As Alvinnué takes a cautious step forward, a low wind curls around him, carrying with it whispers—barely audible, yet unmistakably voices. They seem to call not to his ears, but to something deeper within him, stirring shadows in his memory he did not know existed. The wind chills his bones despite the spring warmth, and the trees at the mountain’s edge bow as if in silent reverence—or warning. He rests a hand on the hilt of his Doth-Éamon Short Sword, not out of fear, but respect. This was not a place to draw steel lightly. Whatever lay within Kan-alon would not be faced with strength alone.
Alvinnué ventures closer to the mountain, the ground beneath his feet firming into packed earth as the towering trees part around a barren clearing. No birdsong dares cross into this space, no wind rustles the leaves—only a haunting stillness. In the center of the clearing, the soil is disturbed. A single set of footprints marks a solitary path, pressed deep with purpose, or perhaps desperation. Alvinnué crouches beside them, his shadow stretching long over the tracks. Recent. Not more than a few hours old.
He follows the trail, senses sharp, each footfall measured. The prints wind into the brush, where splashes of crimson begin to mar the trail—blood, scattered like a fading memory. The air grows colder, tighter. A broken branch here, a scuffed tree trunk there—signs of a struggle. But no second set of tracks. Whoever left these marks walked alone… and bled alone. Alvinnué’s fingers brush the hilt of his sword. Someone—or something—is ahead, and they are either wounded… or waiting.
Alvinnué continues to follow the trail of blood, each step drawing him farther from the shelter of the trees and deeper into the mountain’s harsh domain. The forest thins until it disappears entirely, replaced by jagged stone and lifeless earth. Scrub grass clings to cracks in the rock, and wind howls through the ravines like the cries of the long-dead. The trail of blood winds across dry, cracked soil and sun-bleached bones—deer, perhaps, or something older.
Then—he sees it. A sword, half-buried beneath wind-blown dust and loose shale, its blade dark with dried blood. He kneels beside it, lifting it carefully. The weapon is finely made, the craftsmanship foreign to this desolate corner of the world.
His eyes narrow as he examines the hilt. There—etched in gold and dulled by dirt and blood—is a symbol: a sun rising behind a three-pronged trident. Recognition strikes like lightning. The Kingdom of Sariyaz. A land far to the south, across the Unclaimed Lands, known for its militant devotion to the god of order and flame. What is a Sariyazi blade doing here, in the shadow of Kan-alon?
Alvinnué tucks the sword into his belt, unease gnawing at him. He pushes forward, the blood trail growing heavier as it winds toward a jagged cliff face. There, at the mouth of a blackened cave carved into the mountainside, he sees him: a man collapsed on the barren ground, pale and still. His armor bears the same sun-and-trident emblem, now torn and scorched. Alvinnué approaches with care, the wind biting through his cloak. This place reeked of death—and something more ancient still.
Alvinnué approaches carefully, each step calculated, his senses alert. The wind stirs around him, carrying the scent of blood and ash. As he draws closer to the man, he notices the faint rise and fall of his chest—a sign that the soldier is still alive, despite the heavy toll of his injuries. The man’s breathing is shallow, ragged, each exhale laced with pain.
“Hey!” Alvinnué calls out, his voice breaking the silence.
The man’s head lifts slowly, and Alvinnué sees the grimace of fatigue and agony etched in his face. His once-vibrant brown hair is streaked with grey, weathered by time and battle. A scar runs along the man’s right cheek, a reminder of past conflicts, long forgotten by most but no less permanent. The soldier’s eyes, dull with pain, lock onto Alvinnué’s.
“Please… help,” the man rasps, his voice hoarse.
Alvinnué moves swiftly, kneeling beside him. He presses his hands to the man’s shoulder, gently lifting him into a sitting position. The man winces, but his relief is visible.
Alvinnué’s gaze shifts to the man’s right leg, where a large gash runs from knee to ankle. The wound is deep, raw, and still seeping blood. Without hesitation, Alvinnué reaches into his satchel, pulling out a small vial of dark, shimmering ointment—Shadow Salve. The salve, an old remedy from the shadow arts, has been known to mend wounds quickly, though it carries an eerie sense of power.
He uncorks the vial, the pungent scent of herbs and nightshade filling the air. He applies the salve to the wound with practiced hands. The moment the ointment touches the skin, the bleeding slows, the gash knitting together as the magic takes hold. The man exhales a soft groan, his pain visibly lessening as the salve works its magic.
“You’ve saved me,” the soldier mutters, his voice weaker now, but filled with gratitude. His gaze flickers to Alvinnué, the recognition settling in his eyes.
Alvinnué glances at him, surprised by the soldier’s words. “Why are you here?” Alvinnué asks, his brow furrowing. “What happened?”
The soldier closes his eyes briefly, his head resting back against the cold stone of the cave entrance, as if the weight of his history is too much to bear.
The soldier takes a shaky breath before pushing himself upright with a groan. His strength seems to ebb, but there’s resolve in his eyes as he steadies himself. “I’m Hakun,” he says, his voice rough, though firm. “I was on a vital mission… I need to reach the castle of Geldanos in the capital. It’s a matter of great importance.”
Hakun pauses, wincing as he shifts, his gaze distant for a moment before it refocuses on Alvinnué. “I was crossing the Unclaimed Lands, starting from Fort Sundalo, where I was stationed.” His hands grip the edges of his armor, as if steadying himself against the weight of the memory.
“The monsters…” His face tightens in pain as he continues, “They came from the border of the forest, just as I was nearing its edge. Massive, like something born of nightmare. I thought I could fight them off—took a swing at the first one with my sword, but they were too many. I was outnumbered.” He gives a hollow laugh, a painful thing. “My horse didn’t make it. And neither did I, not without luck.”
Hakun’s gaze lowers to his bloodstained leg, the memory of the battle clearly weighing on him. “I tried to hold my ground, but I couldn’t stop them all. That’s when I was hit… thought I was done for, and then… nothing.”
Alvinnué’s gaze hardens. “Can you describe the monsters?”
Hakun’s jaw tightens. His eyes drift, not seeing the rocky terrain but something far darker—something burned into his memory. “I… I’ll try,” he mutters. His breath grows shallow, and the color drains slightly from his face.
“It’s important,” Alvinnué urges, his tone calm but firm.
Hakun nods slowly, forcing the words out. “They were… ape-like. Huge—each one stood as tall as two men. Their fur was white as bone, matted with blood. Their eyes… red. Not just red—burning. And their claws, gods, their claws were long as daggers. Ripped through steel like it was bark.”
Alvinnué’s brows furrow. Something about the description gnaws at the edge of his mind. Without a word, he slings his pack around and pulls out a thick, worn leather-bound tome—the Creature Compendium of Shanda-Wold, a gift from his mother before he left. He drops to one knee and begins flipping through the pages, his fingers moving with urgency.
“Come on… come on…” he mutters, then stops. “Here.” He holds up the open book, revealing a sketched image of a hulking white-furred beast with burning eyes and long, hooked claws.
Hakun stares at the drawing for a moment before a shiver runs through him. “Aye,” he says quietly. “That’s the bastards.”
Alvinnué’s eyes darken. “The Amomongo,” he says. “Very dangerous. They hunt in fours… always fours. Once they mark a target, they don’t stop. Not until it’s dead.”
A low, bone-chilling shriek cuts through the still air.
Both men freeze.
The cry echoes across the barren rocks—high-pitched, animalistic, and cruel. Another follows. Then a third. Then a fourth.
“They’ve found the trail,” Alvinnué says, rising swiftly, slipping the compendium back into his pack. “They’re coming.”
Alvinnué kneels beside Hakun, gripping him firmly beneath the arms. “This will hurt,” he says quietly, his eyes scanning the cave’s dark interior. “So try to keep quiet.”
Before Hakun can protest, Alvinnué lifts and drags him farther into the cave, careful but swift. The older man stifles a groan, biting down as pain flashes across his face. They reach a shaded alcove where the shadows cling tightly to the stone. Alvinnué lowers him gently.
“Stay here,” he says, his tone low, commanding. “No matter what happens, don’t come out. Do you understand?”
Hakun nods weakly, still catching his breath.
Alvinnué pulls a small satchel from his belt and scatters dried leaves at the mouth of the cave, whispering an incantation under his breath. A subtle, sweet fragrance wafts outward—light, almost minty.
“What are those?” Hakun asks.
“Pandan Leaves,” Alvinnué replies, eyes still on the cave entrance. “From Shanda-Wold. The scent will confuse their sense of smell. They hate it.”
Hakun’s eyes widen. “Shanda-Wold? Wait… are you—”
Before he can finish the thought, Alvinnué reaches into his cloak and pulls out the bloodstained sword—the one with the sun and trident. He places it in Hakun’s hand.
Hakun stares at the blade, his breath catching. “My sword…”
Alvinnué meets his eyes and presses a finger to his lips.
Silence now.
With a fluid motion, he turns and steps out of the cave, vanishing into the gathering darkness just as the wind carries the faintest scent of blood—and the first low growl echoes across the barren peaks.
Hakun sat in the cold hush of the cave, clutching the hilt of his sword as though it were the last thread tying him to life. The sweet, strange scent of the leaves masked the iron tang of blood in the air, but not the fear coiled in his chest.
He strained to hear beyond the stone, but all that reached him was the distant shriek of the monsters and the howl of the wind. Amomongo, Alvinnué had called them. He’d never heard the name before—but he knew a predator’s cry when he heard one. And he’d seen enough death to know that even one of those beasts could tear a man apart.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Fort Sundalo.
Once, the outpost had been alive with the sounds of drills, laughter, the scent of stew over the fire. Now… ashes and bones. The Army of the Undead came without warning, a tide of horror. He saw young men fall—screaming, praying, defiant. And Captain Josquin… gods, Josquin. He’d stood alone at the final gate, his armor burning with the last light of Sariyaz’s sun, buying Hakun and Yorges just enough time to flee.
“Carry the seal,” Josquin had said, the last breath at his lips. “Get to Geldanos. They must know. No matter what.”
He gritted his teeth, eyes burning as he stared at the sword in his lap. His sword. Returned to him by a shadow-walking stranger from a land most called myth.
The wind shifted.
He held his breath.
A scrape echoed outside. Stones shifted.
And then—silence.
His knuckles whitened on the hilt.
No matter what.
Outside the cave, Alvinnué moved like a whisper among the branches and stone, every step a calculated echo of his training.
The Shrieks came again, closer now, layered with snarling. His hand hovered over the hilt of his Doth-Éamon short sword. The shadows around him thickened as the last of the light dipped behind the mountain peaks.
Good.
He inhaled deeply, centering himself. The pulse of shadow magic surged within him, cold and familiar—like slipping into the sea at midnight.
Shadowblend.
The darkness welcomed him as he faded into it. Leaves rustled but no form was there—only shadow moving against shadow.
One of the Amomongo emerged through the trees—towering, hunched, its white fur streaked with dried blood, claws clicking as it sniffed the air. Its red eyes blazed with hunger.
It growled low.
Alvinnué circled unseen, silent as breath. He remembered the Jirryu drills—Strike from the veil. Withdraw before the scream. He channeled the shadows into his legs.
Shadowsprint.
A blink. A flash of motion. The sword sliced deep into the creature’s thigh before Alvinnué vanished again, leaving only pain and confusion in his wake.
The beast shrieked and spun, clawing at empty air.
Another stepped into view. Then a third. The fourth… was still hidden.
They’re flanking.
He melted back behind a boulder, focusing.
Shadowmeld.
Alvinnué’s form shimmered, ghostlike, as a massive claw tore through empty air where his chest had been. He reappeared mid-roll, blade flashing as it sliced through the first Amamongo’s leg.
Blood sprayed in arcs. The scent would send them into a frenzy.
He exhaled—not in fear, but in control.
The beast charged, maddened by pain.
Alvinnué’s form turned ethereal once more, phasing through a storm of clawing limbs. In a blur of shadow and momentum, he leapt high above.
With precision born of discipline, he plunged the Doth-Éamon Short Sword between the creature’s fiery eyes.
The beast shuddered, slumped back, and its flame was extinguished.
They weren’t mindless. They hunted as one. That meant he had to be faster. Smarter. The Jirryu taught him to use the enemy’s hunger, their rage, against them.
He lifted his sword again.
Let’s dance.
The Amomongo’s roars shook the ground, their rage growing as they clawed at the earth in search of their elusive prey. Alvinnué could feel their heavy steps through the stone—slow, but deliberate. The last thing they expected was a warrior who moved like the night itself.
Inyyudian Swift Sword.
Alvinnué’s body blurred as he sprang from the shadows, his short sword a flash of steel. The second Amomongo barely had time to register his movement before the blade slashed across its chest, so fast, so precise, that it left only a spray of blood and a gurgling snarl. He spun midair, his feet grazing the ground as he landed behind the beast in one fluid motion. Another slash—across the back of its legs.
The Amomongo stumbled, but it was still too strong, too savage. Its claws swiped wide, missing by inches.
But Alvinnué wasn’t done.
With a fluid twist of his body, he rolled to the side, leaping into the air with the grace of a panther. His body flowed through a sequence of acrobatic flips, each landing more deadly than the last.
Inyyudian Sword Strike.
As he fell from the air, he angled his short sword, driving it toward the beast’s neck with the precision of a master. The blade sank deep—aimed for the throat, cutting through muscle and bone. The Amomongo’s eyes widened in a final, shocked scream before it crumpled to the earth, lifeless.
Alvinnué landed in a crouch, his sword stained, his breath steady. His feet barely made a sound as he rose to his full height, his senses heightened, his focus razor-sharp.
Two left.
A third Amomongo charged from the shadows, its claws raised. But Alvinnué was already gone, melting into the darkness once more. The air was alive with the tension of the hunt.
Alvinnué activated Shadowsprint again and shot forward, faster than a heartbeat. The Amomongo roared in fury, swinging wildly at the empty space where Alvinnué had been just moments before. But the strike never landed—Alvinnué had already closed the distance. He danced around the beast, his blade finding purchase in a series of quick, fluid cuts. A slash to the shoulder. A strike to the ribs. The creature howled in pain, but it couldn’t catch him.
He used the speed and precision of his swordsmanship to stay just out of reach, to dance in and out of danger with the finesse of an expert. Each cut was a death sentence.
The creature stumbled, its fury turning into confusion as it bled out.
With a sudden burst of speed, Alvinnué drove his sword into the heart of the beast. It fell, silent at last.
One remained.
The final Amomongo stood still among the corpses of its kin, towering over them with a terrifying majesty. Its gold-red mane rippled like fire in the moonlight, its eyes glowing with a deep, hateful intelligence. This was no ordinary beast.
This was the Leader.
Alvinnué barely had time to react before the creature reared back its head and unleashed a Paralysis Howl, a terrible, bone-shaking cry. The air shimmered as mana surged from its throat, and suddenly, Alvinnué’s limbs stiffened. A wave of paralyzing energy crashed into him, locking his muscles, making his vision blur.
He dropped to one knee, his breath shallow.
But even in pain, the Shadow moves.
Focusing his will, Alvinnué tapped into his training. He bit the inside of his cheek—pain sharpened his senses. In a swift motion, he flung a throwing knife with his left hand, the blade spinning through the air. It buried itself in the beast’s shoulder with a sickening thunk.
The Amomongo howled again—this time in rage.
It charged.
Alvinnué rolled to the side, the paralysis lessening, his movements regaining fluidity. Another throwing knife flew—then another—finding their mark in the beast’s leg and torso. Blood sprayed, but the monster was relentless, shrugging off wounds like they were scratches.
Alvinnué’s hand tightened around his Doth-Éamon Short Sword.
The blade pulsed with a cold, black glow—its shadow energy thrumming like a heartbeat. He whispered a word in the ancient tongue of Shanda-Wold. The runes on the blade flared to life.
As the Amomongo lunged, Alvinnué met it mid-strike. The clash shook the ground, but the moment his blade touched the beast’s fur, the creature shuddered violently.
Its mana flow was sealed.
The paralyzing howls ceased. Its strength faltered. Its advantage vanished.
Now it was a battle of speed and will—and Alvinnué was built for it.
Dodging the beast’s wide swipes with agile backflips and swift rolls, he carved deep lines across its hide. His blade was a blur—his movements more shadow than man. Blood sprayed in arcs, staining the rocks and leaves.
Still, the beast fought on, staggering but furious.
Alvinnué’s body ached—cuts lined his arm and cheek, his breath ragged, but his stance did not waver.
And then, he stepped back.
He whispered a final word.
The shadows wrapped around him.
Shadowstrike.
He vanished.
The Amomongo froze, its beast instincts screaming. It looked around, snarling.
But the attack had already happened.
A single, invisible strike ripped across its chest—perfectly clean, utterly silent. The creature stopped moving.
Its massive form wavered, then collapsed in a heap, unmoving. The glow faded from its eyes. Its gold-red mane lay soaked in blood and shadow.
Alvinnué appeared behind it, sword lowered, breath steady.
The forest was silent once more.
From the dark hollow of the cave, Hakun lay still, every breath laced with pain and awe. His wound ached, but his senses were sharp. He’d heard the howls, the screeches, the clash of steel and fury just beyond the entrance. The Amomongo—the beasts that had torn through his horse like cloth—were dying.
And then…
Silence.
Hakun blinked, barely able to believe what he was seeing.
“…Saints above…” he whispered.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, his fingers still clutching the Sariyaz sword Alvinnué had returned to him. The same sword that had been useless against the Amomongo. And yet this boy—no, this warrior—had felled the entire pack alone.
Alvinnué finally turned his gaze toward the cave.
“You stayed quiet,” he said evenly, stepping closer.
Hakun stared, jaw slightly slack. “Lad… what in the name of the old gods are you?”
Alvinnué tilted his head slightly, then gave a faint, tired smile.
“Someone who was taught never to run from the dark.”
Hakun chuckled, but it came out more like a cough. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
Alvinnué crouched beside him, checking his leg again. The Shadow Salve was holding.
“Can you walk?” Alvinnué asked.
Hakun took a breath, then nodded. “With help. And maybe some of those ghost leaves of yours.”
Alvinnué gave a rare smirk, slipping a few Pandan Leaves into his hand.