In a vast expanse where ancient oaks towered above seas of green, tranquillity reigned, a world apart from the clamour of city life.
Amid this forest lay a modest village, a mingling of many races, though chiefly home to Elves and the more native Chimerae. Far beyond its borders stood a young man of a light-brown complexion, his ashen dreadlocks bound into a single ponytail, clad in simple martial garb.
He held himself taut, like a spring on the verge of release, corpses scattered at his feet, crimson smeared across his ankle guards.
A sleeveless black vest clung to his frame, leaving his sculpted arms bare. His trousers, dark as midnight, shimmered with golden wyrm scales embroidered down the legs, each flare of muscle seeming to make the depiction of the creature ripple and writhe.
At his waist a crimson sash burned against the void-black cloth, its trailing ends flickering like fire, bound fast with a buckle. Blood gleamed wet across his armoured gauntlets, the red as vivid as the sash that girded him.
His eyes swept the battlefield, every shadow a cut in waiting, every stir of motion a harbinger of threat.
Then something blurred overhead, a shadow descending in a hail of thorned tendrils. They whipped and thrashed, tearing the air.
He slipped past each lash, dodging precisely, the cuts grazing close enough to taste. Diving for cover, he pressed behind the withered body of a fallen Noctara.
Every strike churned the ground, sand and soil erupting, until the dust cloud thickened, cloaking all in a choking veil. From within that man-made haze, a silhouette stirred—the shadow had landed. It's silhouette losely visible from inside. He needed no guess. The corpses littering the ground were answer enough.
From his hiding spot, he heard a subtle hum in the air and leapt out of the way as a violet beam of light carved through the body of its companion and carved through a tree behind it.
He centred his vision on the creature's silhouette, anticipating its next attack. But as he was expecting a frontal assault, his heart sank as something cold slithered up his leg, and before he knew it, he was weightless in the air.
Then, Crash!!!
A small impact noise rippled through the shadowy forest, as he slammed back into the dirt with crushing force.
For a moment, the world was spinning. Dazed, he barely regained focus before the creature was upon him, its thorned tendrils coiling around his arms, digging deep into his flesh.
Its rosebud loomed above, as it pressed down on him, petals unfurling with a sickly violet glow.
He strained upward, quickly, and pushed himself into the Noctara before quickly lying back down, creating a bit of struggle room between him and the rose. Using that little bit of leverage, he drove his heel into its rosehead. The impact wrenched the glow free, the beam erupting skyward and cleaving another tree in two, right down the middle.
A numbing pain spread through his arms as the thorns wrapped tighter around him, biting bone-deep. More vines lashed around his legs, pinning him in place, the rosebud angling down toward him, its light swelling brighter as it opened.
But he didn't struggle against it, only observed, listened to the hum that bled into the air around it. Then, with a single, measured breath, he exhaled fire into the blossom's heart.
The Noctara convulsed, shuddering violently. Its grip faltering. He tore one hand free, dug his fingers into the earth for leverage, and with a brutal kick hurled the creature back.
The Noctara slammed into a tree, bark exploding outward. The figure was already moving, with cold air in his lungs, he charged. His body snapping forward in a seamless surge of momentum.
The creature lashed out, half a dozen thorned tendrils cutting the air like whips. He exhaled a plume of ash, masking his approach, as he weaved between the writhing tendrils as they tore into the haze. Then as the creature pulled back, he lunged forward and grabbed a tendril, seizing it with both hands and letting its recoil hurl him forward like a launched spear.
Mid-flight, he ignited like a meteor burning up in the atmosphere as Fyr blazed across his body, his soul's essence turned armour and flame. When they collided, his leg came down with explosive force, the impact detonating outward in a shockwave of flame and pressure.
The forest roared. Trees bowed under the force. He was hurled back, landing in a skid, knees buckling but body steadying in a practiced roll.
Gasping, he forced himself upright, vision swimming. He jerked his head back to see what remained from the explosion, but what he saw made his hair stand on end.
Through the fading smoke, he watched the Noctara stagger across the dying flames, its form convulsing grotesquely as violet light pulsed in its rosebud, thorns lashing with renewed frenzy.
He rose already balanced, ash drifting from his lips as he re-centred his stance and drew in a deep breath before charging yet again.
His eyes narrowed. His stance shifted, feet light, body angled as he darted forward, weaving through the onslaught. A vine cut past his face, and he used it as a pivot, slapping it aside and vaulting over the next strike. Another beam carved the air, but he slid beneath it, skidding on one heel, ashen locks trailing sparks behind him.
He closed the distance. With each breath he built rhythm, feeding power into his Frequency Aspect. The air around him vibrated, a silent crescendo until every particle sang with tension.
Point-blank, he struck. His palm pressed flat against the Noctara's bloom, its heart, and with a sharp exhale he collapsed the gathered resonance inward—an implosion caged within the creature's body.
The Noctara spasmed violently, the earth cratering beneath it. Its tendrils whipped wildly before falling slack, its rosebud cracking open in a final, shuddering burst of violet light. Then silence. The monster went still.
He stepped back, exhaling slowly, controlled, his posture poised—equal parts warrior and survivor, flame and frequency woven into lethal grace.
The figure loomed over the rose-creature's ruined form. With deliberate precision he reached into its unfurled bud, prying free a Soul-Fract. Two more he harvested from the corpses of its fallen kin.
Curious, he counted the vines on each of them; they totalled fifteen, five for each cadaver. From what he'd heard, matured Noctara were rumoured to have more than a dozen.
He looked around the battlefield as it stretched in jagged ruin—trees sheared clean through by violet light lay toppled in grotesque angles, their splintered trunks glowing faintly where the energy had seared them hollow. Barely held together as one side fell to the ground with a loud crash.
The ground was torn and churned into uneven craters, streaked with ash and blackened soil. Whole patches of undergrowth had been scoured away, reduced to charred husks that smouldered faintly beneath a thin veil of smoke. A dry, acrid scent lingered—the mingling of burnt earth, crushed leaves, and the iron tang of blood.
"What strange creatures. So much destruction from only juveniles. No wonder the reward seemed so high. They don't want these things growing out of control."
He studied the shards of crystallised essence glistening in his hands, glowing violets streaked in crimson. The sight unsettled him: a plant that bled like him. Perhaps the old rumours were not exaggerations. Perhaps these abominations truly were the handiwork of some forgotten death-god.
As far as he was aware the lore spoke clearly enough. Noctara always emerged in trios, harbingers of ruin, and only ever where slaughter was constant and the tides of Ether turned negative. Their very existence was parasitic, born from violence, feeding on it, shaping themselves into vessels of annihilation.
The moon hung high, pale and watchful, and the figure found his gaze drawn to it. How long, he wondered, could he and the rest of the hired blades hold back this rot? The government's solution had been walls—monolithic barriers meant to shield their cities and towns more surely than adventurers ever could. At least, that was the promise for the south of Aishaw. The north's intentions remained cloaked in silence.
But even walls fall. Stone crumbles, mortar gives way, and time erodes all that men build. Every wall is only a pause before the next must be raised.
He shook the thought away. Such questions were not his burden. His burden was simple: to kill. And kill he had. And kill he would.
Satisfied with his night, he drew a small vial from his sash, its crimson contents catching the moonlight. The villagers called it a potion of healing, his people just called it 'umuthi'. He drank it, and warmth spread through his body. Cuts closed. Bruises faded. Pain bled out of him like water on paper.
With the battlefield behind him and the taste of iron still in his mouth, he set his eyes toward the village lights glowing faintly in the distance.