The mist had grown thicker, curling around the trees like ghostly tendrils. Every step the rogue cultivator took stirred the fog at his feet, but he moved like a shadow—silent, watching, waiting.
He wasn't alone.
A few paces ahead, through the gaps in the trees, steel clashed against bone.
"Form up! Don't let them break the line!" a voice barked—commanding, desperate.
The rogue crept forward and crouched behind a fallen trunk. Through the branches, he saw them. A group of six, surrounded by a swarm of the same half-rotted undead he'd just faced. Some wore old armor, others bore the rotting remnants of ancient uniforms.
In their midst stood a girl, younger than the rest, wrapped in a long white mantle adorned with glowing runes. Her hands trembled as she drew symbols in the air, sending pulses of golden light that slowed the undead, burning their flesh.
A healer. Or a seer. Maybe both.
Behind her, a broad-shouldered swordsman swung a massive blade, cleaving through the cursed corpses with a fury born from more than battle. He stood closest to her, always placing himself between her and danger.
And yet… she kept glancing toward the trees.
Toward him.
Their eyes met—just for a moment. Hers widened, sensing something. Not fear. Not judgment. Curiosity.
His expression didn't change. But his mind stirred.
Then she screamed.
A twisted, four-armed corpse had broken through the line, rushing toward her with inhuman speed. The swordsman was too far.
He could let her die. He should. It wasn't his fight.
But something inside him moved.
He stepped from the mist.
His hand reached forward, palm open.
And the abyss answered.
A spear of blackened shadow erupted from the ground, piercing the beast clean through the chest and pinning it to a tree. Its limbs thrashed, shrieking, before disintegrating into ash.
The group froze.
The girl stared, breathless.
The swordsman turned—and his eyes narrowed, rage boiling beneath the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" he growled, stepping in front of the girl like a rabid dog guarding his prize.
The rogue said nothing.
Another corpse lunged from behind—but a flick of his hand summoned a burst of void-flame, incinerating it in midair.
The battle ended in moments. The undead, sensing his presence, fled into the shadows like cockroaches under sunlight.
The group stared at him, wide-eyed.
The girl stepped forward slowly. Her voice was soft, musical. "That energy… it's not Qi. It's not mana either. What are you?"
He turned his gaze to her. "A man who should be dead."
Before she could speak again, the swordsman pushed in front of her, shoving a finger into the rogue's chest.
"You don't get to act mysterious. I saw the way she looked at you."
The rogue blinked. "And?"
"You think you can show up, wave some shadow magic around, and play the hero?"
The girl stepped in, alarmed. "Rane, stop—"
"Don't," the swordsman snapped, glaring at her. "I've been protecting you since the Marshes. Since the Obsidian Ruins. He just showed up. You don't know what he is!"
The rogue's eyes darkened, just slightly. "And you do?"
"I know enough. I know monsters when I see them."
A tense silence.
Then the girl spoke, quietly. "He saved me, Rane. That matters."
The swordsman looked like he wanted to explode. But he said nothing. Just clenched his jaw, turned, and stalked off.
The others—mercenaries, from the look of them—watched silently. Uncertain.
The girl offered a hand. "I'm Lira."
He stared at her hand for a moment… then took it.
"Name?" she asked.
He hesitated.
"…Call me Ash."
She tilted her head. "That's not your real name."
He looked past her, toward the retreating mist. "No. But it'll do for now."