The winter cold in the north of Ulheim seeped into every inch of these snow-covered lands.
—Shit is more pleasant than this damned place —Richard growled as he felt the chilling, damp cold of the supernatural storms looming overhead.
The lands before him were desolate: a white desert where he could barely see beyond an arm's length, thanks to the heavy snowfall and the hundreds of pale trees covered in an ashen coat that made them indistinguishable from one another in that bleak landscape.
—Then go eat shit. If you keep complaining, I'll send you to dig latrines on the outer border —Morgan growled with an unkind expression. Though Richard likely doubled Morgan's winters and springs, the latter was not someone easily offended.
Preferring not to reply, Richard simply sharpened his gaze as the demonic hounds sniffed along the damp, softened earth, made so by the torrential rains in the forest. The Galloway clan, under the orders of the Tudigong, was tasked with guarding roads and forests—and, when needed, hunting fugitives.
And this was one of those rare occasions.
Tracing the symbol of the rune of duality into the ground, Garlanad ignored the argument between the two as he observed the changes caused by the rain and the flow of mud around the markings he had made, as if reading a map. His features, hidden beneath layers of leather and wool, were invisible—save for the two pale points that were his eyes.
—Geomancy… —Richard muttered, his voice tinged with resentment and even fear. As a mere woodsman who roamed the forests of Ulheim, he had never seen it in his ninety years of life, though he had heard many sinister and mysterious things about dharmic sorcery.
—What do you see? —Morgan asked.
Morgan ignored Richard, who by then was moving toward the dogs to check if they had picked up a trail. As a true warrior in service of the Tudigong, he had little interest in dealing with a mere hunter. But Garlanad was far more mysterious; though Morgan had not seen his face during the entire journey, he could feel the power of the runes in his own flesh, his bones trembling in submission before the geomancer's pure blood.
—Death… —the hooded man rasped. The word came out weak, as if the breath itself had drained his vitality.
—What do you mean death? Even beasts and raiders don't dare enter this place. Those bastards have been running for three days straight, and they're carrying women and children. How are we supposed to find death? —Richard growled, confused and slightly offended. Morgan, though silent, nodded in agreement.
—Not our death —Garlanad said more calmly.—They are already corpses.
Doubt crept into Richard and Morgan's minds. Though they trusted their grim companion's gifts, they could not help but feel skeptical.
It would not last long.
The horses could not cross the forest due to the mud and the darkness of a moonless night. The trio's sharp eyes allowed them to detect most dangers, but the temperature kept dropping, forcing them to take blood pills to preserve their warmth.
And as if the dead gods were playing a cruel joke, as they consumed the pills, the scent of blood—along with the barking of the dogs—broke their sepulchral silence.
Then they saw them: blood and corpses scattered across what had once been a makeshift camp.
Richard had seen death before—but never like this.
These were not skeletal remains devoured by beasts or bodies consumed by plague. This was slaughter.
Bluish blood, tinged faintly with violet due to their Fey lineage, revealed their noble ancestry, along with the dead runes etched into their skin—now dim and lifeless.
—First time I've seen dead nobles —Richard muttered in shock, approaching one of the corpses cautiously, as if fearing to awaken the wrath of a lingering spirit.
—And it will probably be the last —Morgan replied bluntly.
Despite disliking Morgan, Richard had to admit he was beneath him in terms of blood purity. The runes covering his own flesh barely extended across his limbs, while Morgan bore two runes. Richard was a mortal with one.
—What is that? —he suddenly asked, noticing words carved into the trunk of a tree among the corpses. Unlike the Sanskrit runes used by Garlanad, these were ordinary Fey script.
—"When you are suffering, you will know that I have betrayed you." —Garlanad whispered in a sinister tone as he read the blood-carved words. A chill made his lips tremble.
—Why were we sent after nobles? Even if we had found them, capturing them would have been difficult —Richard muttered, trying to steady himself. He was beginning to realize that he and Morgan were merely guides—and that their silent companion was the true executioner.
—They were weakened. And most are not fighters —Garlanad murmured as he approached one of the bodies.
It was a tall man, even for a Fey—likely a head taller than Morgan himself. Crimson runes covered his chest and arms, still faintly pulsing, like the heartbeat of something dying.
—Is he alive? —Morgan asked, gripping his battered blade. The runes were Yang—the reddish hue revealed it.
The man had black hair and a square, imposing face. But most of his abdomen was torn open, his organs missing, as if they had been extracted.
—Who was he? —Richard asked unconsciously.
—A deserter —Garlanad growled.—And a fool. But a good warrior. Whoever killed him was no ordinary being.
—Someone… more than something. This is a massacre. What Fey would dare commit such atrocities? —Richard muttered, though deep down he already suspected the answer.
Garlanad frowned as his body tensed like a drawn bow. His gaze shifted toward the tree behind the corpse; leaves and brush had been hastily piled around it.
He approached slowly, ready for anything. And just as he was about to touch it—
Something changed.
Richard felt it first.
The smell of death faded, replaced by the overwhelming scent—and even taste—of blood filling the air, along with a dark crimson light that clouded his vision.
Confused, he looked up.
And saw horror.
The moon had risen—but it was not the pale yellow moon. It was red. A blood moon, veiled in scarlet clouds streaked with black-violet lightning.
Blood. Nothing but blood.
On the ground, red liquid began replacing water, forming crusts across the earth and over the corpses. The dogs whimpered and tried to flee, abandoning their masters—but terror overtook them. They collapsed, convulsing, foaming at the mouth as they writhed in the red-soaked snow.
—By the ancestors… what is happening? —Morgan whispered in terror. Richard had already taken cover behind a tree.
Only Garlanad remained still.
Blood stained his gray cloak black. He rose—and in a movement too fast to follow, he drew his sword. The meteoric iron blade rejected the crimson glow with its own bluish light, as if defying the nightmare itself.
Then the corpses began to tremble—like blood-soaked cocoons.
From the cracked ground, a dead hand emerged.
Morgan tried to run—but it was too late.
The rain made him slip as the blood from the sky seeped into his body, melting his skin and flesh until he vanished into a red mist.
Richard could see nothing.
He remained frozen behind the tree, clutching himself like a child, trembling from the infernal cold and the primal terror in his heart.
The clash of metal echoed—distant, yet he knew Garlanad fought only meters away. Another strike, closer. Then a shriek—like shattering glass—followed by a beastly roar of pain and fury.
Then silence.
It was over.
Richard was alive.
His breathing steadied. His grip loosened. He had survived. Sixty minutes passed before he dared to move.
He had lived—not Morgan, with his arrogance, nor Garlanad, with his mysterious wisdom.
Him. Richard. A simple scout, son of farmers.
Joy nearly drove him to laughter and tears, but he held himself together as he stepped toward the massacre.
The bodies were gone—reduced to pools of blood. No trace of his companions remained. The rain had ceased, leaving a film of blood across the ground. The trees seemed alive, their veins pulsing.
Among the remains, he saw it:
Garlanad's sword—floating above a pool of black blood.
It was exquisite.
Before, he would never have dared covet it. Now, it was his reward.
He approached cautiously and grabbed the rune-etched hilt.
—Damn it… come out, you cursed thing —he growled, pulling.
But an unnatural force pulled downward with equal strength.
Terrified, he tried to let go.
He couldn't.
—No… no, no! Aaaah!
A choked scream escaped his throat.
From his own hand, the tip of a spear burst forth—piercing up through his throat.
Blood poured from his mouth as he choked.
The sword's pull dragged him down—
Into the pool.
Into rust.
Into blackness.
Into death.
Into Gnosis.