Zafor, 36th Avoca, Year 3128 Tenet
The Life Stone pulsed once more from the Sacred Land of Aveora, sending ripples of serenity across the breadth of Tertha. The world exhaled as one—tranquil and untroubled—as though chaos had never tainted its ancient soil.
High above, Savothora cast a silvered light, washing the land in a hushed, gentle brilliance.
To most, it was a divine blessing.
To adventurers? it was a cursed famine.
Peace meant no monsters. No monsters meant no quests.
And no quests… meant empty coin pouches.
Some guilds had even suspended their missions in reverence to the Life Stone's pulse, honouring the sacred lull bestowed upon Tertha. The very air felt lighter, softer to breathe. It was as if the entire realm sighed with a peace far too profound for words.
It was a rare epoch, one where even warriors had no need to draw their blades.
The inns echoed not with laments of danger, but with gentle laughter and the scent of warm meals shared in comfort.
Children roamed freely through woodland and hamlet alike, while elders lingered beneath the shade of trees, unburdened by fear. Farmers tilled their fields or journeyed to distant cities to trade, no longer haunted by the shadow of lurking terrors.
For once, no swords were drawn.
No horns of warning blared.
There was only warmth—a stillness so profound it felt like a dream. It was a silence too gentle for a world so oft-scarred.
— The Great Forest of Archelion | South-Western Reach
Heavy boots crunched over the narrow woodland trail, soft mud clinging to the iron sabatons of a lone hunter. The week's hunt had been woefully dull—an occasional deer or a sluggish bison, but little else.
'Hah... not so much as a goblin? Not a single foul beast in sight? Positively tedious,' he muttered, glancing at the meagre pouch of herbs slung over his shoulder. A task fit for a greenhorn.
And yet, he was a Bear-Rank Adventurer—a slayer of Wyverns, a destroyer of High-Orc battalions, a seeker of sunken dungeons, and a survivor of haunted labyrinths.
Now? He gathered herbs. Delivered satchels. Guarded plodding caravans.
No blood.
No peril.
No glory.
Only peace. A stifling, quiet, wretched peace.
Then—
Cold.
Stillness.
Not a breeze stirred. No birdsong reached the; not even the murmur of leaves.
It was as though the world itself had forgotten how to breathe.
Even a Fenrir in the far distance stood frozen, unblinking, as if time itself dared not proceed.
Birds hung suspended mid-air—wings outstretched, motionless—caught within the eerie hush.
The forest had become a tomb of still.
And then… something passed.
It did not walk.
It did not tread.
It drifted, low and soundless, and in its wake, the air itself turned to frost—biting, deep, and deathly.
Worse than any Cataclysm.
Crueller than any known Disaster.
More dreadful than the wrath of the Celestials.
Deadlier even than Death itself.
The plains crystallised beneath its drift. Jagged spears of ice erupted from the soil; snow devoured the land in sheets, blanketing the forest until neither bark nor stone remained.
It glided forward, heedless and silent.
It did not look.
It did not seek.
t simply was.
In the hunter's eyes, the thing had no face.
No intent. No malice. Only… indifference.
Everything it passed was reduced to a pure, white silence.
The man trembled, his teeth chattering a frantic, ragged rhythm. His knuckles bleached white as he gripped the adamantite spear snatched from his back, the leather wrap creaking under the strain of his white-knuckled fist.
'W–who... what are you?' he wheezed, the words snagging in his throat. A cold sweat, thick as ice, slicked his spine. His heart did not merely beat; it thrashed against his ribs—a panicked, dying thing clawing for an exit.
The entity paused.
It turned.
Slowly.
A figure—perhaps no older than sixteen—stood wreathed in a quiet mist. Skin pale as hoarfrost. Calm. Still.
Almost... innocent.
'Me?' it echoed, its voice soft. Almost kind.
'I have no name.'
'But they call me "the Arrow Devil".'
'Excuse me, Mister… do you know where the Grandknight is?'
A question.
Simple.
Polite, even.
Far too polite.
Wrong.
So utterly wrong.
Impossible.
That—
DANGER!
RUN.
NOW!
THAT IS NOT AN ANTROPHO!
ESCAPE—NOW!
With a gasping, near-sobbing cry of pure terror, the hunter slammed his spear into the frozen ground, vaulted backward, and wrenched the weapon free in one desperate motion. He sprinted—
Never once meeting its gaze.
His steps pounded against the frozen ground. His lungs burned as dread swallowed his breath whole.
He knew.
He knew.
To remain was death.
The creature tilted its head in quiet amusement. Then, ever so softly… it smiled.
It lifted its bow.
Nocked an arrow.
Its eyes gleamed—not with wrath, but with delight.
A delightful little prey…
…had strayed into the path of something beyond the apex—
an entity that could unmake a kingdom, as easily as indrawn breath.
— Adventurer's Guild | Amõha Tœvə
28.72 Local Time
'You there—seen Reygh around? He's not back from the forest. Said he was only out for herbs... promised a drink after, but it's well past dusk now.'
A bearded man waved to a passing waitress, ordering another round. The spring air bit colder than usual.
'No clue,' another replied, draining his tankard. 'It was a basic job. He's probably just taking his sweet time. No monsters about with the Life Stone pulsing, right?'
'Maybe he slipped near the ridge?' a paladin offered, chewing through a thick cut of steak.
'Reygh? A tumble? Don't be daft,' a hunter scoffed, honing a blade with slow, deliberate strokes. 'He's Bear-Class. Ridge or no ridge, he's sturdier than most.'
'Bloody right!' a large barbarian bellowed, slapping a worn map onto the table. He jabbed a finger at the Great Forest of Archelion.
'Even Phoenix-Class tread lightly there. But with the Life Stone pulsing? No beast would dare stir. Ghahaha! Reygh's not about to croak on a herb run, that's for certain!'
They laughed. They drank.
They waited for a man who would never return.
One by one, the adventurers left for their homes, trusting the tranquility cloaking their hamlet.
The sacred energy still flowed.
Soft.
Serene.
Unquestioned.
— Deep within the Great Forest of Archelion
'Hey, hey, Mister! Let's play! Come on, let's play again!'
A small voice echoed through the frost-veiled grove. A childlike creature spun a small urn in its hand, giggling merrily—as if it held a trinket.
But the urn brimmed with terror.
Within it, countless souls lay sealed.
'Mister! Your soul was really tasty! Let's play chase again, shall we?'
Crunch. Crunch. Choomp.
The creature gnawed upon the man's spirit as though it were warm meat, chewing with a perverse, terrible innocence.
It was savoury.
It was rich.
Under the moon's blue glow, the entity devoured its 'meal' beside the shattered corpse of the man it once called playmate.
Ice lances pierced the soil like spears. The forest lay buried beneath frost and mist—a snow-laden silence that had no place in spring.
And yet… it happened. It should not have.
Wrong.
Terrifying.
Blankets of snow in the middle of spring?
So utterly wrong.
The man's corpse lay motionless, a black-fletched arrow skewered through his back. Nearby, his adamantite spear lay discarded; herbs scattered like funeral petals.
The creature sat close by, still chattering to itself—gleaming eyes wide with joy.
No guilt.
No shame.
Only innocent, radiant glee.
Earlier that evening, he had run.
He had screamed.
He was slain in a single shot.
Then again.
And again.
Each time, the entity loosed the soul. Each time, another arrow flew. Each time, a fresh scream rent the air.
Again.
And again.
Until satisfaction was reached.
Dead.
Dead again.
And again.
'Hey, Muse! Look at this soul, Muse! You liked the last one, didn't you? This one's tasty too!'
The childlike being offered the soul-fragment like a child proffering sweets, presenting it to the sword resting beside them.
The blade trembled faintly, drinking in the essence. Its surface shimmered with a cold, sickly light. And from deep within its core… countless voices shrieked.
Millions.
Millions of souls… consumed.
Their agony echoed within the cursed steel, and with every draught, the blade grew heavier. Colder. Hungrier.
And still… the snow fell.
— Adventurers' Guild of Amõha Tœvə
Yondi, 37th of Avoca, 3128 Tenet | Dawn, 06:38 local time
'Everyone, listen up! Something's not right!'
The guild's great oaken doors shuddered as Torãmo flung them wide, the heavy timber striking the stone walls with a thunderous crack. He stormed in, his voice as sharp as a whetted axe.
The early risers froze—some mid-bite, others mid-sharpening—eyes darting to the entrance as a sudden, chilling stillness choked the morning bustle.
Torãmo, a veteran Bear-Class adventurer, bore grim news. Reygh—comrade, slayer of wyverns, and a trusted shield of caravans—had not returned. His mission? A mere herb run in the south-western reaches of Archelion's vast green. An errand for fledglings, at best.
No beast, no bandit, nor curse dared tread during the Life Stone's pulsing lull. Peace held the land in its cradle—yet Reygh had vanished like morning mist.
A heavy hush followed.
'He should have been back by dusk,' Torãmo muttered, his voice now tight with unease. 'Dawn has broken. Still no word.'
A barbarian rose abruptly, his chair screeching against the floorboards as he shouldered a blood-stained axe. Guilt tugged at the corners of his eyes.
'Arm up! Our brother is in danger!' he barked.
Like flint to tinder, the room ignited.
From spellcasters to beast-tamers, seasoned swordsmen to rune-weaving scribes—every warrior clutched their pact-bound steel and surged into motion. Quest-scrolls were torn from boards, charms fastened to belts, and leather straps tightened.
'E-everyone, please—! Please, remain calm!' squeaked the receptionist, her voice drowning beneath the frenzy.
Dozens of warriors clawed at the mission board, tearing at the parchments like starved hounds descending upon a carcass.
Panic had not yet settled, but dread had begun to fester. Even the greenest novice could sense it—
Something had gone wrong. Terribly, utterly wrong.
---
— The Great Forest of Archelion | South-Western Quadrant Expedition
They moved swiftly, in formation yet wordless, bound by the unspoken pact of seasoned adventurers.
The Everin scouts soared through the canopy—elegant shadows gliding from branch to branch.
The forest was ancient. It knew silence well.
But this silence? This was not peace.
This was absence.
The world itself seemed to hold its breath.
They were not only searching for Reygh anymore.
Others had vanished as well.
Merchants. Nobles. Clerics. Knights. Even fellow adventurers.
All devoured by the forest's wordless maw.
Four search squads branched in each cardinal direction.
Tracking hounds were unleashed, their paws pounding the frostbitten soil.
Beast-tamers summoned their contracted beasts, shadows with fangs and feathers.
Scouting hawks cut through the sky, high above, wings slicing through clouds as they scanned for unnatural movements.
No birds.
No squirrels.
Not even the insects dared stir.
---
— Heart of the Great Forest of Archelion
The Fourth Unit reached the rendezvous first.
A brilliant blue flare bloomed in the sky—a desperate flower of light in a bleak, grey world.
Magical channels failed here.
No spells of sending. No echoes of mental link.
Even compasses spun without mercy, as though the land itself refused guidance.
They stepped into it.
Into the frost.
Not the forest they knew.
Not the soil they loved.
Snow.
White, thick, ancient.
Blanketing every tree root, branch, and leaf like the remnants of a forgotten curse.
Ice-flowers, crystalline and tall as spears, pierced the canopy like the fangs of winter itself.
The Mages, cautious but trained, began channelling spells of flame and protection—whispers of destruction folded within their incantations.
The Everin archers took their stance—bows taut, eyes narrowed, hearts poised between calm and alarm.
And then—
It began.
A scream.
A howl.
A cry.
And then—
Collapse.
No blades.
No blood.
No enemies in sight.
Yet one by one—
They fell.
Slumped into the frost like puppets with their strings abruptly severed.
Their minds shattered.
As if some unseen force had scraped across the surface of their souls.
The air changed.
Heavy.
Thick with dread.
Something stirred.
Not walked.
Not stomped.
Stirred.
Like a dream waking with a smile.
A giggle danced in the drifting snow.
Light. Sweet.
Childlike.
"Hey, uncles~"
The voice lilted, far too innocent.
"Shall we play a little game?"
A pause. Then another cheerful hum.
"And after… we can share a meal together, okay~?"
A moment passed.
A breath.
And then—
"Muse… let's begin~"
Silence.
Not the silence of quiet places.
Not peace..
Their legs refused to respond.
Their instincts begged them to flee.
But their bodies were already betraying them.
They knew—
They had crossed into a realm not meant for mortals.
Not merely dangerous.
Not cursed.
Not bewitched.
Sanctified.
This place belonged not to life…
But to death.
Not to wrath, nor to war.
But to one of the Ten Nightmares...
A being whose existence bent reason, sundered law, and broke the balance of Tertha itself.
The Arrow Devil.
Nightmare of the Glacial Hell.