# Chapter 579: The First Blight
The world tilted on its axis. The stance was a ghost, a memory given flesh in the most profane way imaginable. It was the wide, grounded base Soren used, the slight hunch of his shoulders that promised explosive power, the way his hands rose not as elegant weapons but as blunt instruments of survival. It was the first thing she had ever truly seen of him, not the man, but the fighter, a raw, unrefined force of nature in the sand of the Ladder arena. Seeing it now, on this twisted puppet in the silent, corrupted heart of Cinder-Fall, was a violation deeper than any wound. It was a desecration of a sacred memory.
A cold dread, sharp and metallic, flooded Nyra's mouth. The air, already frigid, seemed to drop another ten degrees, biting at the exposed skin of her face. The scent of ozone and wet stone intensified, mingling with a new, cloying sweetness like rotting flowers. The shadows at the edge of the square, which had been writhing like ink in water, now seemed to hold their breath, coalescing, waiting.
"Commander," Isolde's voice was a low, urgent whisper at her side. The former Inquisitor's hand was on the hilt of her own blade, her knuckles white. Her eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were wide with a horror that went beyond mere tactical assessment. She felt it too. The spiritual taint was a palpable thing, a pressure against the soul. "This is not a plague. This is… mockery."
Nyra couldn't answer. Her gaze was locked on the husk. It was a man, or had been. His frame was gaunt, his skin stretched tight over bones that seemed to have lengthened and re-knitted themselves into unnatural angles. His clothes, simple farmer's trousers and a tunic, hung in tatters. But it was the eyes that held her. They glowed with that same faint, sickly green light she'd seen on the woman by the laundry line, but in this one, there was a flicker of something else. Not intelligence, but a malevolent echo of it. A purpose programmed into the puppet.
The husk took a shuffling step forward. Its feet scraped against the gravel with a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. The movement was clumsy, but the stance never wavered. It was a core of corrupted stability in a body that was falling apart.
"Hold your fire," Nyra commanded, her voice steadier than she felt. The words were for the dozen guards and reformed Inquisitors who had formed a loose perimeter behind her. Their fear was a sour tang in the air, a static charge that made the hair on her arms stand up. They were good soldiers, but they were not prepared for this. No one was.
She risked a glance around the square. The scene was a tableau of silent horror. The woman with the laundry was still there, one arm frozen mid-air, a pinched, serene expression on her parchment-like face, her green eyes fixed on nothing. The man by the well hadn't moved, his elongated limbs making him look like a discarded marionette. There were others. A child's tricycle lay on its side near a fountain, its rider a small, still figure with glowing eyes, crouched as if ready to spring. They were all frozen, all preserved in this moment of living death, all watching.
The shuffling husk took another step. It was twenty feet away now. Close enough to see the details of its corruption. Dark, vein-like patterns, like cracks in porcelain, webbed across its skin. They pulsed with a faint, internal light, synchronized with the slow, rhythmic pulse of the darkness that clung to the buildings.
"What do we do, Commander?" one of the guards asked, his voice tight. "Orders?"
Nyra's mind raced, the tactical part of her brain warring with the emotional maelstrom. The Sable League operative, the strategist, knew this was a threat to be contained, analyzed, and neutralized. The woman who had loved Soren felt a gut-wrenching pull to understand, to connect the impossible dots. Why his stance? Why this cruel, specific imitation?
Isolde moved slightly forward, placing herself between Nyra and the advancing husk. "Its aura is a void," she said, her voice barely audible. "It consumes light. It consumes hope. This is Bloom-taint, but… refined. Weaponized."
The word hung in the air. *Weaponized*. The Bloom had been a cataclysm, a chaotic, world-ending event. This was deliberate. This was design.
The husk stopped. Its head tilted, a grotesque parody of curiosity. The green glow in its eyes seemed to brighten, focusing on Nyra. It had identified her. Not as a leader, not as a threat, but as a target. It raised one hand, not in a fist, but with the palm open. A gesture of command, or of grasping.
"Form a line," Nyra ordered, her voice cutting through the tension. "Shields up. Isolde, with me."
The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, the rasp of their armor and the click of locking shields a welcome, familiar sound in the oppressive silence. They formed a wall of steel and determination, a bastion of the old world against this new, unimaginable horror. Isolde stood beside Nyra, her own Gift beginning to stir. A faint, golden light, pure and warm, started to emanate from her, a tiny candle against an encroaching abyss. The light pushed back at the writhing shadows, causing them to hiss and recoil like living things.
The husk seemed to sense the change. Its stance shifted, becoming more aggressive. It lowered its center of gravity, the mimicry of Soren's style becoming even more pronounced. It was preparing to attack.
"Wait," Nyra breathed. She had to know. She had to be sure. "Soren?" she whispered, the name a fragile thing in the dead air.
The effect was instantaneous. The husk's head snapped up, the green glow in its eyes flaring with violent intensity. A low, guttural sound rumbled in its chest, not a word, but a noise of pure, focused malice. It was a response. It recognized the name.
The confirmation was a physical blow. Nyra staggered back a step, the air driven from her lungs. It wasn't just a random imitation. It was an echo. A fragment of him, twisted and corrupted into a weapon. The hope she had clung to, the desperate, foolish belief that this might be a sign of his survival, curdled into a new, sharper kind of agony. This was worse than death. This was defilement.
The husk lunged.
It was not the fluid, explosive movement Soren possessed. It was a jerky, horrifyingly fast scramble, a puppet yanked forward by its strings. But the intent was the same. It closed the ten feet between them in a heartbeat, its clawed hand swiping not at Nyra, but at the golden light surrounding Isolde.
"Now!" Isolde shouted, her own voice ringing with authority. She thrust her hand forward, and the golden light exploded from her palm, not as a gentle glow, but as a concentrated spear of pure energy.
The spear of light struck the husk square in the chest. There was no sound of impact, no cry of pain. Instead, there was a sickening, wet *fizz*, like acid poured on metal. The light didn't burn it; it *unmade* it. Where the spear struck, the husk's body simply dissolved, the corrupted flesh and bone turning to black dust that fell to the ground and was immediately swallowed by the writhing shadows.
But the attack was not without cost. As the light washed over it, the husk let out a psychic scream that slammed into their minds. It was a wave of pure despair, of loss, of a cold and endless emptiness. Nyra cried out, clutching her head, images of fire and ash and Soren's final, fading smile flashing behind her eyes. The soldiers staggered, their discipline wavering as the wave of hopelessness washed over them.
The husk was gone, but its attack had been a signal. All across the square, the frozen figures began to move. The woman by the laundry dropped her pegs, her head turning with a dry, cracking sound. The man by the well pushed himself upright, his elongated limbs unfolding with unnatural grace. The child by the tricycle stood up, a low growl emanating from its small chest. The silent, held breath of the town was released in a single, synchronized exhalation of malice.
They were all turning towards them. Dozens of them. Men, women, children. All with the same glowing green eyes, the same corrupted, cracking skin, the same aura of consuming emptiness.
"To me!" Nyra yelled, shaking off the psychic backlash. She drew her own blade, the steel a cold comfort in her hand. "Back to the edge of the square! Defensive formation! Now!"
The soldiers recovered, their training kicking in. They fell back in good order, their shields overlapping, their spears leveled. Isolde stood at the center of their formation, her golden light now a blazing beacon, pushing back the encroaching darkness and holding the advancing horde at bay. The husks moved with a slow, relentless shuffle, their individual movements clumsy but their collective advance terrifyingly coordinated. They were a tide of corrupted flesh, driven by a single, malevolent will.
Nyra's heart hammered against her ribs. This was a mistake. Coming here with only a small contingent was a fatal error of judgment. She had let her grief, her desperate hope, blind her to the scale of the threat. This wasn't an anomaly to be investigated. It was an army.
"Isolde, can you hold them?" she asked, her voice tight.
"The light repels them," the former Inquisitor grunted, her face pale with exertion. The golden aura around her was flickering, dimming. "But it cannot destroy them all. Not like this. It's… feeding on them. On their emptiness. The more I push, the stronger the darkness behind them becomes."
Nyra looked past the advancing husks, at the buildings of the town. The pulsating darkness was no longer just clinging to them; it was flowing from them, a river of shadow that was coalescing in the center of the square, where the first husk had been destroyed. It was gathering, forming something new.
"We need to fall back," she said, the tactical part of her mind finally screaming loud enough to be heard over the roar of her emotions. "To the ship. Now."
But as she gave the order, a new figure emerged from the shadows of a nearby alley. It was different from the others. Taller. Larger. Its body was not just twisted, but armored in plates of what looked like solidified shadow, the same dark, vein-like patterns pulsing across its form like circuits. It moved with a purpose and grace the others lacked, its steps silent and sure. And its eyes… they didn't just glow. They burned with a brilliant, emerald fire.
This one was no mere puppet. This was a commander.
The armored husk stopped at the edge of the advancing tide and raised a hand. The shambling villagers halted instantly, their collective movement ceasing as if a switch had been flipped. The silence that fell was even more terrifying than the shuffling. The commander husk looked past the soldiers, past Isolde's flickering light, and its burning gaze fixed directly on Nyra.
It knew her. It was here for her.
Then, it spoke. The voice was not a guttural growl, but a chorus of whispers, a dozen voices speaking at once, layered and distorted, yet strangely clear.
"The Sableki whelp," the voices hissed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across a tomb. "You seek a ghost. You will find only a reflection. A memory… reforged."
Nyra's blood ran cold. It knew her name. It knew why she was here.
The commander husk took a step forward, the shadow-armor on its body shifting and flowing like liquid night. "He fought for you. He died for this world. And in his dying, he gifted us a spark. A blueprint. We are his legacy now. We are the First Blight."
It raised its other hand, and the darkness in the center of the square roiled, rising up to form a massive, shadowy blade. The air crackled with corrupted energy. The psychic pressure intensified, a physical weight that threatened to crush them all.
Nyra stood her ground, her sword held tight. Her fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was being burned away by a white-hot rage. They had taken everything from him. His life, his sacrifice, and now, his memory. They had turned his strength, his unique way of fighting, into this… perversion.
"You will not have him," she snarled, her voice ringing with a fury that surprised even herself. "You will not have his memory."
The commander husk's burning eyes seemed to narrow in amusement. "Memory is all we have left of him. And we will carve it into the bones of this world."
The shadowy blade lashed out, faster than sight, a stroke of absolute darkness aimed not at the soldiers, but at Nyra herself. Isolde threw up a wall of golden light, but the blade of shadow shattered it like glass, the fragments of pure energy dissolving into nothing.
There was no time to think. No time to plan. Nyra reacted on pure instinct, the years of training and fighting alongside Soren taking over. She dropped low, mirroring the very stance she had just seen desecrated, and swung her own blade in a rising arc, not to block, but to deflect.
Steel met shadow. The impact was not a clang, but a deafening shriek, like tearing metal and grinding glass. A shockwave of corrupted energy threw her backward, her feet leaving the ground. She landed hard, the air knocked from her lungs, her sword ringing with a dissonant, painful vibration.
She looked up. The commander husk stood over her, its shadowy blade raised for the final blow. Its burning eyes were filled with the cold, empty triumph of a predator that had cornered its prey. The whispers echoed in her mind, a final, mocking epitaph. *A memory… reforged.*