Tom's boots crunched over dry sand and broken stone as he stepped into the abandoned village.
The place looked more like a graveyard than a settlement. Houses stood with walls half-collapsed, their roofs eaten away by time. Dust hung thick in the air, stinging his lungs. He coughed, covering his mouth with the corner of his cloak.
Inside the first home he checked, only silence answered him. A broken chair, sand piled where the door should have been, a shattered pot lying in the corner. Nothing else. Every house was the same.
He muttered under his breath, "Wasted trip?"
As he turned to leave another crumbling home, a sharp click resounded.
Tom froze.
A rifle barrel pointed straight at his chest. An old man, lean but wiry, stood in the doorway. His hands trembled slightly on the weapon, though his eyes were sharp as stone.
"Don't move," the old man rasped, his voice dry, almost cracking.
Tom slowly raised his hands. "Easy. I'm not here to steal or fight. Just… passing through."
The man squinted, scanning him as if searching for lies. Then, for the first time in what felt like years, recognition softened his features.
"A walker," the old man whispered. "A real, breathing soul… after all this time!?"
He lowered the rifle, chuckling under his breath, a sound more brittle than warm. Then he gestured toward the street with a shaky hand.
"Come," he said. "Come inside. My home may be broken, but it still has a roof. You'll be my guest tonight."
Tom blinked, wary but curious. And after a pause, he followed.
The old man's house was little more than a roof held up by cracked stone and patched wood, but inside it felt strangely alive. A clay kettle steamed over a small fire, the faint scent of herbs lifting the dust in the air. He poured a pale liquid into two chipped cups and slid one toward Tom.
"Drink. It'll help clear your throat."
Tom accepted it carefully. The warmth seeped through his fingers. He took a sip. It was bitter, earthy, but calming. His body relaxed almost in spite of itself.
"Thank you," Tom said gently. "My name is Tom Greyrat. I'm… not sure how I ended up here. But it feels like I've been walking for years."
The old man let out a low hum, sitting across from him. His rifle leaned against the wall now, as if he trusted Tom just enough. "Name's not important anymore. But you can call me Aldros."
Tom's gaze wandered over the room. Shattered shelves lined the walls, half-covered in dust. He noticed charms carved into wood and stone, hanging by frayed strings. Most were cracked, useless. Some still glimmered faintly in the dim firelight.
"These," Aldros said, noticing his look, "used to keep us safe. This village was once filled with charms and relics, bright as stars in the desert. We thrived here… until one man's greed burned it all."
Tom leaned forward. "If you don't mind, can I know what happened back then?"
Aldros's voice lowered, as though the walls themselves might be listening. "The landlord, a wealthy man with power and pride. His son… the boy was everything to him. But he wanted more. He wanted to evoke outer deities and redeem a connection between them and he. So he sought a ritual, an experiment with forces none of us understood."
The old man's hands shook slightly as he gripped his cup. "He tied the boy's soul to not one, but three Deities. Their power fought for space inside him. The boy screamed for days. Then the madness came."
Tom sat silent, listening.
Aldros's eyes darkened. "When the corruption took full hold, he wasn't a boy anymore. He grew monstrous. His skin cracked like glass, his voice… it wasn't his voice. He tore through this place like a storm. Friends, family, children.... all gone in a single night." He swallowed hard. "I was the only one left. A survivor, if you can call it that."
The fire crackled between them. Tom's grip tightened around his cup. His mind flickered back to the boy he had met in the ruins earlier, the one who shifted into slime, screaming before collapsing unconscious.
Could it be the same bloodline? Could that boy be the landlord's son… still cursed, still carrying the weight of those deities?
He forced a breath, steadying himself. "And you've been here ever since?"
Aldros gave a hollow smile. "Where else can I go? This place is cursed, yes, but it is mine. I've grown old with its ghosts."
Tom looked into the tea, its reflection shivering like his thoughts. The puzzle pieces were forming, but they carried too much weight.
Tom set his cup down carefully, watching the steam twist into the air. His voice was steady but curious. "Old man… have you heard of something called the Soul Mantis Flower?"
Aldros's eyes lifted, a faint glimmer of memory crossing them. He leaned back slowly, his hand brushing the stubble on his chin. "Soul Mantis…" he whispered, almost tasting the words. "Yes. Once, this village was famous across the whole Durkan Legion for it."
Tom's brows furrowed. "Famous?"
Aldros nodded, his tone carrying both pride and sorrow.
"We farmed Soul Mantis like others farm wheat. The flower was strange, yes, but useful in more ways than anyone could count. Its nectar was food, its leaves a healing herb, its stalks strong enough to bind wood together like glue. Even the petals, when dried, glowed faintly in the dark. Everything about it had purpose." He paused, the fire crackling in the silence. "It was our treasure."
Tom leaned forward, listening carefully. His instincts told him this was important.
Aldros's expression shifted, hardening with grief. "I had one kept… reserved for years. Not for trade. Not for myself." His voice lowered, almost breaking. "For my son."
The words hung heavy between them. Tom kept quiet, letting him continue.
"He was young, but brave," Aldros said, his hands tightening into fists. "He once helped a slave escape the hands of a Royal. A small kindness, nothing more. But kindness has no place under chains." His throat tightened. "The boy was caught, accused, and…" His lips trembled before the words came. "Beheaded. Before my eyes."
Tom felt the weight of the man's pain sink deep into his own chest.
Aldros's voice grew softer, almost like a prayer. "I kept that flower not as a tool, but as memory. To remind me of his courage. To remind me that even in this cruel world, there was someone who chose mercy."
The fire popped, sending sparks into the air. Tom sat still, absorbing it all. His quest, the corrupted boy he had met, and now this flower is all threads weaving into something larger.
At last, Tom spoke quietly, respectfully. "Do you… still have it?"
Aldros looked at him, his old eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Perhaps. But if I do, boy, it is not something to take lightly. Soul Mantis carries weight. It binds life, but it also binds memory."
Tom's breath slowed. He knew this was no ordinary flower.
The old man rose slowly from his seat, his back bent but his steps steady. He crossed to a small chest tucked beneath a cracked wooden beam. With trembling hands, he opened it. Inside, wrapped in faded cloth, lay a faintly glowing blossom.
Its petals had a soft gold, veins of pale green running through like threads of memory.
"This," Aldros said quietly, lifting it with reverence, "is all I have left of him. And yet… I see in your eyes, boy, the same fire he carried. Perhaps this flower has been waiting. Waiting for someone who will not waste it."
Tom stood, bowing his head in gratitude. He received the Soul Mantis Flower with both hands, feeling a subtle warmth pulse from its core, as if it recognized him.
"I can't thank you enough," Tom said, his voice gentle. "Your gift won't be in vain. I'll carry it forward. I'll make sure it means something."
Aldros gave a weary smile. "Then go. Don't look back. This place has nothing left but echoes."
Tom turned toward the door, tucking the flower carefully into his pack. The desert wind pressed against the entrance, carrying with it the weight of the endless night. He looked back once, meeting the old man's gaze, and offered a quiet farewell.
Then he stepped out into the storm.
His decision was clear now. No more detours, no more wandering paths. He would walk straight until he reached his destination—the Endless Black Ocean. Whatever awaited him there, he would face it.
Tom felt the path beneath his feet was not pulling him by chance, but guiding him by choice and he would not stop until he arrived.