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His body was shattered and bruised, and his strength diminished. His thoughts broke apart as the darkness slid in. Lost in the silence, his last breath escaped. Pain and consciousness vanished as a blinding light engulfed him.
Lyrien opened his eyes a little. His cheek was cradled by soft grass. Above, towering trees with softly rustling leaves loomed. He was confused. Where had he gone? How did he arrive? His recollections appeared obscured.
Ancient trees towered over Lyrien as he meandered through the enchanting woodland, their tangled branches rustling over an emerald green ceiling. The woodland floor gave way beneath his feet with every stride he took forward, as though the ground itself recognized him. His eyes, however, were puzzled and seemingly disoriented as they poured across the horizon, displaying perplexity.
As exhaustion overcame him, Lyrien continued to push through the thick underbrush, the noises and colors of the forest blending into a single blur. The trees then parted, revealing a dilapidated shack in front of him. As if nature were taking it back, vines slithered up the walls. He crossed the threshold as the door groaned in the wind. A tarnished lantern and dusty shelves indicated that this place had been inhabited for a very long time.
The creaking of the wood reverberated through the silence as he sank back into a rough wooden bench. The quiet of the shanty soothed his weary thoughts as he slept. A lullaby was created by the distant bird sounds and the rustle of leaves. Lyrien's eyelids sagged, allowing fatigue to take over. He slowed his breathing, and his thoughts melted into darkness, lulled by the pulse of the forest into deep sleep.
Lyrien's journal entry
Glaciela 27, 527 GD
(february 27, 527 GD)
I still can't believe it has been three months since I came here. Next thing I know, I am walking home from work, and then I stand in an empty shack in a forest full of lush green and trees and beasts one would find only in imaginations. The shack I've been staying in is located in a forest near the town of Willowdale, trying to learn the basics of magic and adapt to the local customs of this world. It's a bit odd at first, people here are friendly, but I still feel like an outsider. The town is quite big so they have schools and facilities for someone like me who is still a beginner at magic. Not that the language barrier is ever easy, the instructor, Rowan, has said I learn quickly. Then there's found that I do have an aptitude for elemental magic, or more specifically, controlling water.
Lyrien's journal entry
Floraven 10, 527 GD
(april 10, 527 GD)
A month or two had passed since I started training on my magic capabilities before I deem myself as ready. Yesterday, I joined a group of adventurers on a quest to clear out a nearby dungeon. Accepting and finishing quests are one of the main source of income on this world, thus the reason why I went to the schools that have magical instructors. While we were on the dungeon, we encountered goblins, giant spiders, and a terrifying undead warrior. My water magic worked like a charm on the goblins, but the undead proved to be a different story. After some time, with the combine strengths of our party – turned out to be too much for them.
Lyrien continued to set out on his journey, propelled by an insatiable thirst of knowledge and curiosities. Leaving the familiarity of his shack and the lush forest of Willowdale behind, he went into various other lands. He passed through enchanted forest, mystical mountains, and towns of various cultures.
While he was within the Mellow Welsh, a rich forest that filled in with towering trees having silver bark and saffron canopies stretching across the sky, Lyrien chanced upon Thalassia, an elven archer whose precision and quiet confidence really amazed him.
With Thalassia by his side, they encountered Kael and Sawyer, who were fleeing a horde of goblin in the mines near Loch Mor, a region near Mellow Welsh filled with swamps. They went to a near town in Loch Mor to rest, and outside of the inn they were staying, was Morgan, showcasing her swift blade to the onlookers. Not to pass on an opportunity for a swordsman, Lyrien invited her in a journey which she eagerly accepted.
United, Kael's healing, Lyrien's magical prowess, Thalassia's arrowed precision, Sawyer's stalwart defense, and Morgan's swift swordmanship forged a formidable bond, ready to take on any challenges.
As Lyrien and his party entered the lively town of Karmaric, the golden glow of dusk kissed the rooftops of the lively town square. Sawyer's stomach growled excitedly at the meat roasting within the walls of the Highlander Haven. They entered the tavern, listening to a buzz of whispers of sad adventurers who had chanced upon a demon within the dungeons of the town.
Lyrien's gaze met Morgan, and with a slight tilt of his head, he gestured for her to scan the room without drawing attention. He allowed his eyes to pause briefly on her face to confirm she comprehended. Returning his attention to the other members of his team, Lyrien was now neutral once more as he waited for the subtle gesture indicating she'd pinpointed the information source.
After some time, Morgan wove through the busy tavern, she finally reached Lyrien's side, her voice almost a whisper. "I've found him. A hooded figure, sitting near the fire. He's been telling tales about adventurers seeing a so-called demon in the dungeons. He's a season adventurer, that's why everyone is listening attentively at him."
Lyrien approached Thrain, his eyes locking onto the adventurer. "Pardon me, sir. I've heard that you know about those adventurers seeing a demon in the dungeon, you could perhaps lighten me, along with others here of course." Thrain's gaze narrowed, then nodded.
Lyrien's journal entry
Autumnora 19, 527 GD
(october 19, 527 GD)
Earlier, I had spoken with Thrain, a seasoned adventurer, here at the Highlander Haven tavern today. Apparently, multiple adventurers have encountered low-grade demons lurking within the dungeons in the Maledicta Canon. Thrain also mentioned that they had also seen deep rifts in the core of those said dungeons. He expeculated that the rifts are the demons way to come crawling here.
His news that seems to circulate within the tavern between adventurers and the townspeople, I find a bother. Of low grade as they may be, but they're still demons; much stronger and more versatile than any dungeon monster.
After my talk with him was finished, I got everyone together to share the information I had gathered. The group exchanged weighted glances, knowing the danger – and possibility – that awaited them.
Lyrien's journal entry
Autumnora 26, 527 GD
(october 26, 527 GD)
Not much later, mid-class and high-class demons began appearing in dungeons making the game greatly worse, in terms of difficulty to be beaten and cleaned, as most dungeons are overrun with them nowadays due to the fact that most adventurers were afraid to get in especially since news traveled around that adventurers ventured in never to be seen again.
Despite his churning stomach from anxiety, he went on for duty. Of course, Lyrien's hand clutched the hilt of his sword. Yet despite the escalating fear, he walked on steadily. His friends brought up the rear, their resolute faces hiding their own fears.
Deathly quiet, this forest breathed forth the heavy smell of rot, and after the days of consecutive travel, panting hard were Lyrien and his friends, forging through the very thick jungle in front of them. Vines entwined to form the maw of jaws gaping open across the entrance of the temple that lay before them.
There was something about it that vibrated the bones of Lyrien, some aura of ancient energy. "We should go," Thalassia said in a tight, awkward voice. Kael, being an optimist, insisted that they look inside. It cooled inside, every step echoing across the cavernous expanse of the building.
Its walls were covered in carvings of gods long forgotten. Lyrien felt a strange pull toward the center of the room. Before he could react, a golden light enveloped him, faint but undeniable.
"Did you see that?" Kael asked, his voice full of wonder.
"See what?" Alessa replied, looking around.
Lyrien shook his head. "It's nothing." Though, he kept the feeling to himself, and a sense of unease lingered in his chest.
Lyrien's journal entry
Solaraea 17, 528 GD
(june 27, 528 GD)
It was like no other temple I've ever seen. The halls whisper secrets in a language I can't understand, yet somehow I'm drawn to it; as if it knew me. Then when the light surrounds me, I felt bare and rebuilt again. I can only try to put into words how I felt, so I said it was nothing, but that feeling still remains, as if there is something weighing down on my soul.
The demons came in waves. Ash choked the sky, and villages burnt. Homes turned to blazing rubble, villages crumbled beneath their assault, and the once blue sky became gray with smoke and ash. The cries of survivors blended into the noise as they ran for their lives. Wherever Lyrien and his team could, they fought, but it was never really to their advantage. And the air itself seemed to get heavier each day, and the demons were too numerous and too strong.
Desperation became palpable when the Demon King descended. All hope and brightness were sucked away by his presence, which was like a void. In his shadow, even the most courageous of them wavered. Lyrien sensed it as well—a chilly hand clutching his heart and muttering that resistance was pointless. But he continued because stopping would mean giving up, and giving up was unimaginable.
They lost Thalassia in a small village near the mountains. The memory of death was well seared in Lyrien's mind. That day, she stood atop a crumbling watchtower, raining death on the demons that surged toward a group of terrorized villagers. Her arrows hit true, but the horde was relentless. When the tower collapsed to the weight of assault, Thalassia fell with it, her bow clutched tightly in her hand.
Kael next, his fall a slower, agonizing unraveling. He was always their heart, a healer who never blinked at putting himself in harm's way for others. In a final, desperate effort to save them from a swarm of lesser demons, Kael had overexerted himself. His healing light flickered out like a candle in a storm. When the swarm finally broke, they found his lifeless mangled body.
One more blast came from the tank that had protected them from the darkness. In their defense, a demon larger than any they had ever seen rushed through the gap. With his shield raised and his voice a loud shout, Sawyer charged forward to attack it. The others were able to flee after he halted the demon in its tracks, but he lost his life in the process.
Quick-witted and cunning, Morgan managed to persevere to the very end. However, she was unable to escape the surging tide despite her speed and accuracy. Her blade broke in her grasp as she fell, her body encircled by the remains of the demons she had vanquished, right before the decisive battle.
Lyrien's journal entry
Crystalis 3, 528 GD
(december 3, 528 GD)
I don’t know who I am anymore. A hollow man, that’s what I’ve become—an empty vessel driven by grief and rage. The person I once was feels like a stranger now, a shadow I can no longer recognize. I can’t remember the last time I felt anything but this ache in my chest. It’s like a stone pressing down on me, heavy and cold, yet alongside it burns this terrible, unrelenting fire that refuses to go out.
I’m not fighting for a better tomorrow. I’m fighting for vengeance—for some shred of justice for the lives torn away from me.
Thalassia, with her steady hand and unshakable calm. Kael, whose kindness shone brighter than any magic. Sawyer, a fortress of will and strength. Morgan, a whirlwind of courage and wit. Each of them is gone, their voices now nothing more than echoes that haunt my mind.
Every strike I land, every demon I fell—it's never enough. It will never be enough. And still, I fight. I fight because stopping would mean facing the void they've left behind, and I'm not ready for that.
We are so few in number now-it's pathetic, really-compared to the endless horde we face. Tomorrow, we make our last stand. All that's left of me is this fire inside, and I know it won't last. Even fire burns out eventually.
If this is the last post of my life, let it be said: I loved them. All of them. More than I can say through words. And I am so sorry—I will never forgive myself—that I didn't save them.
The battlefield was like a tornado of chaos. Water swirled around him in sharp, shimmering tendrils as Lyrien steadied his hold on the staff, his muscles screaming in defiance of his desperate thrust forward, panting for oxygen with each ragged breath. Spells exploded, blades clashed.
And the Demon King, a relentless shadow that appeared to represent evil power, loomed before him. The Demon King's armor appeared to be somewhat dented by each strike delivered by another surviving adventurer, but at a cruel cost. His desperation was fueled by the weight of what his friends and group had placed on him.
With his massive frame and a voice that sounded like a guttural howl that could have rocked the heavens, the Demon King towered over them. His hatred filled the air, and many people were so distraught that they went to their knees.
But as the world appeared to be on the verge of destruction, something inside Lyrien changed. The faint golden light, which had befallen him in the temple, the benediction granted to him centuries ago, resurrected itself in his heart.
He spread like a wildfire, as the fire fueled his heart into a unflinching resolve and his limbs with strength. He stood opposite the Demon King as water revolved about him with a divine glory.
His power struck the dark lord with a ferocity unmatched, roaring like an unstoppable tide. The Demon King's body was beaten by pure force, and his shield trembled under the assault. In the demon king's gaze, Lyrien caught the tiniest glimmer of terror.
Lyrien launched one more blow, a shout that ripped from the core of his being. When it hit home, the water transformed into a dagger of pure ice, going straight into the heart of the Demon King.
As his giant form crumbled and his body turned to dust, the scream of the Demon King was silent. The popping of dying magic filled the air to break the sudden stillness that spread over the battlefield.
Lyrien fell on his knees; his staff went flying from his shaking hands and clattered in vain against the blood-soaked earth.
As that adrenaline had held him going, it seemed now to have washed away with what was left for him but that suffocating emptiness inside, like some part of him had been extracted from his chest. He could see around on the battle-scene field the broken land filled with mutilated corpses and trampled-up pieces of equipment from a battle-swept, then silent world.
He yearned to scream-to unleash the storm of woe, of rage, of despair that gnawed inside his chest-but his voice would not cooperate; it had lodged itself in the dry constriction of his throat. His chest was hollow and seemed to absorb all that good stuff he used to carry within.
His cheeks stung as silent tears streamed, unwelcome, unstoppable, past the dirt scrawled down his face where he knelt amidst the broken buildings. There, for the first time in all that terrible war, its burden crushed home to him every lost friend, each broken promise, every faintest spark of hope drowned out by the merciless march of war. The world took everything and had the cruelty of silence to offer him, to make him completely, irrevocably alone.
The months became a blur of emptiness. Lyrien wandered back to his Willowdale, which didn't feel any more like going home than stumbling into a grave. Each day was gray, lifeless; he cooked some simple meals and stared into the flames at night, haunted by memories of laughter, camaraderie, and sacrifice.
He walked forward, and the weight of his guilt and grief clung to him like chains. In every shadow, his comrades' faces appeared, and their voices seemed to echo through his dreams. He kept reminding himself that they would have wanted him to live, to honor their memory; but that didn't bring solace.
The gods looked at him; their once interested eyes now are lifeless. A story wove with strands of glory and rebellion, Lyrien had once been a beacon of bravery. What had started as a big story had turned into a tiresome battle for survival, with every win being less significant and every defeat more significant. Once a sight that brought holy laughter, his every action now arouses only indifference.
Lyrien moved beneath them, a shadow of the hero they had loved. His eyes were hollow from lack of purpose, and his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his mistakes. The gods saw him as a character in a stale play, a wonderful performance that now dragged on without climax or resolution. Their own little arguments and indulgence overshadowed his sadness and anguish, which were so raw and overwhelming to him.
The gods got together one night. Their lavish surroundings reflected their disengagement from the earthly world as they lounged in indulgent idleness.
One by one, they nodded. "Perhaps it is time," the deity thought, bestowing its benediction on Lyrien in a melodic, icy voice, "to end his tale."
Their decision was motivated by a need for closure and for something—anything—to pique their interest again, not by empathy or fairness. For a while, Lyrien's pain had been amusing, but even pain became monotonous if prolonged. They therefore came to a judgment after dispassionate consideration.
One last twist in the mortal's tale, a final act, would be put into motion. Not to give him tranquility, but to watch his writhing, for in their harsh, everlasting life, the gods were only interested in the momentary entertainment they offered and did not care about mortals' hardships.
Under the pale moonlight, Lyrien trudged home. Suddenly, a sharp, invisible force struck him in the chest. He gasped, collapsing onto the dirt road, his vision filled with a blinding light. He hardly felt the sensation of his heartbeat slowing, his body growing cold.
Lyrien's eyes opened slightly. The soft grass cupped his cheek. Tall trees towered above, their leaves rustling quietly. He was confused. Where was he now? How did he get here? And his memories were all so hazy. He felt the firm yet queerly unreliable ground beneath his feet, as if the universe itself were holding its breath, and he stood unsteadily.
Everything here seemed both familiar and alien at the same time, as if a half-remembered dream. Lyrien could not know the truth; this was not a new planet, but the past, molded for their enjoyment.
Above, the gods watched with disguised amusement, murmurs of anticipation reverberating through the skies. His tale was far from over; it was just going to start a new cycle of things that he nor his starry observers could see coming.