Leo's POV
I went to temple's library, too see if I can dig up anything about the situation at the hand. I've always loved libraries but this feel like heaven for a ner . The smell of old paper and incense, the way dust motes dance in slanted sunlight… it's calming. Even when the world outside is going to hell in a handbasket, a library feels like a tiny safe universe of knowledge.
Today, though, I was not calm. I was sweating onto a centuries-old ledger, hands trembling with urgency as I turned pages. The temple's record room was small—just an annex in the elder's hall—but it held the village's history. And buried in that history, I hoped, were answers.
I ran my finger down a cracked parchment page, squinting at the faded ink. The script was Old Imperial, each character painstakingly brushed by some long-dead monk. Not an easy read, but I'd had classical lessons pounded into me since I was six. Finally, that misery is paying off.
"…In the 47th year of the Sun King's reign, a great darkness fell upon the eastern provinces. The King's Wind Commander, General Harael, led a vanguard to quell the unrest..."
Wind Commander. There it was. I leaned closer. General Harael. So he had a name beyond just a title. I mouthed it soundlessly as I read on.
"…They faced the sorcerer known as the Soul-Stealer at the Battle of Birchwood Ford. Though victorious, the winds turned foul. A blood like otherwordly curse spread—soldiers of both sides fell and rose again as wraiths and ghouls. General Harael fought valiantly and slew the Soul-Stealer's mortal shell with a strike swift as the eastern gale. Yet the sorcerer's dying breath, enshrouded the field in blood red rot like field, an everlasting fell wind. None who walked there survived with their souls intact…
To this day, the blood-red soil persists, birthing twisted creatures that rot in mind and flesh alike."
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. Birchwood Ford—that had to be here, this village by the river bend. And "fell wind"… well, that explained the Wind Wraiths lurking about. The Soul-Stealer must be our Necromancer. Dying but not quite dying, leaving a nasty curse behind.
No wonder Ren had felt something was coming on the wind. It's literally the ghost-laden wind of a 100-year-old battlefield.
I flipped to the next page. The script became messier, as if the writer were in a hurry or frightened.
"…General Harael's body was never found. Rumors say his own gale carried him off in death, refusing to let the enemy desecrate his corpse. The Sun King's army retreated west after the battle, leaving Birchwood in ruin. Survivors of the curse speak of a silent swordsman wandering the wreckage, his blade singing with stolen breath…"
A chill crept over me. A silent swordsman with a singing blade of wind. That matched what Ren and I sensed. The Wind Commander didn't rest easy. His wraith was still guarding this place… or haunting it. Possibly both.
I sat back, rubbing my eyes. Five hundred years had passed, and now a village stood on that old battlefield. A village currently besieged by a curse from that time. This couldn't be coincidence.
I shuffled through a few more pages. Mostly mundane records: rebuilding efforts decades later, notes about always hearing whispers by the river on cold nights, that sort of thing. One entry caught my eye:
"Year of the Dancing Cloud, 3rd Moon – A traveling priest of the Radiant Path attempted to exorcise the wind spirits near the old ford. He failed. Returned a year later, missing an arm, spoke of a 'trial of swords' he endured beyond mortal plane. Warned that none should disturb the 'Marshal of Winds' resting in his silent domain."
Trial of swords beyond mortal plane? Marshal of Winds must mean the Wind Commander's spirit. A domain… was that like a personal pocket realm? It sounded eerily like the "domain expansions" I'd read about in arcane theory—where two powerful auras clash and form their own closed battlefield. If the Wind Wraith had such a domain, that means he's an incredibly strong spirit, possibly as strong as the Necromancer or close.
I scribbled quick notes on a scrap of paper, hands shaking slightly. My gut told me we might end up caught in that "trial of swords" if we weren't careful. Or maybe regardless of what we do.
I turned another page. The later entries were about the temple itself, ward maintenance logs (similar to the ones the priest kept). Nothing else about the war or curses until a note about forty years ago: a minor undead uprising that was quelled by a group of wandering cultivators. Interesting, but not directly relevant except to prove these things flare up periodically.
A drop of sweat fell on the page. I quickly dabbed it off before it could smudge the ink. Focus, Leo. You need something actionable. How do we fight a Wind Wraith Commander and a Necromancer who basically nuked an entire battlefield?
My eyes skimmed earlier sections of the ledger, hoping maybe an older script would mention weaknesses or methods. Perhaps a line in a hymn or a marginal note by some desperate scribe...
As I searched, my mind drifted unbidden to Aren and Ren. What were they up to now? Ren was out patrolling, probably stalking stray ghouls like a cat after mice. Aren likely had his nose in everyone's business around the village, chatting up gossip and looking for anything fishy. He has a knack for making people open up, despite (or because of) how weird he is.
I found myself smiling a little. We were an odd trio, huh? A nerd, a weirdo, and a stoic walk into a cursed village... It sounded like the start of a bad joke. And yet, here we were, hopefully making a difference.
My smile faded as I thought of Mira's face at the gate earlier—trying to be brave, looking to us for answers. I felt a new weight settle in my chest. I wanted to give her—and all of them—something more than "maybe we can hold the line." I wanted to assure her that by tonight this would be over and the villagers could sleep safe. That she could get her mentor back unharmed.
Her mentor... or father? I wasn't sure of the exact relation, but Mira's concern for the priest was clearly personal. I bit my lip. I hadn't told her what I suspected: that the priest was likely taken or killed six days ago, when the wards first faltered. It felt cruel to snuff out that last bit of hope in her eyes. But we might yet find him. Maybe he was just captured. Necromancers sometimes keep important victims alive for rituals… small comfort, but it meant he could be saved.
If I could give her that news, I'd face a thousand angry wind ghosts to do it.
My gaze fell on a sketch drawn in the margin of one page. It depicted a symbol: a circle with eight small wind spirals around it. Next to it, in cramped text: "The Eight Winds can be bound by the Bell of Eternity. Shattered but not lost."
Bell of Eternity? My heart kicked up a notch. Could that refer to... a bell artifact? Maybe even the one Aren swiped the shard of? He'd mentioned it was a witch's bell, but witches' artifacts often have poetic names. If that partial bell on Aren's belt was part of some "Eternity Bell" that binds winds... perhaps not coincidence. Perhaps the witch (or whoever) pursuing Aren for stealing it wasn't just being petty—it might be something significant they way witch seems to be dead set on taking Aren out. Well, we'll see when when we have to deal with it.
The pieces tumbled in my mind. Too many threads: a cursed wind, a restless commander, a returning Soul-Stealer. The fates of an old war converging here and now. And us, misfits with perhaps just enough bite to our bark to make a difference.
My eyes stung from reading. I realized I'd been at this for over an hour. The square of sunlight on the floor had shifted notably. I carefully closed the ledger, giving a respectful bow towards the altar out of habit, and stepped outside to clear my head.
The afternoon light was harsh after the dim record room. I blinked, adjusting. Outside, villagers bustled in subdued tones. Some were boarding up windows, others moving supplies. Ren's advice about staying together after dusk was already being heeded—people were preparing to hunker down in the central square if needed. Good.
I spotted Mira across the courtyard, speaking with the guard captain. She held a piece of parchment and looked determined. Even from here I could see the steely set of her jaw. They headed toward the tavern together, probably to put up that notice I saw her writing earlier. It had the priest's name on it and a sketch—essentially a missing persons notice and a call for prayers. My chest tightened at the sight.
I wanted to go to her and say something reassuring, but words failed me in my mind. "We'll find him" felt like a promise I wasn't sure I could keep. "We'll kill those responsible" was cold comfort if the man she cares about is gone. In the end, I just watched her disappear into the tavern, heart heavy.
With a sigh, I gathered my notes and thoughts. Time to regroup with Aren and Ren. I needed to tell them what I found out: about General Harael, the Soul-Stealer, the domain of swords. And maybe about that Bell of Eternity bit—I had a hunch Aren's weird bell might become important. He'll love that, I thought with a wry smile, more trouble with that cursed trinket.
As I walked through the village, I allowed myself a brief flashback, unbidden, a memory of me as a scrawny novice.