Dark Omen

The sun slowly ascended, melting away the lingering morning mist, heralding the dawn of a new day in Isa Village.

Nestled in seclusion, Isa Village remained untouched by the tides of the outside world. There were no bustling streets nor formidable knightly orders—only vast fields, dense forests encircling the village, and its hardworking inhabitants. Day after day, they toiled upon this land, farming and hunting, leading simple yet fulfilling lives.

For fifteen years, Elvin had known nothing but the tranquility of this village.

"Elvin, take this sack of wheat to the blacksmith's shop."

In the village square, a few villagers sat upon weathered wooden benches, conversing idly as they busied themselves with their harvest. The speaker was Jack, an elderly farmer whose skin bore the deep lines of a life spent under the unforgiving sun. Yet, despite his age, his arms remained sturdy—like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree firmly anchored in the earth.

Elvin accepted the heavy burlap sack with a silent nod.

This was a task he had done countless times before, and the villagers had long grown accustomed to seeking his help. Though he came from a poor household, he never once complained—shouldering every laborious duty within his means with quiet diligence.

The village blacksmith's shop stood to the west, one of the liveliest places in town. Beyond crafting everyday tools, it also forged simple weapons and armor for the young men who wished to arm themselves.

Stepping inside, Elvin was immediately greeted by the searing heat of the forge. The air carried the sharp scent of molten metal, and the rhythmic clang of hammer against steel resounded with unwavering strength.

"Oh, Elvin! You're here."

Haken, the village blacksmith, set down his hammer, dusted off his apron, and grinned.

"Uncle Jack asked me to bring this wheat," Elvin said, placing the sack upon the counter.

Haken nodded, deftly untying the sack to inspect the grains before turning to retrieve a chunk of obsidian-black ore from the shelf. He handed it to Elvin. "A token of thanks—take this back to him."

Like Jack, Haken was an old man, though his physique remained formidable—his muscles sculpted by years of labor.

Elvin took the ore, his fingers brushing against its cool, unyielding surface. His gaze lingered upon it.

Noticing his curiosity, Haken chuckled. "That's magistone—it absorbs magical energy to enhance weapons. Unfortunately, it's only useful to real warriors. To ordinary folk, it's just a pretty rock."

Elvin hesitated, then asked in a low voice, "Uncle Haken, how does one become a warrior?"

For a moment, Haken was taken aback, then he burst into laughter. "So, you've started thinking about that, have you? Well, lad, there are many kinds of warriors in this world."

He gestured as he spoke. "The most basic are fighters—relying on their bodies as weapons, honing their strength and speed through rigorous training. Beyond that, one can become a knight, skilled in defense and teamwork, or a swordsman, specializing in the art of the blade. Apart from warriors, there are also mages and healers—each forming the foundation of combat professions."

"To truly grow strong, one must awaken their potential—mastering magic or higher-level techniques. But that's no easy feat. Only true prodigies ever succeed."

Elvin listened in silence, yet a flicker of yearning gleamed in his eyes.

"A prodigy…"

His fingers unconsciously tightened, his nails grazing the rough surface of the magistone.

Haken noted his quiet contemplation, his tone softening slightly. "But listen, boy, talent isn't everything. What matters most is resolve. If you truly wish to grow stronger, challenge yourself—find your own path."

Elvin gave a slight nod, tucking the magistone away before turning to leave.

As he stepped out of the shop, familiar figures came into view in the village square.

A group of village youths had gathered at the center, their excitement palpable. Among them, a boy named Peter held a short sword aloft, proudly displaying it to the others.

"My father had Uncle Haken forge this for me! Once I come of age, I'll be able to register with the Mercenary Guild!"

The surrounding youths gazed at the sword with envy, their chatter filled with longing. "That's amazing! If you join the guild, you can take on missions, earn money, and see the world…"

"Hah, unlike some people who'll waste their lives rotting in this village—without even a decent weapon to their name."

As those words fell, several pairs of eyes shifted toward Elvin, their gazes laced with condescension and derision.

Elvin remained motionless, unfazed. He was used to such looks.

Peter smirked, sheathing his sword before giving Elvin a smug pat on the shoulder. "Hey, Elvin, you're not seriously planning to be a no-name farmer for the rest of your life, are you?"

Elvin said nothing. Without a word, he turned and walked away.

Behind him, the laughter of the boys gradually faded, yet their taunting words burrowed into his mind like a splinter lodged deep in his heart.

Nightfall—Shadows Closing In

Under the cloak of night, Elvin sat at his doorstep, gazing up at the star-strewn sky.

Beside him, Martha murmured gently, "Elvin, don't let their words trouble you. Everyone walks a different path."

Standing nearby, Garren's eyes gleamed with quiet intensity. "But Elvin, if you truly wish to grow stronger, then one day—you will have to leave this place."

Elvin lowered his gaze, absently running his fingers over the magistone nestled in his palm. A nameless emotion stirred within him.

Then, in the distance, faint flickers of firelight blinked through the darkness, like unseen eyes watching from the forest's edge.

A suffocating stillness crept over the land.

In the embrace of the night, an unseen menace slithered ever closer.