Prologue: The Crimson Awakening

The moon hung low over Skull Mountain, its pale light fractured by the jagged peaks that clawed at the heavens. It was a place where shadows lived longer than they should, stretching unnaturally across the barren landscape as if trying to escape some unseen terror lurking in the darkness. The air here carried an unnatural chill, even for this time of year, and it seeped into the bones of anyone foolish enough to venture too close. Few dared to tread these cursed lands, but those who did spoke of whispers on the wind—soft murmurs that seemed almost human, yet carried no meaning, only dread.

Skull Mountain had earned its name long before recorded history, though few knew why anymore. Some claimed it was because the crags themselves resembled the hollow sockets and grinning teeth of a massive skull when viewed from afar. Others whispered darker tales, speaking of ancient rituals performed atop the highest peak, where sacrifices were made under blood-red moons. Whatever the truth might have been, one thing remained certain: Skull Mountain was not merely a mountain; it was alive. Its very essence pulsed with malevolence, radiating an aura so thick it could choke the breath from your lungs if you lingered too long.

Legends told of warriors who once called this desolate land home. They were said to be fierce and unyielding, their bodies hardened by years of battle against both man and beast. These warriors bore crimson eyes—a mark bestowed upon them by whatever dark force ruled over Skull Mountain—and fought with a ferocity unmatched by any mortal army. Their weapons gleamed like polished obsidian, forged in fires fueled by secrets best left buried. Yet none could say what drove them or whom they served, for all who sought answers vanished without a trace, leaving behind only echoes of their screams.

But there was another legend, older still, whispered only among the most superstitious villagers who huddled around flickering hearths miles away from the mountain's shadow. It spoke of a single warrior—a figure shrouded in myth and fear—who stood above all others. He was known simply as "Red-Eye," a title earned not just for the color of his irises but for the rivers of blood he left in his wake. Red-Eye was neither man nor demon, but something far worse—a being born of the mountain itself, crafted from its fury and hatred. His presence alone was said to herald doom, his arrival marked by storms that split the sky and earthquakes that shattered the earth.

No one knew how old Red-Eye truly was. Some believed he had walked the world since time immemorial, while others thought him newly risen, summoned forth by some forgotten incantation. What was undeniable, however, was his power. Stories described him as towering and gaunt, his frame wrapped in tattered armor blackened by centuries of combat. A jagged scar ran diagonally across his face, pulling one corner of his mouth into a permanent sneer. And then there were his eyes—two burning embers set deep within shadowed sockets, glowing brighter with every life he took.

For generations, Skull Mountain had lain dormant, its horrors confined to campfire tales meant to frighten children into obedience. But now, something stirred within its depths. Villagers reported strange lights dancing along the ridgeline, casting eerie reflections onto the clouds below. Animals fled en masse from the surrounding forests, abandoning nests and burrows alike. Even the rivers flowing down from the mountain ran sluggish, their waters tinged with rust-colored streaks that smelled faintly of iron.

It began with dreams—vivid, haunting visions that plagued sleepers across the region. In each dream, a figure cloaked in shadow loomed large, its red eyes piercing through the darkness like twin suns. The figure never spoke, yet its intent was clear: destruction. Those who woke often found themselves drenched in sweat, their hearts pounding as though they'd run for miles. Most dismissed the dreams as mere coincidence, the product of overactive imaginations stoked by idle gossip. But then came the disappearances.

At first, it was small things—farm tools misplaced overnight, livestock vanishing without a trace. Then entire families began to go missing, their homes found empty save for scorch marks etched into the walls and floors. Search parties sent to investigate returned shaken, speaking of unearthly howls echoing through the woods and shapes moving just beyond the edge of sight. One group never returned at all, leaving behind only their torches, extinguished mid-flame, and footprints leading straight toward the mountain.

And so, fear spread like wildfire, consuming villages whole. Priests prayed fervently for deliverance, their chants rising in desperate crescendos as they beseeched gods indifferent to mortal plight. Hunters armed themselves with crude spears and sharpened stakes, vowing to protect their kin no matter the cost. Yet despite their efforts, the sense of impending doom grew stronger with each passing day. Something was coming—an ancient evil awakened from slumber, hungry for vengeance or perhaps something more sinister.

In the village of Black Hollow, nestled precariously at the base of Skull Mountain, the tension reached a breaking point. Here, the nightmares were worst, gripping men, women, and children alike in paralyzing terror. Parents locked their doors at night, clutching makeshift weapons as they listened to the wind moan through the trees. Children refused to leave their beds, convinced that the red-eyed figure would come for them next. Even the dogs, usually loyal guardians, cowered beneath tables and whimpered softly, their instincts warning them of danger they couldn't comprehend.

Among the villagers, one name was spoken more than any other: Red-Eye. Though none had seen him firsthand, his legend loomed large, a specter haunting every conversation. Some believed he was already among them, walking unseen through the streets, choosing his victims with cruel deliberation. Others thought him still trapped within the mountain, biding his time until the moment was right to strike. Either way, hope dwindled with each sunrise, replaced by a gnawing certainty that salvation would not come.

On the eve of the blood moon, the final piece fell into place. High above the village, perched atop the tallest peak of Skull Mountain, a pair of crimson eyes flared to life. They burned brighter than any star, casting a sickly glow over the valley below. For a moment, everything fell silent—the wind ceased its mournful wail, the animals stopped their frantic fleeing, and even the rivers froze mid-flow. Then, with a sound like thunder rolling across the heavens, the ground trembled violently, sending rocks tumbling down the mountainside.

From the summit emerged a figure wreathed in shadow, his silhouette stark against the crimson sky. Red-Eye had awakened.

---

As dawn broke over Black Hollow, the village lay eerily quiet, its inhabitants frozen in anticipation of what horrors the new day might bring. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, yet no voices rose in greeting. Doors remained shut tight, windows boarded up against the encroaching darkness. Only the occasional cry of a child or the nervous whinny of a horse broke the oppressive silence.

Eira stood at the edge of the forest, her breath visible in the frosty air. She clutched a hunting knife in one hand, its blade dulled from years of use, and a lantern in the other, its flame flickering weakly despite the oil she'd poured into it just moments ago. Her dark hair was tied back hastily, strands escaping to frame her face, which bore the lines of someone much older than her twenty-three years. Eira wasn't a fighter by nature—she was a healer, skilled in herbs and remedies—but desperation had driven her to take up arms alongside the others.

Behind her, the rest of the village gathered in uneasy clusters, their faces pale and drawn. Men gripped pitchforks and axes, their knuckles white with tension. Women held infants close, rocking them gently as if trying to shield them from the inevitable. Elder Gwynn, the village's spiritual leader, stood at the forefront, his staff planted firmly in the ground. His beard was streaked with gray, and his eyes reflected the same fear that gripped everyone else, though he tried valiantly to mask it.

"We can't stay here," Eira said, her voice trembling slightly. "If we do, we'll die."

Gwynn turned to her, his expression grave. "And where would you have us go? The roads are unsafe, the forests infested with… whatever it is that hunts us. We're surrounded."

Eira swallowed hard, glancing toward the mountain. Its jagged peaks loomed ominously, the red glow from the previous night now dimmed but still present. "Then we fight," she said, surprising even herself. "We can't just wait for him to come to us."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of agreement and disbelief. Many shook their heads, muttering prayers under their breath. Others looked to Gwynn for guidance, their trust in him unwavering despite the dire circumstances.

Before anyone could respond, a scream pierced the air—a high-pitched, guttural sound that sent chills down Eira's spine. Everyone froze, their eyes darting toward the source. From the treeline emerged a young boy, no older than ten, his face streaked with dirt and tears. He stumbled forward, collapsing at Eira's feet.

"They're coming!" he sobbed, clutching at her legs. "They're coming!"

"Who?" Eira demanded, kneeling beside him. "Who's coming?"

But the boy couldn't answer. His wide, terrified eyes fixed on something behind her, and Eira felt her stomach drop. Slowly, she turned, raising her lantern higher.

At first, she saw nothing but the dense wall of trees. Then, movement—a shadow shifting between the trunks. Another followed, then another, until dozens of figures emerged from the forest, stepping into the light. They wore tattered armor, their faces obscured by helmets that gleamed dully in the morning sun. Each carried a weapon—swords, axes, spears—all stained with rust and dried blood. But it was their eyes that struck true terror into Eira's heart.

Crimson. Every single one of them.

The villagers recoiled, stumbling backward as the warriors advanced steadily, their boots crunching loudly against the frost-covered ground. There was no hesitation in their movements, no sign of mercy. They moved as one, a single entity driven by purpose unknown to anyone but themselves.

"Form a line!" Gwynn shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. "Protect the children!"

Men and women scrambled to obey, forming a shaky barrier between the advancing horde and the terrified civilians behind them. Eira stayed near the front, her knife trembling in her grip. She glanced at the others, searching for reassurance, but found only mirrored fear.

The warriors halted just outside the reach of the villagers' makeshift weapons, their red eyes scanning the crowd with predatory precision. For several agonizing seconds, there was silence. Then, without warning, one of them stepped forward, raising a massive sword above his head.

The attack came swiftly. The warriors surged forward, their weapons flashing in the dim light. Chaos erupted as the villagers fought back with whatever they had, swinging farming tools and kitchen knives with frantic desperation. Eira ducked as a sword whistled past her ear, narrowly missing her head. She lashed out blindly with her knife, feeling it connect with flesh. A warrior staggered back, clutching his side, but showed no sign of pain. Instead, he grinned—a grotesque, toothy leer that sent bile rising in Eira's throat.

Around her, the battle raged on. Screams filled the air as villagers fell, cut down by the relentless onslaught. Blood soaked the snow, turning it crimson. Eira fought with everything she had, her movements fueled by adrenaline and sheer willpower. But it wasn't enough. The warriors were too strong, too fast, too numerous.

Just as hope began to fade entirely, a deafening roar echoed across the valley. The ground quaked violently, throwing everyone off balance. Eira hit the ground hard, her lantern shattering beside her. Through the chaos, she looked up—and froze.

Standing atop the ridge overlooking the village was Red-Eye himself. His towering form cast a long shadow over the battlefield, his scarred face twisted into a snarl of pure malice. In his hand, he held a massive axe, its blade black as midnight and etched with runes that glowed faintly red. His eyes burned brighter than ever, locking onto Eira with an intensity that made her feel as though her soul was being stripped bare.

Time seemed to slow as Red-Eye descended the ridge, each step shaking the earth beneath him. The warriors parted to let him pass, bowing their heads in reverence. When he reached the center of the battlefield, he raised his axe high, letting out another ear-splitting roar that silenced the fighting instantly.

Eira stared at him, her heart pounding wildly. She wanted to run, to hide, to do anything but face the monster before her. But she couldn't move. His gaze held her captive, rooting her to the spot.

"You," he growled, his voice deep and gravelly, resonating like distant thunder. "You will witness the end."

With that, he swung his axe downward, cleaving the earth in two. A shockwave rippled outward, knocking everyone to the ground. Eira cried out as the world spun around her, her vision blurring. Darkness closed in, swallowing her whole.

When she awoke, the village was gone. All that remained was ash and ruin, scattered remnants of lives extinguished in an instant. And standing amidst the devastation, his crimson eyes blazing with triumph, was Red-Eye.

The nightmare had only just begun.