The village of Velmora had no walls.
For generations, it had lived quietly at the edge of Aurelian's frontier—where fields met forest, and where the wind carried nothing but the scent of grain and woodsmoke.
That changed in a single moment.
The sky dimmed. Not by clouds, but by something heavier. Something wrong. Then, they came.
Mist Wraiths.
They appeared into the village like a curse given form—twisted bodies wrapped in black mist, their hollow eyes glowing faintly as they moved with unnatural speed.
Homes were torn apart. Wood splintered. Screams rose. Then were cut short.
Panic spread instantly.
Villagers fled toward the forest, abandoning everything—tools, homes, even each other—driven only by the instinct to survive.
A child stumbled. A mother turned back. Too late... Something else arrived.
A device arced through the air.
It landed among the fleeing villagers with a dull, metallic thud. A cage. Inside it was a red stone. Its surface pulsed faintly. Etched patterns wrapped around the cage—intricate, deliberate. Like a spell carved into metal.
Then— It activated.
The patterns glowed. The red stone ignited. And from the light, more Mist Wraiths emerged. Not falling this time, but forming. Directly in front of the fleeing villagers, blocking escape.
They were all trapped.
The screams grew louder. Then— A figure walked through it all. Unhurried. Unaffected.
A cloak of black and gold draped over his frame, swaying gently as he moved. On its back—
An eye.
He did not look at the chaos. He walked through it. As if none of it mattered. As if it were beneath him. Around him, villagers were torn apart.
He did not stop. He did not react. His path was set toward the chief's house.
Inside the Chief's Home
The air was suffocating. The village chief stood near the center of the room, his body trembling—but unmoving. Behind him was his wife and his five year old daughter. Crying.
The door did not open. It broke. The man stepped inside. And without a word, another device was thrown.
It landed.
Activated.
The red glow flared once more. This time —different. From the light, they emerged.
Elite Mist Wraiths.
Taller. More defined. Their forms less chaotic— Their presence… aware. They did not attack. They waited for him.
The man stepped forward. His voice echoed low and cold.
"…Renn Valehart." A pause. "Do you know him?"
The chief shook his head desperately. "…No… I haven't…"
Silence. Then, a sigh. "…What a waste."
The man raised his hand slightly. The Mist Wraiths shifted. The chief dropped to his knees.
"Wait—please!"
His voice broke. "Spare them!" He gestured behind him frantically. "My wife—my daughter—please—take my life instead!"
Silence.
The man tilted his head slightly. "…Alright."
A single word. Hope flickered. "Run!" the chief shouted. His wife grabbed their daughter. They fled through the back of the house— Toward the forest. For a moment— It seemed real. Mercy.
Then—
The man moved. Aether shifted.
"Veil Art: Abyssal Impalement "
From his shadow, something formed. A mass of purple-black tendrils— Condensed. Sharp. Alive.
They shot forward— Fast and silent. They pierced through the air— And through them.
The wife.
The child.
Gone.
No scream lasted long enough to echo.
The forest swallowed what remained.
Inside—
"…No…"
The chief's voice collapsed. "…No…!" His body shook violently. His world— gone.
The man lowered his hand. No reaction. No hesitation. No remorse.
"…Dispose of him."
The command was quiet. The Elite Mist Wraiths moved. Slowly. Deliberately.
The chief did not resist. He could not. The sound that followed was not a scream. It was something worse. A sound of a man breaking— Completely.
Outside—
Velmora burned.
And the man in black and gold walked away. As if nothing had happened.
The next day—
Velmora no longer existed.
Smoke still lingered above the ruins, rising in thin, tired strands into a sky that felt far too calm for what had happened. The wind carried a stench that clung to the lungs—burnt wood, dried blood, and something far worse.
Then, they arrived.
The Aurelian Royal Knights. At their lead stood the Captain of the First Division—
Captain Soren Vol.
From the House of Vol, like Arden. Short crimson hair stirred slightly in the wind. His frame was lean, refined—built not for display, but for decisive action. There was no hesitation in his steps, no uncertainty in his gaze.
Confidence was not something he showed.
It was something he carried. He stopped at the edge of the village.
And looked.
No words were spoken.
Behind him, the Royal Knights spread out across the ruins, each step measured, each movement heavy with understanding.
Bodies lay scattered. Some where they fell. Some where they tried to crawl. Others, huddled together.
Soren's jaw tightened. "…we're too late." The words were quiet, but final.
One of the knights moved toward the center of the village.
"…Captain."
Soren turned. The knight stood near what remained of the chief's house. Or what used to be. There, pinned against a broken wooden beam— A knife, and beneath it—
A note.
The knight carefully removed it and approached. "…This was left here."
Soren took the note. Unfolded it. His eyes scanned the words once. Then— stopped.
"I'm coming for you… Renn Valehart."
Silence deepened. The wind passed. Soren folded the note slowly. "…So that's your target."
His gaze lifted. Toward nothing— And everything.
Later
The village was no longer left to rot. The Royal Knights worked in silence. Graves were dug. Carefully. Respectfully. Every body was recovered. No one was left behind.
The sun began to set as the final grave was covered. Rows upon rows— Simple, but dignified.
The knights stood together. Heads lowered. Soren stepped forward. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then—
"May your souls… return to the source from which all life flows. May your suffering end where light begins." His voice steadied. "…May you reach Alma Aetheris."
Silence answered him. The wind moved through the graves. Not cold, not heavy. Just... still.
Soren turned away. "…We're done here." But his grip tightened slightly. And in his hand, the note remained unfolded.
A message not meant for the dead. But for the one still living. Far away, unaware. And already being hunted.