Darkness Falls

Dismas sat on a wooden crate, frowning as he gently pressed his injured calf, an impatient expression crossing his face.

"Tch, just my damn luck," he muttered under his breath, tearing open his pant leg to inspect the wound. The bullet had merely grazed him, leaving a shallow abrasion and a localized burn. He looked up at Caedmic and Reynauld, waving a hand dismissively. "Relax, it's nothing. But I won't be running anywhere anytime soon."

Reynauld examined the wound briefly, then nodded in confirmation. "Stay put and don't move. We'll handle whoever's inside."

Caedmic handed his long-barreled flintlock to Dismas with a smirk. "Try to get some revenge."

Dismas caught it with ease, glancing down to check the powder and ammunition. A faint grin curled his lips. "Hmm, still good for two or three more shots." As he skillfully loaded a round, he half-joked, "Alright then, I'll sit right here and watch how you two take care of this. Really hoping that bastard runs out and gives me a clear shot—I'd love a chance to settle the score."

Caedmic took a slow, measured breath and turned his gaze toward the hunter's cabin. It was eerily silent, the only sound being the wind whispering against the eaves. Recalling the layout he had observed earlier while flanking, he knew the cabin was crudely built from rough-hewn logs, its structure basic and unrefined. There was only one entrance—the front door. That meant as long as they controlled that point, their target had nowhere to run.

"Only one way out—the front," he murmured.

Reynauld nodded, unsheathing his massive sword with deliberate care. His eyes locked onto the closed door, his voice low and steady. "I'll go first. You cover me. Move in slowly."

Caedmic exhaled, nodding. "Understood." He readied his sword in one hand, gripping his pistol in the other, and followed closely behind Reynauld.

The two of them advanced cautiously toward the hunter's cabin. Dismas adjusted his position, resting the flintlock on the crate and aligning his sights with the door, prepared to fire at a moment's notice.

The world seemed to hold its breath. Only the soft crunch of leaves beneath their boots disturbed the silence.

Then—

Creak.

The sharp groan of aged wood shattered the stillness.

The cabin door, old and weathered, slowly swung open from within.

Reynauld and Caedmic instantly halted, gripping their weapons tightly. Dismas held his breath, finger poised on the trigger, his eyes narrowing.

A towering figure stepped into view.

It was the veteran.

"Bang!"

Dismas fired without hesitation.

But in the next moment, the bullet came to a dead stop—as if it had struck solid steel—before clattering uselessly to the ground.

The three of them froze, stunned.

Something was horribly wrong with the veteran.

His eyes, vacant and lifeless, wept dark streams of blood. Crimson streaks oozed from his ears. Black veins, writhing like tendrils, crawled across his face. In one hand, he gripped a single-handed sword. In the other, he clutched an ancient stone tablet, its surface etched with twisted, indistinct runes—some areas corroded as though gnawed away by time itself. But the most unnerving aspect was the glow—the eerie, pulsating red light emanating from the carvings, like the whisper of a phantom lurking in the abyss.

Reynauld's expression darkened. His voice dropped into a near growl. "Something's wrong. Stay sharp."

Caedmic's heartbeat pounded in his chest. He fixated on the tablet, feeling an inexplicable tremor within his soul—an unsettling resonance, as if the Iron Crown itself was reacting to it.

From his position, Dismas clicked his tongue. "Hell… why does it feel like he's not running for his life, but performing some kind of lunatic ritual?"

The veteran did not answer. Instead, his lips curled into a chilling, unnatural grin. His voice, rasping and hoarse, dripped with an eerie malice. "Do you hear it?"

His gaze swept over the three of them, brimming with an unfathomable madness. "It… whispers. It never stops whispering. I once thought… it was a curse. But now, I understand—this is salvation."

Reynauld, his stance unwavering, took a calculated step forward. "That thing in your hand… what is it?"

The veteran chuckled, his hollow eyes drifting to the stone tablet. He reached out, fingers tracing the warped engravings as he murmured, "It came from the South… from the forsaken lands, the places abandoned and forgotten by men. I found it there… thought I could sell it for coin. But then I realized… it offers something far more valuable."

His gaze lifted again, alight with a twisted conviction. "Would you like to see?"

With that, he raised his hand and smeared his own blood across the stone tablet.

In an instant—

The air grew impossibly heavy.

A suffocating presence enveloped the area surrounding the hunter's cabin, as if something unseen was watching them. The very light within the cabin warped, shadows stretching, deepening—devouring the last traces of illumination. The temperature plummeted.

Then came the whispers.

Faint, incomprehensible, slithering through their minds like a phantom breath against their ears. A language not meant for this world, a voice caressing their thoughts like a cold whisper in the night, sending shivers clawing down their spines.

Reynauld stiffened, his pupils contracting. His grip tightened around his sword.

Dismas, for once, felt the overwhelming urge to flee. His expression hardened. "…Shit."

This wasn't an ordinary deserter.

This wasn't an ordinary fight.

They were facing something beyond comprehension.

The veteran's eyes turned completely black, void of all light, as if consumed by some unfathomable abyss. He spread his arms wide, voice dropping into a guttural drone:

"Feel the power of the @$%#&*!"

A torrent of incoherent syllables burst forth—each word like a silver needle stabbing into their skulls. A crushing headache seized them, their minds recoiling from the alien tongue.

Then, the veteran lunged forward, sword raised, as he bellowed a command in that same eldritch dialect: "#@$%!%*!!"

The shadows around them writhed and surged, pulsing as if alive. The hunter's cabin seemed to twist, its very outline shifting into something unnatural.

Reynauld gritted his teeth and roared, "Brace yourselves!"

Caedmic's heart pounded wildly, the dark whispers clawing at the edges of his thoughts. But amidst the terror—

He felt it.

Another force was rising within him.

The Iron Crown was responding.

Realization struck him like a lightning bolt—he had to resist. He had to fight back. He could not let the darkness claim his mind.

Reynauld and Dismas instinctively assumed battle stances. Caedmic, swallowing his fear, gripped his sword tighter. If they did not act now, if they hesitated even for a moment—

The abyss would consume them all.

They had to bring this madman down before the darkness swallowed them whole.