The air still carried the weight of what they had seen.
The silent village stretched before them–lifeless, unmoving, yet breathing faintly through the mist.
"Kid, do you know where this curse began?" Kiaria asked quietly, his voice steady but curious.
Elen nodded at once. "Yes. I can show you. It's not far from here."
He led them through the mist-veiled ruins, his small frame barely visible between the walls that still leaned like broken ribs toward the earth. The air grew heavier with every step until even the faint light of day turned gray.
Diala slowed, pressing a cloth over her mouth. "Cover your faces," she warned. "Don't breathe this in. It's Compressed Miasma."
Kiaria stopped beside her, feeling the faint vibration in the air. "You recognized it at a glance."
She nodded. "This gray smoke–it's close to a Coral Jade Miasma. The scent, the density, the way it clings to skin. I've seen this before in forest hunts. Coral Jade plants can't survive without water, yet this land is dry. It shouldn't exist here."
"Then this isn't nature," Kiaria murmured.
"No," Diala replied. "This is imitation–something using a plant's essence to hide another truth."
Kiaria looked toward the deep fog, thoughtful. "Arcane Wale Fox?"
Diala's eyes flickered. "Possibly. They can mimic anything they consume–plants, curses, even terrain. But they flee war. One shouldn't be anywhere near this battlefield."
Kiaria exhaled slowly. "Let's find out."
He turned to Elen. "Kid, stay close to Diala. I'll go in first."
"Wait." Diala caught his wrist lightly. "If it's Coral Jade, look for red stems and feathered leaves. The fruits are like pale jade beads. Splash water on them–the true ones will dissolve; illusions won't."
He nodded, and his expression softened for a heartbeat. "You've dealt with these before."
"Too many times." Her tone dropped lower. "The forest hides its own ways to protect and reserve."
Kiaria didn't ask further. He inhaled, the faint violet shimmer lighting under his skin. His form began to fade–edges softening, his shadow folding into itself. The Shadow Ghost Technique activated with quiet grace. His white hair darkened to pitch black, then to misty; his body turned translucent, the outline of his figure dissolving into air.
The Ghost Transformation first form wasn't dramatic–it was absence made visible. His presence became weightless, his breath fading until even the dust refused to settle near him.
"Stay behind the boundary," he said softly, though his voice sounded distant, like it came from two directions at once.
He stepped forward. The miasma swallowed him.
Inside the haze, sight blurred. Light bent in unnatural ways; every shape wavered like heat on metal. But through the Shadow Ghost form, Kiaria could see faint pulses of spiritual rhythm–the world's hidden heartbeat.
The ground beneath his steps throbbed faintly red, the residue of blood magic.
And then he saw them.
Rows of Coral Jade plants sprouted from cracked soil–stems red, leaves shimmering in green-violet hues. Dew-like droplets clung to them, but it wasn't water–it was condensation from the miasma itself. Their roots pulsed faintly, drinking from veins beneath the earth.
He crouched, brushing a finger along a stem. The air quivered, almost sighing. "Diala was right."
But the sight was wrong.
The soil here was damp in a land of drought. And beneath that dampness, he felt something more alive than plants. A faint, rhythmic throb–the residue of a beast's heart long dissolved.
Arcane Wale Fox blood, he thought grimly.
He gathered a handful of soil. It shimmered faintly red beneath the surface.
Then, with a flicker of movement, his figure dissolved again–shadows fluttering like ink dispersing in water–as he returned through the miasma.
Diala looked up from her preparations the instant he reappeared. "You found it?"
"Coral Jade. Exactly as you said." He held out the soil. "And this–someone tainted it with beast blood."
Diala touched it lightly, feeling its pulse. "It's not just beast blood. It's offering blood–ritual."
She closed her eyes briefly, listening to the faint echo in the ground. "The soil remembers screams. Whoever did this, they used an ancient rite to merge life essence with terrain. This curse isn't born–it's planted."
Elen shivered. "Planted…? Like a seed?"
"Yes." Diala's tone softened. "And like any seed, it can be uprooted."
She knelt, her movements deliberate and precise. "Kiaria, my father once taught me how to purge rooted curses. It's an old survival art. I'll need your help."
"What should I gather?"
"Six stones, each about the size of your palm. Ginseng if you can find any, and vine roots–preferably desert-grown. Lastly, a few drops of blood. Doesn't matter whose, as long as it's pure, not warm and from corpse."
Kiaria vanished into the mist again, moving with the quiet of wind sliding across still water. His form flickered between shadows, leaping through collapsed houses, across cracked tiles and fractured doors. Every footstep left nothing behind.
Minutes later, he returned, ginseng roots tied together by a single thread of shadow. "No vine roots. And no source of blood."
"I know where the roots are," Elen said suddenly. His voice trembled, but his eyes carried strange certainty. "The village chief's nephew–he used to collect them. His house still has jars of dried ones. But…" He hesitated. "We shouldn't go there."
"Why?"
Elen looked down. "He disappeared a year before the curse. People said his spirit wandered after death. Sometimes, light moves through that house at night."
Diala and Kiaria exchanged a glance.
Kiaria stood, his aura dim but steady. "Stay here. I'll check."
The chief's nephew's house stood near the village boundary–a small, circular dwelling half-buried by ash and weeds. The door hung crooked. Kiaria stepped through it soundlessly.
Inside, the air was unnaturally still. Old tools lay scattered, bowls overturned but untouched by decay. A faint shimmer of spirit residue floated above a cracked mirror–like something half-remembered.
On the far wall hung dozens of vine bundles, each tied neatly. He reached for one. The air tensed–the sound of something brushing wood came from behind him.
He turned slightly, catching a flicker in his peripheral vision. A dim blue flame swayed for a moment in the air, then faded.
"A wisp of soul," he murmured. "Lingering thought… still loyal."
He bowed his head once. "Are you that Nephew? Your work will help save your home."
Soul tilted his head as no. Turning head towards the remaining evidences of fight in house. Then, faint light flickered again, brighter for a second and vanished completely.
Kiaria took the vines and left quietly.
She arranged the stones into a hexagonal ring, each aligned perfectly along carved symbols she etched into the soil. Thin lines of light formed, connecting the stones with delicate curves and slanted spirals–an inscription pattern meant for purging.
Kiaria watched quietly. "That pattern–forest origin?"
"Tribal," she replied. "Before written script, hunters used this to cleanse riverbeds poisoned by beasts' death. It purifies by balance, not force."
When the circle was ready, Diala mixed the ginseng and vine roots, grinding them with her hands until green sap oozed between her fingers. The scent of herbs cut through the stale air.
"Now," she said, "a drop of blood."
Kiaria's gaze lifted. The faint scar between his brows tingled, reacting to the world around him. Inside his sea of consciousness, the Blood Moon beeping waves like a bell–the remnant energy of past battles–blood stirred in battlefield. Blood, invisible to any external eye–tiny crimson evaporated to the sky above the miasma.
Each condensed into droplet from the Blood mist in the sky finding its way to the inscription's edge. None saw how the condensing happened–it wasn't physical movement, but the will of his bloodline responding to command.
The final droplet fell onto the stone.
The circle shone. Lines of light pulsed outward, the air vibrating softly. A faint hum built under their feet. The ground trembled, and cracks split open. From beneath, water erupted–a clean spring bursting into the barren soil.
Diala stepped back, eyes wide. "It worked."
She poured the herbal concoction made from ginseng and vine root into the spring. The liquid turned pale green and spread through the water, flowing in veins that crawled across the ground toward the Coral Jade growths.
The plants shuddered. Their color dulled, the miasma pulling back like a retreating tide. After a few minutes, the air cleared, revealing the cracked earth and remnants of stems dissolving into the soil.
Kiaria exhaled softly. "It's over."
Diala shook her head. "Not yet. The curse root's center hasn't shown."
Even as she spoke, the soil near the center of the spring cracked again. Something small and pale pushed through–an old doll, about the size of a hand. It rolled slightly before coming to rest, its porcelain skin glinting faintly under the light.
Elen gasped and ran forward. "That's my friend's doll! She used to carry it everywhere."
Kiaria's instincts sharpened. "Don't–"
But Elen was already kneeling. The doll's eyes were dull, the lashes broken. Strange runes were etched along its cloth torso–circular and angular marks that looked more like curses than decoration. It was old, but its shape was wrong. Its seams pulsed faintly as if something inside breathed.
Kiaria's voice cut through the silence. "Elen, step away from it."
The boy turned slightly. "But it's hers–"
His fingers brushed its arm.
The doll's eyes snapped open, burning red. The runes flared across its body, rearranging into a pattern that spiraled outward in blinding light.
The explosion came like a clap of thunder.
Diala threw up a barrier; Kiaria dashed forward, shadows flaring at his feet. The impact lifted Elen off the ground and hurled him backward. He hit the earth with a dull sound, the air leaving his lungs.
"Elen!" Diala's voice echoed through the stillness.
Kiaria reached him first, kneeling as dust settled. The boy's skin was covered in lacerations, blood trickling down his arm. His breathing was shallow, heartbeat weak but present.
Kiaria pressed one hand to the boy's chest. The scar between his brows flickered again. Inside, the energy in his consciousness stirred–the healing essence, misty white light orbs tiny as sparks emanated from scar to his palm, flowing across Elen's wounds like gentle smoke.
Minutes passed. Diala stayed close, guarding their perimeter as the last traces of the curse evaporated from the ground. The air slowly began to clear, warm sunlight pressing through the clouds.
After half an hour, Elen's wounds closed, leaving only faint red lines. His breathing steadied. He opened his eyes weakly and whispered, "It… doesn't hurt anymore."
Kiaria smiled faintly. "You'll be alright."
The boy looked around, confused. "Everyone… where are they?"
"They'll wake soon," Diala said softly. "Some, at least."
And indeed, across the ruined square, faint sounds began to raise–the rustle of movement, shallow breaths turning into gasps. A few of the sleeping villagers stirred, blinking against the light. Others remained still, their bodies already feeding the earth.
Elen tried to stand, but Kiaria held his shoulder. "Go to your parents first," he said gently. "They'll be searching for you."
The boy nodded slowly, his expression trembling between relief and grief. "Thank you," he said, voice breaking. "Both of you."
Kiaria stepped back, allowing him to leave. Diala watched the boy run through the dust, his small figure growing smaller against the clearing sky.
"You didn't tell him we're leaving," she murmured.
"He's already seen enough loss," Kiaria replied. "Sometimes, silence is the best farewell."
They stood together in quiet. The sun broke through the last of the fog, scattering light across the water that still pooled from the spring. The doll's remains had vanished, leaving behind only a faint circle burned into the earth–a spiral of symbols half-erased but still whispering faintly beneath the soil.
Diala turned toward him. "That doll… it wasn't part of the curse originally."
"No," Kiaria said. "It was a container. Someone used it to store the curse's echo. When it broke, the echo dispersed."
She looked back toward the valley. "And now?"
He adjusted his cloak. "Now it sleeps again. Until someone disturbs it."
By the time Elen reached his parents, the two figures who had saved his village were gone. The mist that once cloaked the land faded into morning light, and only the faint shimmer of spiritual energy hung where they had stood–a silent witness to the salvation that had come and gone without leaving names.
But deep beneath the soil, unseen by all, the last of the runes on the shattered doll pulsed once–soft, hollow, and waiting.