Attila then fixed his gaze on the old man. A moment of silence settled in the air.
"Ebren," he said in a deep, resolute voice, "don't kill the old one. He will speak."
Ebren took a step back and gave a slight nod.
"As you wish…" he replied with a smirk, "but I made no promises about the others."
His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly.
The moment he drew the blade, a glow burst from the center of his forehead. A brown, deep light pulsed like veins of energy, forming a mark that shimmered across his skin. At the same time, Ebren's sword responded with light, as though a spirit buried within the steel had awakened.
Ancient symbols shimmered and danced along the blade, moving as if alive,preparing to cleave through the very air itself.
Ebren stepped forward and swung his sword in a single, fluid motion.
"Time for a little dance..."
The blade carved through the air with a slicing gust, cleanly severing the neck of the cultist standing next to the old man ,as if cutting through dry straw. The head dropped and rolled away before the others even realized what had happened. Then chaos erupted.
Arrows hissed through the air.
Some struck tree trunks, others clanged off shields and skittered across the ground.
Attila had already leapt forward, not taking cover but diving into the heart of the enemy.
His blade was short, fast, and merciless every strike a death sentence.
Ebren spun like a storm, his glowing sword cutting through enemy after enemy, each arc a flash of destruction. The other soldiers from their group quickly rallied, forming a steel barrier as they began to push back the attackers spilling from the forest.
The woods echoed with the clash of blades, the cries of the wounded, and the roar of men in combat. With each step, leaves soaked in blood, and the earth grew heavier.
Ebren felled two enemies at once, then turned, reappearing at Attila's side.
A wicked grin stretched across his face.
"I was starting to think this trip might be boring."
Attila didn't respond, but a familiar spark of rage flickered in his eyes. In the middle of the clash, the old man had fallen to his knees, murmuring something. His eyes were closed—not in prayer, but in something darker. It was a chant, an echo of forbidden words, secrets of the cult. Black veins had begun to spread beneath his eyes, and something… something was awakening.
Around Attila, time seemed to slow.
Two enemies lunged at him from both sides.
In a single motion, Attila turned, his sword flashing. One strike—two deaths.
A low hum followed where the blade had passed. Then, silence. The two men collapsed to the ground, sliced cleanly in half, like fruit.
As the blood seeped into the soil like mist, Attila turned his gaze to the kneeling old man. The man was no longer himself.
His eyes had turned completely black, and his lips were whispering in a dark, unknown tongue.
"Qithar… Ezreth… Nolvar tesh'ka!"
The man's words echoed through the forest like a curse. At that moment, a dark light burst from his forehead—just like Ebren's mark, but twisted, filled with shadow.
His skin began to crack, and his veins turned black.
The ground around him split open.
From the damp soil rose the smell of rotting flesh. And then… the dead began to rise, one by one. Their armor was rusted, their eyes empty. Some had broken legs, others stood with only one arm, but all of them moved as if pulled by the old man's chant. Ten ancient corpses stood tall, surrounded by the heavy silence of death. From their eyes, a dark liquid dripped, as if their very souls trembled.
Attila took a step back.
His face twisted with real shock.
"This... how is this possible? No one else was supposed to be able to do this.
Only he could..."
He looked around, confusion and fear in his eyes.
"What is going on here?"
Ebren, while fighting off other enemies, stared at what was happening.
"Attila! These aren't living men... they're soulless! Dead ones, raised by magic!"
The dead moved all at once.
It was as if they shared a single mind, stepping forward in perfect sync.
One of them, holding a rusty axe, rushed at Attila.
Attila didn't hesitate — he swung his sword, cutting the corpse in half from the shoulder.
But even the fallen pieces still twitched.
Attila clenched his teeth, sparks burning in his eyes.
"I'll show you what it means to kill something that's already dead... The dead belong beneath the earth."
He gripped his sword tightly. Enemies surrounded him, but he was like a fire in the middle of a mountain and that fire was about to blaze. At that moment, Ebren's laughter echoed through the forest.
"Like a partridge, I swear! Look how their heads are flying. Were you following us, huh?"
With every swing of his sword, the air around him sharpened, moving like an extension of his blade. Each strike meant death. Heads separated from bodies, and the bodies flipped in the air before crashing to the ground. The earth had turned into mud mixed with the blood of the dead. The brown light on Ebren's forehead still glowed. He muttered between his teeth,
"This is just the beginning."
Meanwhile, Attila spun like a carousel among the rotten corpses, swinging his sword in all directions. But every fallen body quickly reassembled; their flesh torn but their bones joined, standing up again. The corpses had formed a wall around the old man, almost like his armor. A faint spark of light appeared on Attila's forehead. Then it grew, turning into a thin and pure white glow. His eyes shone with both anger and the sign of awakening. Suddenly, Attila roared,
"Enough!"
He stamped his feet hard on the ground. In the blink of an eye, he gripped his sword with both hands and lunged forward. His move was as fast as lightning. Passing through the corpses, the energy from his sword shot forward like a thunderbolt. The ground cracked, pieces of bodies and bones flew into the air, armor broke, and flesh scattered. The wall in front of the old man shattered within seconds.
And at that moment, Attila appeared right before the old man. Dust had not yet settled. The broken corpses were still flying through the air. Bones clashed, the sound of metal echoed through the forest. Attila fixed his eyes on the old man, his voice cold as ice.
"You were watching me from afar... now see me up close."
Without blinking, Attila stared at the old man, then lifted his right foot and struck the man's head with full force in a single move. The blow was so strong that the man's head snapped back and his back hit the ground. At the same time, a dull "crack" sound was heard — the sound of stone breaking.
With that sound, the dark aura spreading from the corpses suddenly shook.
The broken bodies trembled, bones cracked, and as if called away, the corpses turned into shadows and vanished. All that remained was earth stained with blood, a smoky smell, and the red glow on Attila's sword.
At that moment, Ebren stood in the middle of a pool of blood; he was taking deep breaths but wasn't struggling.
"Those were supposed to follow us? Hahaha… ha… hah," he paused for a moment and looked around, "Maybe I exaggerated a bit... They all turned into sushi."
As he said, it had happened. No one from the enemy group was left alive. Only one soldier on Attila and Ebren's side had fallen, struck down by an arrow to the forehead. Ebren lowered his head and was silent for a moment, then looked back at Attila. The thin white light on Attila's forehead had faded, and his face had returned to normal.
Similarly, the brown glow on Ebren's forehead slowly disappeared. Both were tired, but standing tall. The old man writhing on the ground had his eyes rolling in their sockets, saliva dripping from his mouth. He had lost consciousness. His tongue seemed stuck in his throat, and every muscle in his body was relaxed. Attila bent down, lifted the old man's eyelids, and checked his pulse.
"The broken stone was connected to him… He lost consciousness. But he's still alive. We'll make him talk."
Ebren hung his sword on his back and replied without looking at his bloodied armor.
"Good. Because he has a lot to tell. Especially about those 'stones.'"
Attila stood up with heavy steps and looked toward the dark forest.
"What's waiting for us is not ordinary. These stones might carry not only power but also a curse."
Ebren smiled, but this time there was no humor in his eyes, only seriousness.
"Then we're lucky… Because we're not ordinary either."
The battle was over, but the silence was not one of victory—it was the whisper of a coming darkness. The earth was soaked with blood, the air still thick with the scent of metal and decay. The shadows had withdrawn, perhaps, but the secrets remained—lurking deep, waiting.
Attila and Ebren stood breathless, yet unshaken. And in the heart of the night, there was a whisper: "This was only the beginning."