"When the day comes that the stars turn red and the sky holds its breath…
Monsters shall rise from men.
And only the one who stands alone shall decide the fate of all."
The old woman's voice was barely louder than the crackling fire. She rocked slowly in her chair, her silver hair tied back in a braid that shimmered orange in the firelight.
Her two grandsons, no older than ten, sat wide-eyed before her, clutching their woolen blankets.
"That's what the prophecy says," she whispered. "That the monsters won't come from some other world. No... they'll come from us. From humans. From our sins."
"Then what happens next, Grandma?" one of the boys asked, eyes gleaming with curiosity and fear.
She leaned closer. "Then... when everything is nearly gone, the Lone One will rise."
"The chosen one?" the younger boy whispered.
She nodded. "Yes. But he will rise alone. When everyone else is gone or turned or betrayed him. He will carry the world's final breath in his hands."
The boys fell silent.
Then a sharp scoff came from behind.
Their grandfather, sitting on a stool and polishing his boots, chuckled without looking up.
"Bah! That story again? How many times are you going to fill their heads with that nonsense?"
"It's not nonsense," the old woman snapped.
He waved his hand. "Monsters? From humans? Please. If monsters ever did show up, what would they even take? Our goats? Our potatoes?"
The boys giggled. The old woman only looked into the fire—and said nothing more.
Meanwhile, Far From the Village...
"Keep your weapons dry, boys. We leave in the morning," the captain muttered as he leaned against the wall of the cave.
The soldiers were camped deep in the northern mountains, sent to explore an old ruin found during a recent quake. The cave had strange symbols at its mouth—worn, unreadable, but ancient.
Most of the men sat around small fires, eating stale bread and joking about promotions.
But five of them didn't stay.
"Let's check deeper," one of them said. "Might find treasure, or at least something worth selling."
The further they went, the colder it became. The air grew heavier.
And then—they slipped.
The floor gave way. Dust exploded around them as they fell into a hidden chamber far below.
When they stood up and lit their torches, none of them spoke.
The entire cavern was filled with webs—thick, white, unnatural.
And in the center of it all stood an enormous stone.
Black. Cracked. Covered in dried blood and grotesque carvings.
Strange black threads wrapped around it like a cocoon. Symbols that pulsed faintly glowed across its surface.
"What the hell is this?" one of them asked.
"Looks like something out of a nightmare," another muttered.
Then a soldier stepped forward and unzipped his pants.
"What the hell are you doing?!" the others shouted.
"Pissing on this ugly rock," he laughed. "I mean—what is this bullshit anyway?"
"Don't be stupid," one said, backing away. "This place… we shouldn't be here. It's not right. We should go back."
The first man laughed and stepped forward again.
"Scared of a rock? Want me to kiss it too?" he jeered.
Then he lifted his hammer.
One strike.
Nothing.
Two strikes.
A thin crack.
Three strikes.
The black stone split open with a sharp, unnatural sound.
And something inside… laughed.
It didn't come from any of them.
It echoed across the chamber, bouncing between the webs, chilling their bones.
"Stop laughing," the scared one whispered.
"I said STOP LAUGHING!"
But the laughter continued.
And then—
One of them dropped to the ground, clutching his chest. He screamed.
His skin began to twist.
His eyes turned pitch black.
Veins bulged.
His fingers bent backward with snapping sounds.
He rose with a snarl. Blood dripped from his mouth.
He was no longer human.
"RUN!" one soldier screamed, too late.
The infected man lunged.
Teeth sank into flesh.
Blood sprayed across the stone walls.
Their screams were muffled by the dark.
Above them, the campfire flickered.
And far away, in a peaceful village, a grandmother stared into the flames and whispered softly—
"It has begun."