Eamon couldn't believe his eyes.
His hands trembled as he knelt beside the lifeless body of his grandfather, Aegon—the man who had raised him, protected him, taught him every spell, every herb, every tale of honor and bravery. His white beard was stained red, eyes half-closed, the light that once danced in them disappeared forever.
"No… no, no, no," Eamon whispered, shaking the old man's body as if he could will him back into existence. "Please, wake up. Please…"
A sudden thud at the door jolted him. A man came rushing in, panting, his tunic soaked in sweat. It was Derek—the same man whose child Aegon had saved.
"Eamon!" Derek called out breathlessly, "You need to listen to me."
Eamon looked up slowly, hollow-eyed. "Who are you? And, Did you… Did you see who did this?"
Derek's eyes dropped to the floor in shame. "My name is Derek and I did more than just see."
Eamon's face darkened.
"It was Kern," Derek said, his voice breaking. "He found out Master Aegon saved my son. He… He said your grandfather was betraying the town's purity, helping the outcasts. So he made the villagers kill him. I'm the reason all of this started. In a way, I killed your grandfather. I'm so sorry."
Derek told him everything that happened after he left.
Eamon stared at him. The words hung in the air like a storm waiting to burst.
Then he said, "It's not your mistake. You were merely a victim. You are not the culprit here. That bastard named Kern is. Tell me where I can find him. I will kill that man."
Derek hesitated. "I understand your anger, I do. Even I feel the same. But… right now, you need to save yourself."
"What do you mean?", enquired Eamon.
"Kern has manipulated even the town councilmen. He twisted the town's laws to make your grandfather's death seem legal—execution by decree for consorting with the 'tainted.' He's stirred the villagers into a frenzy. Now he's coming for you."
Eamon froze.
Derek continued, "He knows Aegon had a grandchild. He told the town you were part of your grandfather's 'corruption'—that you're cursed, just like him. They're marching here now. Armed. With pitchforks, swords… even priests. You won't survive this."
Something flickered in Eamon's mind. A half-remembered image from his childhood—his grandfather whispering, "One day, if the light betrays you, seek the darkness. But only if your heart can bear it."
"I don't care anymore," Eamon said. His voice was steady now. Cold. "I will save my grandpa."
Derek blinked. "What? How—"
"First," Eamon wiped his eyes, "help me pick him up."
Together, they lifted Aegon's lifeless body. Derek followed as Eamon led him through the kitchen, into a narrow hallway, and stopped at a moss-covered wooden shelf. Eamon removed three thick books and tapped the wooden panel behind them in a strange rhythm. The panel shimmered for a moment, then clicked open.
Behind it lay a staircase spiraling downward into darkness.
"Where are we going?" Derek asked.
Eamon didn't answer.
They reached a large underground chamber—lit only by enchanted stones that glowed a faint green. Dust coated every surface. Alchemical tools lay scattered, untouched for years. At the far end stood a massive metal door with glyphs carved in forgotten tongues.
Eamon placed his hand on the door. His palm glowed. The glyphs responded.
With a deep groan, the door slid open, revealing a smaller chamber beyond.
"Even I've never been inside this room," Eamon said. "Grandpa told me to never open it."
The room was ancient. The air inside was dry and heavy. Stone shelves lined the walls, filled with vials, scrolls, bones of creatures long extinct. In the center lay a pedestal, atop which sat a sealed leather scroll, wrapped in red silk.
Eamon picked it up with trembling hands.
Derek's eyes darted around. "What… What is this place? And what are those writings?"
Eamon unwrapped the scroll slowly. "I once entered this room without grandpa's permission. I peeked inside, saw some old stuffs and books. There, on a script, I read a word which I remember even today—'Resurrection.'"
Derek's breath hitched. "You mean to say… this script can bring back the dead?"
"I don't know. But all I can do now is try."
As Eamon unfurled the scroll, strange symbols danced across the parchment. The characters shifted and glowed as if alive. One section read:
"""He who dares awaken the forsaken shall be bound by curse eternal. He will face eternal damnation. Light shall abandon him. Shadows shall haunt him. And to the world, he shall be a heretic unredeemed."""
Eamon stared at the words, unsure of their true weight. He looked above the script and saw a letter in a language he couldn't understand. He brushed it aside.
"What does it mean?" Derek asked, worried.
"I don't care," Eamon replied. "I am ready for anything. I just want my grandpa back"
He took chalk from a shelf and began drawing the magic circle as instructed. Unlike the basic ritual circles taught in town, this was far more complex—intertwining loops, runes with multiple layers, symbols that seemed to hum with their own life. The air turned cold.
Eamon laid Aegon's body at the center. Then he stood at the edge of the circle and began chanting.
"Akar Mortem... Vidi Nexum... Revertar ex Tenebris…"
At first, nothing happened. But then the floor beneath them vibrated. Derek stumbled back.
From the center of the circle, dark tendrils began rising—inky shadows twisting unnaturally. They danced like serpents, pulling energy from the air itself.
"Eamon! Stop!" Derek shouted. "This isn't natural! You don't know what you're bringing back!"
But Eamon continued, louder now, pouring every ounce of his soul into the chant. His eyes glowed faintly, the circle responding to his will.
Suddenly—a beam of light shot straight from the center of the circle into the ceiling, without boring a hole clean through the underground roof. The light phased through everything and directly hit the moon. The light was blinding. Eamon and Derek shielded their eyes as the chamber exploded in brightness.
Then—silence.
As the light dimmed, they looked toward the circle.
A figure stood in the middle.
It was Aegon. His robes torn, his skin pale. But something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
One of his eyes was missing—an empty, sunken hole leaking black ichor. His fingers were elongated, claw-like. His mouth curled into something between a sneer and a snarl, revealing wolf-like fangs. Black veins pulsed along his arms, glowing faintly under his skin.
"Grandpa…?" Eamon whispered.
He took a step forward.
Derek grabbed his arm. "No! That's not him! Eamon, that's not your grandfather anymore!"
"I don't care," Eamon said, shaking him off. "Please, let me save him…"
He took another step.
The creature turned toward Eamon—and in a blur, punched him hard in the chest.
Eamon flew across the room, slamming into the stone wall. Blood splattered the ground. He gasped, choking, head spinning. His vision blurred.
Derek rushed to him, catching his limp body before it could hit the floor.
"Eamon!" he cried. "You have to stop! That's not him. Please—please understand!"
But Eamon's lips trembled. "I… don't care. Please… just let me try…"
The creature turned toward Derek now, slowly stalking forward.
Its eyes gleamed with mindless hunger.
"Stay back!" Derek shouted, raising a defensive ward. But his hands trembled.
The creature hissed.
Eamon, barely conscious, lifted his head. Blood trickled down his brow. He saw the thing move toward Derek—his friend, his only remaining link to this world.
He gathered every ounce of strength left in his broken body.
And screamed—
"GRANDPAAA!!"
The creature froze.
Its clawed foot stopped mid-step. Its body trembled.