The valley lay silent, its stillness oppressive, as if the world itself had paused to hold its breath. The wind had died hours ago, leaving behind a void that amplified every subtle shift in the air. But the fog remained, unyielding and insidious, growing denser with each passing moment. It coiled around trees and rocks like a living entity, tightening its grip, strangling the light until only faint, ghostly outlines remained. The air hung heavy, laced with an unnatural chill that seeped into the bones, making every inhale a labored effort. It felt as though the atmosphere itself conspired against life, crushing the lungs of anyone foolish enough to linger.
Andrew stood frozen in the center, his body aching from wounds that had barely begun to heal from previous battles. The valley's silence pressed on him like a physical weight, amplifying the thud of his own heartbeat in his ears. He scanned the horizon, eyes straining through the mist, and that's when he saw them—on the far side, emerging like phantoms from the fog. A crowd of hulking figures, around twenty in number, their forms a grotesque parody of humanity. Each one was unique in its malformation: one had elongated limbs that dangled like broken branches, another sported jagged spikes protruding from its spine, and yet another had a torso bloated with pulsating veins. They shared only their eyes—those piercing, starved orbs that gleamed with predatory hunger, fixed on him as if waiting for him to expire from sheer exhaustion.
"What the hell…?" Andrew muttered under his breath, his mind racing. Memories of Earth flooded back unbidden—the chaotic streets where he had earned his infamous title, the Laughing Maniac, a hunter who toyed with his prey until they broke mentally before he struck. "If I don't run now, I'm cooked. But where? They've got me boxed in."
The figures didn't stir. Not a single inch. No rise and fall of chests, no rhythmic pulse in their necks, no fidgeting or subtle shifts that betrayed life. They were statues carved from nightmare, their presence a wall of unspoken threat. The silence they embodied was more terrifying than any primal roar; it burrowed into Andrew's psyche, whispering doubts and fears he had long buried.
He was trapped at the epicenter of their formation—a perfect, unbroken circle that left no avenue for escape. The fog swirled lazily between them, obscuring their lower bodies, making them seem like floating torsos in a sea of white. "There's no way to get out without a fight," Andrew thought, his pulse hammering like a war drum. "Shit, not even a sliver of space between them. How the hell am I supposed to survive this?"
Desperation sharpened his gaze as he scanned the circle again, committing every detail to memory. The one to his left had scales that shimmered faintly, like oil on water; the one opposite bore horns that curved wickedly, casting elongated shadows. "Even if I charge one and break through, the ones behind will swarm me. They're too many, too coordinated."
Then, a flicker of anomaly caught his eye. "Wait… they aren't moving at all?" Shock rippled through him, followed by a wave of confusion. Why the stillness? Were they illusions, born from the valley's cursed fog? Or something worse—echoes of forgotten souls, twisted by whatever dark magic haunted this place?
The spark of realization ignited in his mind, piecing together the puzzle. These creatures weren't just waiting; they were mirroring his old tactics. On Earth, he had hunted with patience, letting fear erode his victims until they collapsed, easy prey. Now, the tables were turned.
"Hah… hahahaha…" The laugh bubbled up from deep within, not the controlled chuckle of a sane man, but the fractured, echoing cackle of the Laughing Maniac. It echoed across the valley, bouncing off the fog-shrouded hills, a sound that had once struck terror into his enemies. Back then, in the crumbling cities of a dying world, he had laughed like this while watching rivals unravel, their minds fracturing under the weight of isolation and dread.
"So that's it," he gasped between bursts of laughter, his voice raw. "You're waiting for me to go insane. To collapse from hunger or fear. You're using my own hunting method against me?!" The irony twisted his lips into a feral, broken grin, teeth bared like a cornered animal. "You guys are truly amusing… but it won't work on me. I've danced on the edge of madness longer than you've existed."
Still, the monsters offered no response. No twitch of acknowledgment, no intake of breath, no flicker in those insatiable eyes. They were voids, absorbing his defiance without ripple.
"So you're committed to this game? Fine—THEN TAKE THIS!" Adrenaline surged as Andrew lunged toward the largest of them, a behemoth with a stomach so swollen and distorted it warped its entire silhouette into an oval grotesquerie. Its bald scalp was dotted with sparse strands of hair, clinging like dying weeds to cracked stone. The air whistled as Andrew's fist cut through it, channeling every muscle, every scar-earned ounce of strength into the blow.
The monster didn't even flinch. Its massive form absorbed the impact like a sponge, sending a jolt of pain up Andrew's arm.
Slowly, deliberately, its head lowered, those dull features contorting into a horrifying smile. The grin stretched impossibly wide, skin splitting at the edges to reveal rows of jagged teeth beneath.
Andrew's bravado shattered. He trembled, knees buckling under the weight of primal terror. "I… I'm sorry… I shouldn't have…" His voice cracked, a whisper lost in the fog. Flashes of his past assaulted him—the faces of those he had broken, their pleas echoing in his ears. Now, he was the one begging. "Please… spare me…"
The monster's jowls inflated like balloons, veins pulsing. Then—boom—a torrent of compressed air exploded from its maw, a sonic blast that shredded the fog around them, ripping it apart like a curtain clawed by invisible beasts. The force hurled Andrew backward, his body slamming into the ground with bone-crushing impact.
Silence descended once more, broken only by Andrew's ragged gasps. He lay there, broken and bleeding, his once-resilient form shattered anew. Ribs cracked, skin torn, blood pooling beneath him. His consciousness flickered like a candle in the wind, threatening to extinguish. "I… can't… black out… If I do… they'll eat me…" He clung to awareness by sheer willpower, nails digging into the earth, every fiber screaming against the pull of oblivion.
His eyes, heavy as lead, slowly closed, as if murmuring, I'm tired. Give me rest. Darkness claimed him, his body limp like an old, broken toy discarded by a careless child. His heartbeat slowed to a faint thrum, his breathing a mere whisper against the valley's hush.
The monsters, sensing victory, stirred at last. Twisted smiles bloomed on their malformed faces, eyes alight with savage excitement. They didn't walk—they pounced, a horde descending like shadows given form. The fog parted before them as they closed in, their claws extended, jaws unhinging in anticipation. Andrew's body vanished under their encroaching darkness. The horned one, its spikes glinting, leaned closest, maw wide to rip into his exposed arm—
"Stop."
The command sliced through the air from afar, yet it struck like a reaper's scythe, halting the frenzy in an instant.
The monsters froze mid-motion, bodies rigid as if petrified. Terror rippled through them, an instinctive recognition of something ancient and lethal. Slowly, they turned toward the voice's origin.
A woman emerged from the mist, striding with purposeful grace. Her form was shrouded in an old, tattered cloak that whispered against the ground, her face concealed behind a weathered mask etched with faint, arcane symbols. Through the mask's slits, her eyes gleamed—dark, reflective like pools of oil, holding depths that could swallow souls.
It was her. Elizabeth Valemire.
She walked without haste, but each step resonated like a tolling bell, sending waves of cold dread through the air. The valley seemed to shrink from her presence, the fog retreating slightly as if in deference. The monsters didn't freeze from mere surprise; it was primal instinct, every corrupted cell in their beings acknowledging her as the apex predator, a force woven from shadows and forgotten gods.
Elizabeth had sensed the disturbance miles away, drawn by the faint echo of Andrew's laughter—a sound she recognized from their first encounter. Foolish boy, she thought, her mind a fortress of calculated calm. Always charging into the abyss without a plan. These creatures were no ordinary beasts; they were the Forgotten Ones, remnants of an ancient curse that fed on mental collapse, manifestations born from the valley's tainted history. A place where warriors of old had been driven mad by isolation, their essences twisted into these abominations.
She extended a hand from beneath her cloak, her palm beginning to radiate a faint, almost transparent white energy. It hummed with power, drawn from the core of her being. "Mirror of Soul: The Arsenal of the Gods of Emotions," she intoned quietly, her voice a velvet blade.
"Blade of Wrath."
The energy shifted, igniting into a vivid red hue, pulsing with the heat of suppressed fury. She clenched her fist, channeling the emotion, then opened her palm. The red light evaporated into the air, only for the surrounding atmosphere to condense near her hand, swirling into a crimson sword of medium length. The blade vibrated faintly, etched with runes that glowed like embers.
In a blur too fast for mortal eyes, Elizabeth vanished from sight. The air thickened abnormally, charged with an intense pressure that made the monsters' skins crawl. Then, as suddenly as it began, the tension released.
She reappeared beside Andrew's crumpled form, the sword in her grasp dripping with ethereal ichor. "This is the second time I've saved your life," she said, her tone low and laced with harsh disdain. "You should be very embarrassed by yourself."
The monsters, paralyzed, could only watch as the consequences unfolded. One by one, they collapsed—their bodies fracturing into countless pieces, blood and viscera spilling onto the ground in foul puddles. The valley transformed in their wake, the oppressive fog lifting to reveal its true face: an old, weathered house standing sentinel ahead, and beyond it, the faint lights of a small village nestled in the hills.
Elizabeth sheathed her blade, the energy dissipating like smoke. She hoisted Andrew's limp body onto her back with effortless strength, his weight a minor burden. As she trudged toward the village, her mind wandered to the path ahead. This valley was but a fragment of the greater chaos unfolding—a world teetering on the brink, where forgotten curses like these were awakening. Andrew, for all his madness, might yet prove useful. But first, he needed to survive the night.
The village lights grew closer, promising fleeting sanctuary in a realm of endless shadows.