The eastern edge of the Mythical Forest was a place the sun abandoned long ago.
Mist hung low, heavy as lead, clinging to skin like the touch of the dead. The trees here were not green—they bled. Their leaves were crimson, their bark blackened, their roots clawing from the soil like skeletal fingers. Above, crows circled in slow, deliberate spirals, as though counting the breaths of those below.
Vael'Zaryt walked in silence. His steps made no sound, his cloak trailing like a piece of the night itself.
Beside him, Kael'Tharyn kept pace with visible effort, the weight of the forest and the man beside him pressing down like an invisible hand on his spine.
They passed through glades strewn with ancient bones and toppled idols no god claimed anymore. Kael finally broke the silence:
"You haven't spoken since we left the Ravines. Are you planning to conquer the world without telling your blade why you bleed?"
Vael'Zaryt's gaze didn't shift.
"A blade doesn't need to know the war. Only where to cut."
Kael's chuckle was dry.
"Colder than death itself."
Vael didn't answer.
They followed the mist deeper until it carried a different scent—iron, scorched wood, and the stale stink of human sweat.
The ground bore scars: bark blackened by flame, petals crushed into the dirt, streaks of blood dragged in the direction of bootprints.
A war party had passed through.
Then Kael saw it—the Avarinth crest, crudely carved into the fallen husk of a treant.
And marching between the trees, ten soldiers in divine-forged armor, their steps disciplined, their movements sharp.
At their head was a man Kael didn't know… but Vael did.
Broad-shouldered. Smug-eyed. A golden bow slung over his back.
Captain Harven Drosk.
The man who had ended Maava's life.
The man who had smiled while doing it.
Harven didn't know that hell had just found him.
The first warning was silence.
Birds fled. The insects stopped. The forest held its breath.
Then came the pressure.
It fell over the squad like a storm made of weight instead of water.
One soldier's knees buckled with a crack as blood vessels burst in his eyes. Another gagged and vomited, his hands clawing at his own chest.
"Wh-what… what is this?!" someone gasped.
Kael staggered back a step, every heartbeat like a hammer blow to his ribs.
"This isn't magic… it's.. It's his bare presence. It's like the abyss itself is leaning down to look at us."
And then, through the mist, Vael'Zaryt emerged.
His eyes glowed molten red, the air bending around him as if space itself refused to hold him. The temperature didn't rise or fall—it died.
A soldier's voice broke in panic.
"Demon! Raise weapons—!"
The priest began to chant a ward.
The sound tore itself apart as reality cracked.
"Black Eden – Domain of Ruin"
From Vael'Zaryt's feet, a field of black roses spread, each petal a whisper of rot and decay. Their divine armor dulled, runes sputtered out. Blessings withered like old leaves.
"That's… that's sacred power! Demons can't—!"
"Your gods," Vael'Zaryt's voice cut across the air like steel through flesh, "are hollow."
Harven tried to rally them, drawing his bow.
"Stand firm! He bleeds like any other! He—"
Vael'Zaryt's gaze found him, pinning him in place.
"You," he said, softly enough that the trees seemed to lean closer to hear.
"Four months ago, you killed an unarmed colony. You shot a mother shielding her child."
The bow dipped. Harven's eyes widened.
"No… it can't be—you were that runt—"
"That runt," Vael said, stepping forward, "is the death you've earned."
The world drowned in black.
"Draconic Aura of Dread"
It didn't strike—it settled into them, a predator's shadow over prey. One by one, soldiers froze mid-motion, their weapons slipping from bloodless fingers. Some screamed. Some clawed at their own faces. Others could only weep.
Vael'Zaryt didn't hurry.
He moved through them like rot through wood, each step deliberate, unavoidable.
Harven tried to crawl away, his breath coming in wet gasps.
"S-Stay back! Please! I— I was just following orders!"
Vael'Zaryt crouched in front of him, his shadow spilling over the man like ink.
"Did Maava beg? Did she plead as you laughed?"
The first strike was a hand around Harven's throat, slamming him into the dirt hard enough to crater it.
The second was a fist to his face that split bone from flesh.
The third was a boot that shattered his ribs in three places.
"Dark Rupture" — Harven's arms tore open, blood spraying into the soil.
"Flame of Sorrow" — black fire crawled over his body, not killing him, but burning in a way that begged for death.
"Mercy!" Harven coughed, choking on blood.
"Regena" — his wounds knitted back together.
Vael's fist came again. And again. And again.
Every time Harven's body broke, Vael repaired it, only to break it worse.
Until Harven's screams lost shape, becoming a raw, animal sound.
"No escape," Vael whispered.
Then the light beneath them shifted, coiling into a circle of jagged lines.
"Judgment Incarnate" the finishing blow, something that seemed beautiful, peaceful from afar.
Harven didn't burn. He didn't tear apart.
He simply ceased.
Thought. Flesh. Soul. Memory.
Unmade.
When it was over, there was no blood. No ash. No sign he had ever existed.
The survivors crawled away on their hands and knees, dragging the weight of their terror with them.
Kael was still standing, but his legs trembled. His voice was low, hoarse.
"What… are you?"
Vael'Zaryt turned his head, eyes unreadable.
"Vengeance."
He walked away, the black roses still burning in the earth behind him, their petals curling in silent applause for the man who had given them life.
The forest would remember this day.
And fear it.