Under the cold night sky, beneath a crimson moon that shone like freshly spilled blood, a frigid wind swept across the abandoned village. It carried with it the metallic scent of death and a faint, twisted lullaby
something that once belonged to joy, yet had been warped by grief and agony.
At the edge of the settlement stood an old, deserted house. Its wooden frame groaned, its windows hollow and watching. The very air around it was saturated with a suffocating aura
death, sorrow, and a madness that clung like roots tightening around one's chest.
Inside, a lone figure crawled across the splintered floorboards, his body drenched in blood. He crept on trembling fingers and toes, trying desperately to escape the nightmare unfolding behind him. In the corner sat a man, his hands tearing apart what remained of a woman's body—shreds of flesh like scattered petals around him.
The crawling figure struggled, the only living soul in that room of frozen despair. His breath fogged the air, the temperature dropping as though the house itself were a colossal freezer. A chorus of the dead seemed to mock him, laughter whispered against his ears as tears rolled down his face.
Outside, two shadowy figures approached with measured steps.
Dressed head-to-toe in obsidian black, they moved with the practised calm of hunters approaching a beast's lair. One raised a gloved hand, and at a subtle gesture, a gust of cold wind swung the door open with a long, low creak.
The stench rushed out first thick, choking, carrying the heavy weight of slaughter. It rolled across the porch and seeped into the night like a warning.
The two figures stiffened, their hands instinctively tightening around their firearms. They knew what scenes awaited them inside.
The first stepped forward.
"Commander Edin Korrow," he muttered, as if announcing himself to the dark.
Edin Korrow paused at the threshold, raising his weapon. The cold that seeped from inside struck him like a blow sharp, merciless, and soaked in death. Still, with steady resolve, he crossed into the house.
Commander Edin Korrow stepped deeper into the house, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the grotesque scene before him. Shadows clung to the walls, and the remnants of slaughter glistened dully under the moonlight leaking through the cracks.
He spoke without turning his head.
"Gareth."
The second figure, gripping his firearm tightly, responded with a tense, "Sir?"
Edin exhaled a cloud of white breath. "The house is cold… colder than it should be. That means the Echo is already dead."
Gareth frowned behind his mask. "Sir, how can an Echo die this quickly?"
"It was a possessed Echo," Edin replied, voice low. "They don't last longer than an hour. A full-grown Echo can survive for days sometimes years and devastate whole towns. But a possessed one? Bloody unstable creatures."
Gareth swallowed. "Bloody hell… an entire family wiped out."
As the two men spoke, something shifted in the darkness.
Unnoticed at first, the lone survivor the blood-covered figure dragged himself forward, limbs trembling as he clawed across the floor. His breaths came as weak rattles, each movement a desperate struggle between life and oblivion.
A faint noise echoed.
Gareth's head snapped to the side. Instinct kicked in; he sprang back a step, raising his gun not to fire, but to assess, to control the danger with the caution of a seasoned operative.
"Commander," Gareth whispered sharply.
Edin lifted a hand. "Hold."
The spiritual pressure in the room changed. Amidst the deathly chill, a faint trace of living energy flickered weak, nearly extinguished, yet undeniably human.
"Drop your weapon," Edin ordered quietly. "There's still a living person here."
Gareth hesitated only a second before obeying.
"Spread out," Edin continued. "Search the room. Find whoever's still breathing."
The air seemed to tighten as they moved, hunting for the fragile spark of life hidden amidst the carnage.
The cold inside the house was like a blade sliding against bare skin sharp, merciless, and unnatural. Blood coated the walls in streaks, the remnants of human bodies scattered like torn paper. Misery clung to the room like a suffocating fog, and despair oozed from every crack in the floorboards.
The Echo's monstrous form was already fading into mist, dissolving slowly as spiritual residue evaporated into the air. Only the carnage it left behind remained.
Gareth stepped forward with measured caution, his gun raised as he edged closer to the lone figure struggling on the floor. The man's breaths were shallow, his body trembling as though each second was an argument against death itself.
Gareth nudged the survivor gently with the barrel of his firearm. "Commander," he called out, "this one's still alive."
Edin Korrow approached at a leisurely pace. For a moment, he simply stared at the wounded man then a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Well, isn't that something," he murmured. "One survivor. Quite exhilarating, actually."
He slipped a hand into his coat pocket and retrieved a small packet of cigarettes. Without hurry, he placed one between his lips.
"Gareth," he asked, "have you got a lighter on you?"
Gareth blinked, caught off guard. "Ah no, sir. I don't."
Edin sighed dramatically, scratched the back of his head, and wandered outside the doorway.
A woman dressed entirely in black stood guard nearby, her presence sharp and cold.
Edin raised a hand. "Oi, Lady Lydia got a lighter?"
Lady Lydia turned her head, eyes narrowing. "Are you mad? We're in the middle of a crime scene. Do you want the press to think we're incompetent? And have you forgotten that you can use sorcery? Why not light it yourself?"
Edin chuckled, rubbing his face sheepishly. "Right, right… forgot about that."
He snapped his fingers, and a tiny flame danced at his fingertips. He lit the cigarette, exhaled a thin stream of smoke, and stepped away from the house as the cold wind dragged the lingering scent of death into silence.
Inside, Gareth raised his voice. "Oi! Two officers, get in here quickly! This one's alive. Carry him out and get him to the hospital immediately!"
Two officers in dark blue uniforms hurried in, lifting the blood-soaked survivor and rushing him out into the night.
Gareth followed them out, wiping blood from his gloves. He looked towards Lady Lydia, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Saint Lady Lydia," he said. "Can you purify the house? The Echo's already gone."
Lady Lydia sighed softly, then raised both hands toward the cursed building. Her lips began to chant a quiet, steady rhythm and a blue radiance formed around her palms.
The light surged forward, washing over the house in a cleansing wave. Flames burst forth, ethereal and cold, burning through every trace of the Echo's presence until nothing remained but purged silence.