A hushed silence lingered in the small wooden house at the edge of Kesseln Town, broken only by the occasional creak of aging timber.
Dust drifted lazily through shafts of soft sunlight, filtered by thin, worn curtains that barely shielded the room from the light outside.
The air was stale, yet familiar—like pages of a forgotten book.
Alein sat upright on an old bed that groaned beneath his weight.
The blanket draped over his legs was thin, its corners frayed from years of use.
His frame was delicate, almost ghost-like, as if the slightest wind might carry him off—but his eyes betrayed no such fragility.
They were sharp. Quietly amused. As if watching a world dance to music only he could hear.
Then, a sudden buzz shattered the stillness. Shrill, high-pitched. The outdated phone beside him flickered to life.
[Government Alert]
Tier 1 Beast Tide – ETA: 1 Hour.
Citizens must evacuate or seek immediate shelter.
Military response en route.
Alein stared at the message. His lips twitched into a faint smile—not wide, not forced. Just... entertained.
"How convenient…" he thought, eyes not leaving the screen.
"I was wondering how long it would take for the world to remind me it's alive."
He leaned back, head resting against the wooden wall, and turned his gaze toward the sky outside the window.
It was clear. Beautiful, even. As if mocking the chaos to come.
His fingers tapped the blanket—slow, rhythmic, like the ticking of a clock.
"Let's see what Ashen does," he whispered softly. "Though I think I already know."
Far beyond the edges of town, where the treetops bent with the wind and birds flew in eerie silence, a lone figure stood atop a cliff.
Ashen.
He faced the town from above, standing motionless against the wind that tugged at his weather-worn robes.
His figure, outlined by the descending sun, appeared almost sculptural—tall, lean, carved from time itself.
Silver strands of hair flowed around his face, catching the light like threads of moonlight.
Beneath him, Kesseln looked peaceful. Alive. Fragile.
But beyond it—on the far horizon—a dust storm loomed. Not natural. Too dense.
Too fast. The quiet before the storm was not empty; it was full of promise.
Ashen's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the dust shift and grow.
"A beast tide… how troublesome."
He paused, wind brushing past his face. "Or perhaps... how nostalgic."
He adjusted the leather straps of his satchel. Inside were dried herbs, polished monster bones, bloodstained claws—trophies of a silent hunt.
Without ceremony, he turned from the cliff and began walking down the slope.
His steps were steady.
Not hurried.
Not slow.
Just calm.
By the time he reached Kesseln's gates, the town had descended into chaos.
Carts crashed against walls. Children cried. Families pushed and yelled, each trying to flee before the tide arrived.
Soldiers struggled to maintain order, their voices lost in the sea of screams and clamor.
Ashen stepped into the crowd like a shadow, unnoticed.
His presence didn't command attention, yet space seemed to part around him naturally.
At the gates, a guard shoved his way through the civilians, nearly colliding with Ashen.
Before the guard could turn away, Ashen lightly tapped him on the shoulder.
"What's happening?" he asked softly.
The guard spun around, eyes bloodshot, sweat dripping down his brow.
"Tier 1 beast tide!" he barked. "Less than an hour away! Reinforcements are delayed—we're understaffed and underprepared!"
Ashen's eyes drifted toward the horizon again.
His head tilted ever so slightly, as if evaluating an invisible threat.
"I wonder if this will be enough to awaken some rusted instincts," he murmured under his breath.
Without another word, he melted into the moving mass of people, walking against the tide of fear.
In the heart of town, where most shops had already shuttered their doors, one remained barely open—lamps dimmed, shelves half-empty, the air thick with the scent of oil and iron.
Ashen stepped inside.
The shopkeeper glanced up, visibly startled. "You're still out gathering? Even now? You're insane."
Ashen didn't respond. Instead, he unslung his satchel and poured its contents onto the counter—crimson-tinged fangs, brittle bones carved with forgotten runes, herbs bound with silk thread, and talons with dried blood still clinging to them.
The shopkeeper hesitated, then nodded grimly, sliding five silver coins across the counter.
Ashen took four and looked around.
"Iron longsword. High quality."
Grumbling, the shopkeeper retrieved a wrapped blade from beneath the counter.
Ashen unraveled the cloth, lifting the sword with practiced ease. He gave it a single swing—smooth, fluid, precise.
No emotion. No admiration. Only measurement.
He purchased a scabbard with his final coin, attached it to his belt, and stepped out into the growing tension of the streets.
"This body still needs polishing," he muttered as he tightened the scabbard strap.
The town was transforming. What once buzzed with panic now simmered with fear—a slow boil under a lid.
Ashen walked through it with the composure of stone. Every motion around him—every guard's mistake, every frantic barricade, every loose nail in a defensive structure—he noticed it all. His eyes, sharp and calculating, never lingered long, but saw too much.
Near the town square, a grizzled commander yelled into the faces of trembling soldiers.
"Hold the damn line! I don't care if your hands shake, you stand! You hear me?!"
Ashen leaned casually against a stone wall in the shadow of a building, arms folded.
He observed. Silently. Intently.
"They're afraid," he thought, watching the recruits fumble with their spears. "I understand fear. But not like this…"
His gaze dropped for a moment.
"It seems that my memories are fragmented… but my soul has long forgotten what it means to tremble."
"I guess that's an Advantage."
A young soldier—barely out of childhood—rushed past and accidentally knocked into him, his spear falling with a clatter.
Ashen bent, picked it up, and handed it back without a word. The boy stammered a quiet thank you and fled.
Then it came.
A sound. Low and deep.
At first, like thunder on the wrong side of the sky.
Then louder. Sharper. Alive.
A roar, layered with hundreds—no, thousands—of smaller growls, hisses, and howls. It echoed across the land like a death knell.
The beast tide had begun.
Ashen's eyes narrowed. Just slightly.
No fear. No excitement.
Just readiness.
That dangerous quiet found only in warriors who had lived through worse—and expected worse still.