from the trees were two of her friends.

“We couldn’t leave you!” one boy said. “The adults are coming—they’ll help!”

True to his word, the villagers soon arrived, bringing the children and the wounded man back to the safety of the village.

“Father,” the girl said, “he might be a victim of the night beasts.”

“Perhaps,” her father replied warily, “but he refuses to take off that mask. He might be dangerous. And he speaks a language we do not know.”

After much deliberation, the villagers decided to let the man stay, granting him shelter in an abandoned farmhouse at the village’s edge. Though wary, they could not, in good conscience, send a wounded man back into the forest, where the night beasts prowled.

Time passed, and the man began to recover with surprising speed. Within a week, his injuries had healed completely. He proved himself useful, helping to mend fences and hunt wild game. Yet he never removed his mask, and some villagers continued to keep their distance, whispers of suspicion lingering.

The girl, however, was different. She visited him often, bringing food or simply sitting by his side.

The girl brought small gifts—fresh bread, a carved wooden figurine—and though his words were few, the man always nodded his thanks. Over time, her visits grew longer, and she found herself laughing at his clumsy attempts to learn her language

“Are you a blessed one too, mister?” she asked one day, swinging her legs as she sat on a fence.

“No... me, blessed not,” the man replied in halting words.

“I don’t believe that! I can feel it,” the girl insisted with a grin.

The man said nothing, only offering a faint, weary smile.

But peace is fleeting, and one fateful night, flames erupted in the forest.

“The night beasts are coming! Hide in your homes!” a villager shouted.

The girl ran to the man’s house. “You have to come with us! We need to run!” she pleaded.

“No,” the man said firmly, his voice steady. “Me fight. Me protect... all.”

And before anyone could stop him, he grabbed a stick and ran toward the flames.

The villagers watched in terror as the beasts emerged—towering, snarling creatures with gleaming fangs and eyes like embers. Yet before them stood the man, armed with only an axe and a handful of wooden spears.

“GRAGAKRAAAAAAAA!” he roared, his voice booming with an otherworldly power.

The beasts hesitated, but their leader, larger and fiercer than the rest, stepped forward to challenge him. The fight that followed was unlike anything the villagers had ever seen. The ground shook with the force of their blows, and the man’s roars echoed like thunder. The villagers could do nothing but watch, their hearts pounding as the earth shook beneath the fury of the battle. For hours he battled, his strength unwavering, until at last, he stood victorious atop a mound of lifeless beasts, blood and ash staining the earth.

From that day on, the villagers spoke of him with reverence and awe. No longer was he a stranger. He was The Strange Hero of Kremherg, a legend whose deeds would be remembered for generations to come."

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The old woman’s voice lingered like smoke in the air, wrapping itself around the flickering flames of the campfire. Her wrinkled hands rested in her lap, her gaze sweeping over her small audience as if she were appraising them.

She was a local of Crostan, a village formed by adventurers who sought the ruins of the sunken city of Thalmyra. Viktor had allowed her to join their group, needing her knowledge of the region and its secrets.

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“And so,” she concluded, her tone carrying the weight of ages, “the strange man saved the village of Kremherg and became a legend. But,” she added with a knowing smile, “some say the story didn’t end there. The forest holds its secrets, and perhaps even now, the hero’s shadow lingers.”

They had stopped by The Second Scar of Clawrend Abyss, one of four jagged chasms shaped like claw marks, with a flowing lake far below. After three days of hard travel, the campfire’s warmth was a rare comfort.

The crackling of the flames filled the silence that followed. Viktor leaned back, arms crossed, a skeptical smirk tugging at his lips. “A strange man with a stick and a mask? Sounds like something out of a bard’s ballad. Hardly real.”

Mifa, seated on a log, barely reacted. Her sharp gaze wasn’t on the storyteller or even on Viktor—it was on Scorn.

He stood apart from the group, just beyond the firelight’s reach, leaning on his spear. His figure was unnervingly still, the faint orange glow of the flames playing on the edges of the white porcelain mask he always wore. Light and shadow danced across it like shifting memories, casting a fragile tension into the air.

“Strange hero, huh?” Viktor continued, his tone light but curious. “What do you think, Scorn? Do you believe in fairy tales?”

Scorn didn’t answer. His hand rested lightly on the handle of his spear, but his head tilted slightly, as though he were listening to something distant and intangible.

Mifa straightened, her voice cutting through the quiet. “It’s not all there is to the tale, is it?” she murmured.

Her words hung in the air, delicate yet heavy, like a stone poised to fall. Scorn didn’t move, but a faint tension tightened his jaw. The firelight caught the edge of his mask, giving it an eerie, fleeting glow.

The silence stretched until it felt unbearable. Then, Scorn spoke, his voice low and rough, like the growl of distant thunder.

“Stories…” he said, dragging the word as if it pained him, “…don’t always end where the storyteller says they do. Some stories are better left unfinished.”

Viktor exhaled sharply and leaned forward, gripping the professor’s journal tightly in his hands. “Still, I need to know the truth. These stories might lead me closer to where the professor is.”

“Suit yourself,” Scorn said, his tone curt as he straightened. “We leave at first light. Be ready.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked into the darkness beyond the firelight, his voice trailing behind him. “I’ll be taking a short walk. Don’t follow me.”

The old woman chuckled softly, the sound both amused and knowing. “Ah, children,” she murmured, “every legend begins with a truth, even if it’s buried deep. Perhaps one day, you’ll uncover it.”

Viktor didn’t respond. His eyes stayed fixed on the shadows where Scorn had disappeared, his mind racing with unspoken thoughts.

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At the edge of the chasm...

Scorn stood at the edge of the abyss, his silhouette framed against the cold, ethereal glow of the moonlight. The jagged cliffs loomed around him like the ribs of some ancient, long-dead beast, and the chasm below seemed to yawn endlessly, its depths swallowing the faint sound of rushing water far below.

The wind howled through the desert, tugging at his cloak, carrying with it whispers too faint to discern—until they weren’t. His porcelain mask, ghostly in the moonlight, caught the shimmer of the distant water, but his shadow stretched behind him, long, broken, and wavering like something alive.

He stared down into the lake below, unmoving, as though the darkness beneath the surface mirrored the one inside him. His thoughts spiraled, tumbling toward the edges of coherence, fraying like threads on an overused tapestry. The desert wind was colder now, biting. And within it came a voice.

“Enjoying yourself, are we?”

It slithered into his ears, deep and distant, like a predator circling just beyond the firelight.

Scorn’s head tilted slightly. He exhaled, a sharp breath that sounded more like a hiss. His grip tightened on his spear until the leather creaked beneath his gloves. “Leave me alone.”

The voice chuckled, a hollow, echoing laugh that seemed to vibrate through the chasm itself.

“Leave you alone?” it mocked, dripping with venom. “Why would I do that? Look at you—standing here, playing your little game of silence. But we both know it’s meaningless.”

Scorn didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed on the water below, though his reflection refused to meet his eyes.

“Oh, you’re good at this game, aren’t you? Pretending you don’t hear me. Pretending you don’t know the truth. But it won’t change anything. You don’t belong here, Scorn. You never have. You never will.”

The words wormed their way into his mind, each one tugging at the frayed edges of his sanity. His fist clenched tighter, knuckles pale beneath the gloves, and the faintest tremor ran through his form.

“Tell me—why keep up the act? ‘Hero.’ What a laughable title. You’re no savior. You know that as well as I do. So why keep pretending? Why keep lying?”

The mask offered no expression, but his body betrayed him. His shoulders tensed, his breath quickened, and a flicker of something primal flared in his chest.

“Shut up,” he whispered.

The voice pressed on, its tone cruel and relentless. “Do you still cling to that fragile sliver of hope? Is that why you skulk in the shadows, guiding this world from the edges, hoping to save it? You think salvation is still within reach?”

“Shut up,” he repeated, louder this time, his voice low and raw.

“You’re a fool, Scorn. A coward who hides behind masks, behind lies. Denial only hastens destruction. You know that, don’t you? You’ve seen it. You’ve caused it.”

His breath hitched, his chest heaving now. The trembling in his hands spread, uncontrollable, like a dam about to burst.

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” His voice grew frantic, a muttered mantra as though he could drown out the voice by sheer force of will.

“Oh? Did I touch a nerve?” the voice purred, its tone now sickeningly sweet, mocking.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Scorn roared, the words ripping from his throat as he spun, his spear slicing through the air. The movement was feral, desperate—a predator lashing out at shadows.

But there was nothing.

The chasm behind him yawned silently. Only his shadow, jagged and warped by the moonlight, stretched across the ground, a distorted echo of himself.

“You can’t run from the truth forever, Scorn,” the voice echoed, distant and fading, carried away by the wind. “It will always find you.”

Scorn’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. He stood frozen, his spear lowered but still trembling in his grasp. Slowly, his gaze drifted to his shadow, dark and unsteady, as though it were mocking him, too.

The weight of his memories pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. The rushing water below seemed to grow louder, merging with the racing pulse in his ears.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. The cold wind tugged at him again, and he let it, closing his eyes and tilting his head back as though trying to let the chill seep into his thoughts, to still the chaos.

But the voice lingered, like the faint echo of a nightmare, even as the world around him remained silent.

Alone on the edge of the chasm, Scorn was left with only the sound of the rushing water, the ghost of the voice, and the fragile threads of a mind that refused to break—but was dangerously close to fraying beyond repair.

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Morning arrived, and by afternoon, the group reached the bustling village of Crostan. The old lady bid her farewells, shuffling off to her home with a parting smile, while the adventurers moved to handle the paperwork required for entry into the ruins of the sunken city.

That left Scorn, Viktor, and Mifa to begin their investigation.

The plaza buzzed with activity, alive with the clatter of metal and the hum of countless voices. Adventurers from across the continent filled the square, their armor and weapons gleaming under the afternoon sun. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking supplies, while blacksmiths hammered steel, sending sparks into the air. Despite its modest size, Crostan thrummed with an energy that made it feel much larger.

“Damn,” Scorn muttered, his gaze sweeping the scene like a curious tourist. “Almost forgot how busy this place gets...”

“We’re not here for sightseeing, Mister Aizen,” Viktor said, his tone sharp. “We’re here to track down the cult and bring them to justice.”

“Fine, fine,” Scorn replied, rolling his shoulders lazily. “So, where to next?”

“I’ll start with the local guards,” Viktor decided, his voice steady. “They might know something about cult activity in the area. If you learn anything they don’t, let me know immediately.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Scorn said, though his tone betrayed little interest. " 'Robert', Follow Viktor" he said.

"Fine but be careful of your words!, lets go" Mifa replied and followed Viktor.

The group split off, weaving through the crowded plaza to gather information. They spoke to merchants, adventurers, and villagers, each person offering a piece of the larger puzzle.

But as they moved through the lively crowd, they failed to notice the eyes following them.

From the shadows of an alley, a figure watched, shrouded in a tattered cloak. Beneath the hood, pale lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. The figure’s gaze lingered on Scorn for a moment longer than the others before slipping silently into the crowd, vanishing like smoke.

Unseen, the hidden eyes multiplied. Whispers passed from one dark corner to another, carried like a breeze through the undercurrent of the village.

The group remained unaware, their search continuing, as a storm quietly began to gather.