The hours that followed in the cellar were among the most frustrating that Aiden had ever experienced. Every time he tried to convince the survivors to take action, he hit the same wall of resignation and terror.
- "You don't understand, kid," Harold, the thin man with brown hair, kept repeating. "We've already tried to fight. Martin and François attempted to approach the manor a week ago. We found their clothes hanging from the trees the next morning, with wood shavings in place of their bodies."
Martha nodded vigorously, clutching her son against her.
- "He's right, Aiden. This monster isn't human. We can't do anything against him."
-"But you can't stay hidden here for eternity!" protested Aiden, feeling his frustration rising. "He's going to find you eventually! And then what? You'll become like the others, soulless puppets!"
- "At least we won't suffer anymore," murmured an elderly woman from her dark corner.
This fatalistic resignation revolted Aiden. He couldn't understand how these people could accept such a horrible fate without even trying to fight. In all the books he had read, people always found the courage to resist, even when facing the worst adversities.
Thomas remained silent during these debates, content to observe Aiden with his tired eyes. The old man seemed torn between the desire to believe that a solution existed and the bitter experience of their past failures.
After several hours of sterile discussions, Aiden finally gave up. He settled in a corner of the cellar, absentmindedly nibbling on the hard bread that Martha had given him, and tried to think of another approach.
I need to understand this story better, he thought. In every tale, there's always a key element, a weakness, something that allows you to defeat the antagonist. But I can't find it by staying hidden here.
Night fell, at least, Aiden supposed it was night, as it was impossible to see the sky from the cellar. The survivors prepared for sleep, settling on worn blankets and canvas sacks filled with straw.
But Aiden couldn't find sleep. That small flame in his chest pulsed stronger and stronger, as if calling him to action. He couldn't stay there, passively waiting for fate to decide their destiny. It went against everything he believed in, against all the stories that had nourished him during his illness.
I didn't come here to hide, he realized. The system told me I was in a story. Well, in a story, the hero acts. He doesn't stay cowering in a cellar waiting for someone else to solve his problems.
Slowly, silently, Aiden stood up. His heart was already beating faster at the thought of what he was about to do, but his determination was stronger than his fear. He headed toward the ladder that led to the trapdoor.
- "Where are you going like that?"
Thomas's voice made him jump. The old man was sitting in the shadows, leaning against a barrel, watching him attentively.
- "I..." Aiden hesitated. "I can't stay here, Thomas. I need to understand what's really happening in this village. There must be something we missed, a clue, a weakness..."
Thomas sighed deeply.
- "You're going to get yourself killed, kid. Those puppets, they patrol all night. And if the Puppet Scourge finds you..."
- "Then I'll be careful," replied Aiden with more confidence than he felt. "But I can't give up like this. Not when there might still be hope."
The old man studied him for a long time in the darkness. Finally, he stood up and went to a crate that he opened silently.
- "You remind me of my son," he murmured while rummaging through the crate. "Always ready to charge headfirst to help others, even when it was stupid."
He pulled out a piece of yellowed parchment that he handed to Aiden.
- "Here. It's a detailed map of the village. I drew it myself when I was still mayor. All the important buildings are marked on it."
Aiden carefully unfolded the map. It was incredibly precise, with every street, every house, every monument carefully drawn in black ink. Notes were scribbled in the margins:
- "Henrot Family Forge," "Jeanne's Bakery," "Manor DANGER."
- "If you really want to play hero," continued Thomas, "start with the Drunken Traveler inn. That's where that bastard first showed up. Maybe you'll find something we missed."
He placed a heavy hand on Aiden's shoulder.
- "But kid... if you feel things going wrong, you run. You run and don't look back. Understood?"
Aiden nodded, trying to ignore the ball of anxiety growing in his stomach.
- "Understood."
Thomas smiled at him sadly.
- "Good luck, son. I hope you find what we failed to see."
Leaving the house was one of the most terrifying things Aiden had ever done. The fog seemed even thicker at night, forming gray wisps that danced in the darkness like ghosts. Every shadow could hide a puppet, every sound, the crack of a branch, the creak of a shutter, made his heart leap.
He progressed inch by inch, pressing against the walls of houses, stopping every few meters to listen. His new resistance to fear helped him maintain some semblance of control over his emotions, but he still felt that primitive terror twisting his stomach.
Left at the crossroads, he told himself, consulting the map by the flickering light of a candle he had "borrowed" from the cellar. Then straight ahead to the fountain, and the inn should be on my right.
A sound of footsteps froze him in place. Slow, mechanical steps that clicked on the wet cobblestones with the regularity of a metronome. A puppet on patrol.
Aiden pressed himself against the nearest wall, holding his breath. The footsteps drew closer, accompanied by the characteristic creaking of wooden joints. He could see a massive silhouette taking shape in the fog, its movements jerky but strangely graceful.
The puppet passed less than three meters from him, and Aiden could make out its face—or rather, the absence of a face. The smooth porcelain mask faintly reflected the diffuse light of the fog, creating a deeply disturbing effect.
Former villager, Aiden reminded himself, feeling his throat tighten. This thing was a human being just a few weeks ago. With a family, friends, dreams...
The puppet continued on its way and disappeared into the mist. Aiden waited another long minute before daring to move again.
It took him more than an hour to cover a distance that would normally have taken ten minutes. But finally, he arrived in front of the Drunken Traveler inn.
The building was larger than the other houses in the village, with two floors and a carved stone facade that must have been beautiful once. Now, it was covered with moss and grime, and several shutters hung askew on their rusted hinges. The inn's sign, a bearded man holding a beer mug, swayed lugubriously in the silence, emitting a sharp creak with each oscillation.
The entrance door was ajar, letting escape an odor of mold and something more unpleasant, a sickly sweet stench that evoked decomposition.
Aiden swallowed hard. You can still turn back, whispered a small voice in his head. Return to the cellar, wait with the others for someone else to solve the problem.
But the flame in his chest pulsed stronger, as if encouraging him to continue. And somewhere, he knew it was the right choice. He had come here for a reason, and that reason might be behind this door.
He gently pushed the wooden door, which opened with a prolonged creak that made him grit his teeth. The interior of the inn was plunged in almost total darkness, barely pierced by the faint glow of his candle.
The common room was in a state of total devastation. Tables and chairs were overturned, some broken to pieces. Glass shards littered the floor, remnants of shattered mugs and bottles. And everywhere, on the walls, the floor, even the ceiling, strange marks were carved, complex symbols that seemed to move in the flickering light of the flame.
But what struck Aiden most was the smell. That stench of decomposition was much stronger here, mixed with something that evoked wood shavings and glue.
He advanced cautiously through the debris, his candle raised before him like a derisory shield against the darkness. Each step made the broken glass crunch under his feet, a sound that seemed deafening in the deathly silence of the inn.
At the back of the room, near what must have been the counter, something caught his attention. A dark shape, too regular to be natural, placed on a miraculously intact table.
Aiden approached, his heart beating faster and faster. It was a book. A large volume bound in black leather, with tarnished silver clasps. The cover was adorned with symbols identical to those carved on the walls, and it emanated an aura... malevolent was the only word that fit.
The Puppet Scourge's journal? thought Aiden. Or maybe a grimoire? In any case, it's surely important.
He extended a trembling hand toward the book, but the moment his fingers touched the leather, a voice resonated behind him:
[MAJOR CLUE DISCOVERED: THE GRIMOIRE OF BROKEN BONDS]
[PROGRESSION: 25%]
[REWARD UNLOCKED: VITAL FLAME - AWAKENING 25%]
[NEW ABILITY: PERCEPTION OF MAGICAL AURAS]
This time, the sensation was much more intense. The flame in his chest grew noticeably, spreading a pleasant warmth throughout his body. He felt stronger, more alert, as if his senses had been sharpened.
And indeed, when he looked around again, he could see things he hadn't noticed before. The symbols on the walls glowed faintly with a reddish light, and the book before him pulsed with a dark and threatening energy.
Aiden carefully opened the grimoire. The pages were covered with tight writing in a language he didn't recognize, but strangely, he managed to grasp the general meaning. It was as if the words translated themselves in his mind.
Journal of Master Corvus, Craftsman of Lost Souls and Creator of Wonders...