The Appearance of Kramar, the Malevolent Spirit

The tavern's lively glow was thick with the sounds of music, laughter, and the carefree chatter of the townsfolk. Jennifer leaned in close to Oliver, her presence a soft yet undeniable force. Her gaze lingered on him, laden with an unspoken invitation, her sultry smile leaving little room for misinterpretation. But Oliver, ever the picture of restraint, offered only a polite, albeit strained, smile in response.

Around them, the raucous crowd—a mix of drunken sailors, rowdy merchants, and local farmers—burst into uproarious laughter, their raucous banter urging the two on. The atmosphere buzzed with chaotic energy—men and women danced in abandon, their movements wild and uncoordinated, while others sang in loud, off-key voices, indulging in fleeting embraces and stolen kisses.

Oliver was about to gently extricate himself from Jennifer’s advancing hand when a sudden, icy sensation seized him. It wasn’t just instinct; it was the flare of his magic core, surging with heightened sensitivity. Like an internal alarm, it spiked in warning. He raised his head sharply, his senses sharpening, scanning the tavern’s lively interior.

And there, in the kaleidoscope of flickering lanterns, he saw it.

A shadow—tall, imposing, and half-concealed in the dim light of the tavern’s farthest corner. It was a presence that stood out even in the chaos. Its form was humanoid, but shrouded in a black mist that seemed to bleed into the shadows, its edges glowing faintly with a sickly crimson hue. There was no face, no warmth, only a palpable aura of malevolence that sent a shiver down Oliver’s spine.

Kramar...

His heart skipped a beat, and his pulse quickened. The air in the room seemed to thicken with dread. Without thinking, Oliver shrugged off Jennifer’s wandering hand and instinctively stepped back, his eyes locked on the ominous figure.

This was no ordinary encounter. Kramar—the malevolent spirit that had haunted his thoughts ever since it slaughtered Griffin, the talented upperclassman who’d been a mentor to him and others. Griffin had been no pushover, yet Kramar had taken his life without effort, leaving only the grim echoes of a once-promising mage. Now, in the heart of this noisy tavern filled with over a hundred unsuspecting souls, the same deadly entity had emerged once more.

Suddenly, a scream pierced the air—a shrill, terrified cry that shattered the revelry like glass. Heads snapped around, eyes wide with terror, and a wave of panic spread like wildfire. People scrambled over tables and chairs, their limbs colliding in their desperate rush for the exits. But Kramar was not one to wait for its prey to flee. With an earsplitting shriek, it surged forward, its black mist trailing like a stormcloud as it dove straight for a burly sailor with a thick yellow beard.

The sailor froze, his eyes locking with the shadow, his face draining of color. His legs buckled under him, but he couldn’t look away, trapped by the supernatural terror that had seized his body. His mouth opened, but no sound came, and his death was written in his wide, fearful eyes.

But before Kramar’s claws could sink into flesh, a stone spike materialized in midair, crashing into the spirit’s head with the force of a thunderstrike. The blow disrupted its momentum, sending the dark figure careening to the floor with a dull thud.

A hush fell over the tavern, and all eyes turned toward the source of the disruption. Through the chaos, a lone figure strode forward—calm, composed, and resolute. Oliver.

“Your fight is with me!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise like a warhorn, commanding the attention of every soul in the room.

For a moment, the crowd faltered. The ones who had fled hesitated at the doors, peeking nervously through the glass, unsure whether to run or to watch in awed silence. The tavern seemed to hold its breath.

Oliver’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. He was alone—his trusted companions were absent, and the odds were daunting. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on him, but he steadied his resolve.

Kramar, sensing the defiance in Oliver’s stance, let out a low growl. Its crimson eyes narrowed, focusing on the young mage as its malevolent aura intensified, spilling out from it like a dark fog. The oppressive energy filled the room, suffocating the air and making it feel as though the very walls were closing in. But even as the spirit seethed with rage, it hesitated, its form momentarily still. There was something about Oliver’s presence—a threat too potent to ignore. For a fleeting moment, a silence fell, a dangerous calm.

Outside, whispers rippled through the crowd of onlookers.

“Is that Stark? The prodigy from the academy?”

“Could he really be a full-fledged mage already?”

The tension shattered in an instant.

With a screech that reverberated through the very bones of the tavern, Kramar lunged. Its movements were a blur, a violent storm of shadow and fury. In a heartbeat, it was upon Oliver, its claws slashing through the air toward his head with terrifying speed.

But Oliver was ready.

His sword, steel honed for battle, was raised just in time.

Clang!

The clash of metal meeting ethereal claws rang out, a sharp sound that reverberated through the tavern, sending sparks flying. The force of the impact sent Oliver stumbling back, his feet slipping against the splintering floorboards.

Kramar was relentless, its claws cutting through the air like a storm, faster and more savage with every strike. But it was not just physical strength that made this fight so dangerous—it was the dark energy that accompanied each blow, the malicious aura that clawed at Oliver’s soul, trying to freeze him with paralyzing fear.

Oliver’s teeth clenched, and he fought against the dread that threatened to consume him. His magical core flared to life, an immense well of power that fortified his spirit, allowing him to hold his ground.

With every blow he deflected, Kramar’s momentum began to waver, slowing. The spirit faltered, its energy momentarily spent, and Oliver seized the opening.

Planting his feet solidly, he gripped his sword with both hands, channeling his magic into the blade. Holy light erupted along its edge, the brilliance of it searing the air, while flames spiraled around the blade, crackling with a life of their own. The entire room seemed to brighten as the flames roared to life, casting long, flickering shadows against the walls.

The holy light was a result of Oliver activating the magic core of his boar form, which imbued the blade with a blessing of light. The roaring flames, on the other hand, came from the sword’s own innate fire enchantment, a power it had long carried. Together, these two forces surged through the blade, ready to strike down the monster.

Kramar recoiled, its crimson eyes flashing with a rare flicker of hesitation.

“This ends now!” Oliver shouted, his voice a roar of determination as he surged forward, sword raised high.

The crowd outside held its breath, watching through the tavern’s windows, waiting for the moment that would decide it all.

Oliver’s sword descended with a blinding light.