The battle had just ended, yet its roar still resonated within their bones. Seventy warriors, now awakened, stood catching their breath amidst the smoldering aftermath. Ash swirled in the wind like mourning cloth, and the earth bore the scars of fire and blood, silent witnesses to their struggle. Tashem stood at the forefront, his gaze fixed on the horizon, eyes narrowed with both determination and dread. The bodies of fallen invaders lay scattered at the forest's edge; some disintegrated into black mist, while others remained behind as grotesque, twisted husks.
For the first time in ages, humanity had not fled—they had stood their ground. And they had won.
The seventy, no longer just men and women, had transformed into something much greater than they had ever known. They fought with an energy that felt ancient, coursing through their veins like wildfire. Speed, precision, courage, unity—they moved as one, with every strike perfectly timed, every leap defying the boundaries of humanity. They were defenders of something far greater than their individual selves.
"It's unreal, isn't it?" Ayla spoke softly as she walked beside Tashem, her voice hoarse but laced with pride. She brushed a soot-covered strand of hair away from her face, revealing her dirt-streaked cheeks that bore a mix of fatigue and exhilaration.
"Unreal and yet…here we are," Tashem replied, not taking his eyes off the charred horizon. "But they will know now. They will know."
From the woods beyond, the remnants of the invaders began to snake away, their forms twisted and wounded, blood-like shadows trailing behind them. They had tasted defeat, and those who survived had but one task left—return to their master, Gusha, with the terrifying news that humanity was no longer prey. Tashem was no longer a prophecy. He was real. He was alive. And he was leading.
From the edge of the battlefield, a few wounded invaders— battered and gasping for breath—limped away into the shadows of the encroaching twilight. Their forms bore the scars of chaos, but it was the sight of the impossible that weighed heavily on their mind: humans rising up, displaying a fierce determination and speed that shattered the myths of their inevitable defeat. They knew they had to return to their ranks with this truth.
Far away, in a dimly lit room that felt more coffin than throne, Gusha sat, his throne made of remnants of battles long past. His expression was a mask of contemplation, thick with silence, as he waited for news from his scouts. The tension in the air was palpable. Then, the first of them staggered into the chamber, collapsing before him in a heap.
"Speak," Gusha commanded, his voice low but simmering with anticipation.
The invaders fought for breath, black blood shadows pooling from their abominable forms, as one mustered strength to articulate the nightmare they had witnessed. "My lord... the humans... they... they fought back."
Gusha leaned forward, his interest piqued. "What did you say?"
With ragged breaths, the soldier managed, "They have... power."
An eerie silence followed, thick like the weight of looming disaster. Gusha rose slowly, every deliberate movement demonstrating his brewing wrath.
"Power?" he repeated, the word slipping through clenched teeth.
The invaders nodded weakly, the pain evident in their eyes. "Faster than before... another invader echoed, stronger. They fought us back... like warriors of a forgotten era."
A fierce growl erupted from Gusha's throat, a sound that rattled the very air around him. Shadows twisted and churned violently, reflecting his inner turmoil, while the roots of his fortress creaked and cracked under the intensity of his fury. "So it begins," he hissed, his voice heavy with malice. "The light rekindles. The prophecy wakes."
He strode to the edge of a vast, broken map etched into the stone floor, his gaze fixed with a calculating intensity on the Vale—a place once filled with promise.
"Then let us greet their awakening with extinction," he declared, his voice a chilling promise of the storm to come.
Back at the edge of Vale of Shai The wind suddenly shifted, its familiar warmth replaced by an unnatural chill that seeped into their bones. Tashem felt it before he could see anything—an eerie silence enveloped the area, as if the world was holding its breath. Birds vanished from the sky, and the leaves ceased their rustling. The air felt thick, too still.
And then it came.
A single cry—a scream shattered the silence from one of the seventy who had wandered too far toward the northern ridge.
Panic surged within them, and they ran.
Tashem and Ayla plunged through the trees, a handful of the seventy following closely behind, driven by an urgency they could not fully comprehend. When they emerged from the dense foliage, the sight that met their eyes caused them to halt in their tracks.
A circle of ash lay on the ground, a perfect ring formed as if by some sinister design. At its center lay one of their own—pale, eyes wide open, lifeless. No wounds marred his skin. No blood pooled beneath him. Just an empty shell, devoid of the spirit that had once animated him.
"What happened?" whispered a younger woman, her voice a fragile tremor amidst the chaos.
"He was called," Tashem said, kneeling to feel the earth beneath him, reaching out with his spirit. "Pulled by something beyond us."
Then the air stirred again, filled with an oppressive energy. A voice echoed in the silence—not from around them, but from within.
"You should've stayed in your tomb, son of Shem."
It was Gusha.
The voice didn't emanate from the forest; it came from one of the seventy.
Tashem turned slowly, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. His gaze fell upon Harak—a quiet, brave soul who had fought side by side with them. But the moment their eyes met, Tashem felt a churning unease—a sense of something fractured, something corrupted within Harak.
"You're not him anymore," Tashem said, a note of accusation slipping into his voice.
Harak's mouth twisted into a grin, but it wasn't his. It was too wide, too cold.
"I was the first crack," the voice rasped through Harak's lips. "Your light awakened many, but it also stirred what had been sleeping inside some. Not everyone you saved was fully free."
Then Harak's body contorted violently, black smoke pouring from his mouth as his eyes rolled back, his frame lifting off the ground. The other seventy stood frozen in fear; the air around them crackled with tension.
"No!" Ayla shouted, horrified. "We healed them!"
"You healed their bodies," the voice replied, a cruel edge lacing through its tone. "But some chains go deeper."
With a thunderous crash, Harak's body fell, unconscious. Yet the damage had already been done.
Tashem surveyed the others—eyes wide with doubt, hearts heavy with fear and anguish.
"How many?" he whispered, his voice breaking the chilling silence.
The answer came from not Gusha, but from the stillness that surrounded them. Five of the seventy stepped back, expressions guilty, ashamed, afraid.
They had felt it too. Something was growing inside them. Something darker.
One of them, a woman named Sariel, fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. "We tried," she cried in despair. "I fought it…every night, I fought it. But it whispers. It's always whispering."
Tashem moved closer, kneeling beside her and placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know. We're not done healing yet. But this…this changes everything."
He straightened, scanning the group. "We are being hunted—not just from the outside, but from within. Gusha is cunning. He plants seeds in silence. But we will not tear each other apart. We stand, or we fall."
The air trembled, heavy with the weight of truth. A sense of resolve began to build, even amongst the shadows of doubt.
Suddenly, the skies darkened, and a rush of wind twisted through the trees, filling the air with a foreboding chill. Above the horizon, a storm unlike any they had experienced began to gather—black and red clouds churned menacingly like furious beasts converging upon them.
Ayla stepped beside Tashem, her expression firm. "It's not just a storm. It's him. He's coming."
Tashem's hand tightened into a fist, resolve hardening in his chest. "Then let him come."
Behind him, the seventy rallied again, though wounded and weary, they were also fueled by a fierce determination. They had faced death and despair, and they would face it again—together.
Before the dawn broke upon the horizon, the next battle would emerge unlike any before. In the encroaching darkness, the lines dividing ally from enemy would blur, yet they refused to be afraid.
Even if their light was flickering, it would not be extinguished.
They stood together, shoulder to shoulder, united in spirit if not yet in clarity—their breaths mingling in the cold, the thick tension crackling like electricity around them. With hearts pounding, they prepared not just for a fight, but for a reckoning. Would they fall under the weight of their inner demons, or would they rise above, standing as one against the darkness that sought to swallow them whole?
It was those thoughts that bound them, the human desire not just to survive, but to thrive, to protect what remained of their world. Tashem knew that the fight ahead would require more than swords and strength. They would need faith in one another, the courage to embrace their vulnerabilities, and the will to conquer not only the enemy outside but the shadows lurking within.