I have found it – I did. It lies forgotten in the bowels of some ruined temple, deep in the heart of the Eternal Glade – older than the gods themselves. It is there – it waits for me… the Eye of the Dreamers.

- Journal of Archmagos Thuria, page 352

Its exact nature is… disturbing. Its existence was first mentioned in the Sadartha of Durga, where Durga, blessed be his name, theorizes the origins of the creation being that of a great and powerful dreamer. Everything we see around us – according to him – is but a dream of something far beyond anything we’ve ever known. This dreamer supposedly experiences its own dream through something called the Eye.

I believe it to be the same artifact I now hunt.

- Journal of Archmagos Thuria, page 354

Eyes…everywhere eyes! There are eyes on the wall, on the floor, on the water… I can’t escape their gaze! The Dreamers… it must be them! They are watching me! They know I’m close to finding its exact location! They know they can’t interfere! Yes... you may look upon me all you wish, Dreamers! Will not falter…

Sleep has… departed me… and I am now constrained to performing regenerative spells on myself just to stave off exhaustion… the Eye is close – I can feel it.

- Journal of Archmagos Thuria, Page 360

Alfaer closed the journal with a sigh and a shake of his head. There were many within the council, who called to question the late Archmagos’ sanity. The man, at the sunset of his days, could be found muttering to himself, screaming and scratching at the walls of his own office, eyes wide with fear. He never slept and his mind deteriorated all the more for it. Perhaps, he should’ve heeded the council’s call; he’d been too trusting, too lenient with the man, to see the depths of his insanity.

The Archmagos tossed the diary into a pile of books behind him. “His mind was too far gone by the time he left – no wonder a mere beast tore him to shreds.”

Still, his power was undeniable; that, after all, was the reason why Thuria became Archmagos and why Alfaer bowed to him – the man was simply more powerful than anyone else.

And now he was dead and Alfaer had to clean up the building pile of garbage the man had ignored in his quest for this… ancient artifact, which… truth be told, could’ve been the product of the man’s madness. There existed no such proof of anything of the sort ever existing; besides, these “Dreamers” he spoke of in his diary sounded suspiciously like the Old Ones. And there was, of course, an unwritten rule that stated any and all artifacts pertaining to those things, were made by those things, or even depicting those things were to be destroyed.

The carriage shook and Alfaer was wrenched out of his musings at the neighing of the horses out at front. The Archmagos looked out the window, where one of his acolytes – Marek – rode upon the back of a horse. Around him, twenty other carriages drove onwards, pulled by beasts of burden. Already, Alfaer saw wisps of ice and snow falling from the sky and the pine and maple trees in the distance. The Grey Mountains loomed behind them.

‘Welcome to the Northern Kingdoms, gentlemen….’ He mused, chuckling to himself. The last time he was here, the whole damn continent was under siege. Uzul Blackfinger, Overlord of the Fire Giants, had come to conquer everything; such was the magnitude of his legions that everyone, even the damn Paladins, was forced to band together. In the end, they won only by the skin of their teeth.

His back didn’t hurt as much back then.

“Boy!” He called out, shaking the thoughts away. The acolyte, Marek, supposedly the best and brightest of the new generation, peered through the window, directing his horse to trot towards the carriage.

“What do you need, Archmagos?”

“Tell the others to begin setting up the transmitters; we should be detecting signs of the plague, before we hit the first village. I want them out on the roofs within the next fifteen minutes.” He instructed. Communications, no matter the situation, remained at the topmost in terms of importance, which was why he’d brought along the magical transmitters that would allow the mages to exchange messages instantly – the messages themselves ranging from texts to images and memories. They were handy tools – ones that, sadly, hadn’t seen much use once the Mages were banished to Southlands.

The acolyte nodded. “At once, Archmagos.”

Once the mage-in-training rode ahead of his carriage, Alfaer leaned back and sighed; maybe, he really was getting too old for this. Sending Tevan, in his place, would’ve been a better idea; the boy was extraordinarily talented with the arts of the arcane and would make a fine Archmagos one day. Unfortunately, being the head of the Internal Investigations Team carried with it its own set of harsh responsibilities.

Sighing, Alfaer brooded, eyes lingering outwards – the pile of books he’d brought along no longer serving his interests. Among them lay some of the most ancient artifacts in his university, each one build specifically to deal with the influence of the Old Ones… well, not that they could really do anything to stop an Old One, but they could – at the very least – divert its course. Those things, whatever they were, were akin to natural disasters – literal forces of nature; not even the strongest of the strong could hope to stand against them, only redirect their path, much like how well-placed furrows in the earth might just redirect the coming onslaught of a powerful flood.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

He just hoped the artifacts were enough – assuming, of course, his theory would be proven right, which he hoped wouldn’t be.

His thoughts drifted back to a conversation with an old friend from the Hunter’s Guild…

“If this is truly an Old One, then we’re out of our league here, Alfaer.” They sat in an old room, the greatest hunter of all time, the Archmagos, and the Sword Saint. The floor lay encrusted with soot and ancient dust, and a damp, mossy smell filled the air. A great fire roared in the fireplace. A circular table stood at their center, where three goblets, filled with wine, stood. “The Guild is prepared to hunt down monsters, even the ones the gods themselves fear, but Old Ones are… well, they’re an entirely different matter.”

Alfaer sighed. “I know, old friend, I know; but that was merely a theory. I do not know for certain if an Old One is behind this, but there are signs of it in the plague and it would be foolish to discount the worst possibility. I do hope, however, that I’m wrong and that this whole affair will end without casualties – without us seeing more horrors.”

Beside him, Zhang Fe, the Sword Saint, nodded, humming as he gazed into the flames with a distant look upon him. “We’ve dealt with the Old Ones before, but never directly – never in this manner. We’ve dealt with their artifacts and their servants – attempted summonings and the like, but this plague indicates far more than that.”

Morion grumbled underneath his breath, before leaning back and snapping away a goblet of wine from the central table and gulping the whole thing in an instant. “I fought alongside the both of you when the Fire Giants came and I would do so again, but I cannot – in good faith – knowingly endanger the lives of my Hunters. Those, who come with us, will be volunteers… and they will know for a fact that they may never return home to their families. There will be few, but I know several veterans, who’re itching for a glorious end to their lives – I will promise no more.”

“And I gladly welcome their presence in this expedition, old friend.” Alfaer said, grabbing his own goblet. “Truly, I pray that I am wrong. The Catarina Plague appears to be alive… almost – as though it bears an intelligence of its own. I… cannot truly explain it, but there’s something sinister about the disease. No magic could ever produce such a thing, not even the sickening spells of Narat could replicate the plague’s bizarre properties.”

The Old Hunter nodded. “There’s more to it, isn’t there? I’ve seen the bodies and samples; I don’t believe for one second that this was a natural or magical phenomenon.”

“The Catarina Plague, at its final stages, seems to reanimate the body – unlike, Necromancy, however, that merely takes a corpse and puppets it, the plague seems to grant a new, bastardized form of life.” Zhang Fe explained, shuddering. His bloodshot eyes stared into the fire. “A twisted, deformed, and mangled mockery of life; and yet it is… alive.”

“As far as we know, once they’re reanimated, the infected are all but impossible to kill. If you rip them apart, the pieces would simply start moving on their own or attempt to reform.” Alfaer explained. “They’re highly resistant to anything, but space-time spells. Burning the corpses also does the trick, but they’re quite resistant to fire; the plan we’ve come up with is rather simple: hack apart the reanimated and burn the tiny pieces – they’re a lot more manageable when they don’t have any actual strength left in them.”

The Old Hunter raised an eyebrow. “How do you know all this?”

“All we know came at a great cost.” The Archmagos muttered and the Sword Saint nodded, humming as he continued gazing into the flames.

Their screams echoed at the back of his head – the screams of his beloved students as they were torn to shreds.

It had taken a while, but even the decomposed corpses and mangled limbs began moving on their own; three researchers were killed in the incident and five more were seriously injured, before the rampant samples were burned with Hellfire, the all-devouring flames of the endless void. Otherwise, the infected bodies and limbs would’ve been nigh-indestructible.

The five survivors were placed into quarantine soon after the incident. So far, they bore no signs of the Catarina Plague, but that was neither here nor there.

In fact, it only left more questions as to how the damn disease was spreading.

‘So far, the quarantined acolytes show none of the plague’s symptoms, which means it doesn’t spread through direct contact – or does mana have something to do with its inability to infect the acolytes? After all, none of the infected corpses have shown developed mana pathways.’ He mused. It was truly unlike any disease he’d ever encountered, even the magical ones; no wonder the Northern Kingdoms felt the need to contact the ‘outcasts’ of civilized society. They had no one else to turn to.

The Elves dwelled Valithor, a continent to the far West of the world; they wouldn’t help unless the whole continent was drowning the plague. The Dwarves dwelt in Zarakhur, a realm in the southernmost point of the world, where the softest breeze would chill a man right down to his bones; the Kings, who dwelled underneath the earth, cared little for human beings. They were allied races, surely, but – at the end of the day – they only ever came together in arms whenever a truly dangerous foe threatened the whole world.

The plague was really just mankind’s business alone.

Sighing, Alfaer leaned back and closed his eyes. Just thinking about the whole thing was enough to cause a headache. “So, how the hell does it spread?”

The plague, it seemed, did far more than simply kill whoever was infected; it turned them into raging monsters as well. The monsters weren’t easy to deal with. Even a fully trained, fully armed and fully armored Knight couldn’t defeat one, which meant regular folk had absolutely no chance against them. An acolyte, who was well versed with time-space magic, might just be able to disable the creatures, albeit temporarily. A power cultivator could use Qi-enhanced flames to turn an infected monster to ash, but there were only a handful of cultivators with a talent for fire – less than a hundred, if he recalled correctly.

The carriage came to a stop and Alfaer lurched forward for a moment, before he regained his bearings and immediately stepped out.

The cold air of the north blew hard against his face; with it, however, was the scent of death. His eyes hardened. Around him, the other members of the expedition walked out of their carriages – Paladins, Hunters, Cultivators, and his own Mages, who were setting up the transmitters.

Up ahead, in the distance, was a lone village.

Zhang Fe appeared right beside him, a powerful gust of wind accompanying the old man’s sudden presence. “You can smell it in the air, can’t you? We’re too late.”