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The vast boundaries of the world were held hostage by a single, formidable force — the Crimson Sea. A monstrous tide the color of blood, coiling like a venomous serpent, it encircled the known lands and severed the world into two distinct realms.
To the south lay a land shrouded in mystery — its existence whispered only through bedtime stories, ancient myths, and forgotten legends. No traveler returned from its edges, and no map dared capture its shape.
To the east stretched the known continent, a place where the weight of history carved out seven rival kingdoms, each forged by centuries of war and ambition. Scattered across its expanse were five Forbidden Zones, cursed lands where no man dared tread. These chaotic regions had become battlegrounds for savage beasts exiled from the unknown depths of the southern earth.
In humanity's darkest hour, when hope flickered like a dying flame, the Echo Shadows emerged — warriors of the black-eyed order. Clad in mystical power, wielding blades etched with ancestral runes, they stood as humanity's final bastion. They were not merely soldiers — they were ghosts that stalked the night, harbingers of fate whose swords cried out with the voice of the cosmos.
With every strike, they split the heavens. In their name, monsters trembled. Through their will, the darkness receded.
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Chapter One — The Outskirts of Stone
Far to the south of the golden kingdom of Crylas, where crashing waves kissed black forests that reached for the skies, stood the city of Stone. Like a fortress drawn from legend, its towering walls bore tales of strength and sanctuary. Its fame — built upon exporting fish of unparalleled quality — had grown so vast it rivaled even the capital itself.
But just as the calm sea hides a lurking storm, Stone concealed a slow-burning crisis. A flood of population swelled within its walls, stretching the city to its limits. In response — perhaps as if summoned by fate — five villages bloomed just beyond the walls, scattered like cherry blossoms in a hopeful spring. These hamlets became Stone's final breath of expansion.
Among them, Fommen was the weakest and most distant — a village balanced on the edge of survival. Monsters stalked its borders without end. Yet the people of Fommen endured, fighting to protect what little they had, no matter the cost.
Fommen had long been a favored target for the forest's savage creatures. Its humble defenders wielded crude weapons — spears, bows, old swords, even rocks and wooden clubs. Against the notorious Frog Goblins — stubby, slow-moving beasts with bloated bodies and frog-like heads — their odds were manageable. These goblins were no real threat to a well-placed blade.
But not all beasts were so simple. As stronger, more cunning creatures emerged, tragedy followed. Blood ran through Fommen's streets, and the scars left by each battle never faded. Once a village of over two hundred homes, Fommen had been reduced to a ghost of its former self — fewer than fifty households remained, the rest abandoned to silence.
That morning, the village stirred from its slumber like a weary soul. The wooden homes, roofed with straw and mud, huddled together in crooked rows. Rain from the night before still clung to the paths. All streets eventually led to the one road that cut through the village, linking its eastern and western gates.
At the front stood two wooden pillars, four meters tall, solemn as silent sentinels. Though plain, they gave the villagers a fragile sense of safety. A wooden fence, no higher than a man, curled around the village like a weak embrace against the wilderness beyond.
At the village's heart lay a circular square — the center of daily life. The surrounding stalls creaked open as the sun climbed, and a small tavern swept out its drunkards, ready for a new day. A green-painted shop stood proudly among the rustic scene, its color oddly vibrant against the gray morning.
By the rear gate sat the only stable in the village. Its few horses — precious as lifelines — were watched day and night. Nearby stood a modest row of houses, quiet and worn, witnesses to the simplicity of life on the fringe of the world.
In the center of the square, a two-meter iron pole jutted from the earth. Fixed to it was a wide, horizontal iron mesh divided into two panels. One bore a blue-painted wooden plate, the other a red one.
It was no decoration. This pole, recognized across the land, was a request board — a vital relic of communication. The blue side held requests suited for ordinary folk — tasks requiring only strength or simple skill. They were written on cheap natural paper, easy to come by.
The red side was another matter entirely. Here, requests were etched onto parchment made from treated hides — enchanted with basic spells to warn of danger. These jobs were for the elite, for warriors and those who had trained to face death.
And on that day, standing before the red board, was one such warrior.
An Echo Shadow.
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A cold breeze swept through the outskirts of Fommen. He didn't flinch. The chill of morning was a minor foe—hardly worth acknowledging. His eyes were as dark as midnight, their calmness as deep as a still lake.
Guiding his horse with unwavering ease, he descended the winding path that led into the village.
"In this weather…" he muttered to himself with a yawn. "I could use a cup of tea."
The rain from the previous night had turned the road into a slick trail of mud. The hooves of his black steed, Bii, sank deeper with every step, leaving behind heavy imprints in the soft earth as they neared the gate.
The scent of damp earth welcomed him, rich and nostalgic—a fragrance that told of a world freshly washed by nature's hand. It carried a softness, a melody of childhood memories long faded. But that scent was short-lived. Soon it gave way to the stench of manure and rotting straw, the mud thickening into foul muck beneath his boots. As he approached the main gate, the ground spat dirt with every step—a messy reminder of how humanity often defiled nature's harmony.
At the village's front gate stood a tall watchtower, rising six meters above the muddy ground. It could barely accommodate two or three men, but it loomed like a sentinel nonetheless. Atop the structure stood a lone guard, tall and silent, clutching a spear and watching the world below with the sharp vigilance of a hawk. His thick garments obscured his features, save for two sharp black eyes that glowed with suspicion.
Below, the Echo Shadow approached. His footsteps echoed softly, steady and unfazed. The guard's eyes followed him, unblinking—his gaze brimming with contempt and loathing. But to the Echo Shadow, such stares were as common as sunlight and morning wind. He'd grown used to them. They no longer pierced his calm. In this world soaked in prejudice, his resolve was too deep, too anchored, to be shaken by mere looks.
Society had its hierarchy. Villagers sat at the bottom, followed by townsfolk, then nobles, and at the top—the kings. Monsters, of course, were beneath them all. Yet the Echo Shadow was something altogether different. Not quite human. Not quite beast. Something in between. A being both feared and scorned by all.
Humans saw him as a threat beyond control. Monsters cowered before his blade. He stood with no allegiance, loyal only to his own path. A wandering sword in the dark, unbound by crown or creed.