Zafor, 36th of Avoca, Year 3128 Tenet
The Life Stone pulsed once more from the Sacred Land of Aveora, releasing waves of serenity that rippled across all of Tertha. The world exhaled as one—tranquil, untroubled—as though chaos and ruin had never tainted its ancient soil.
Savothora gleamed above, its celestial light washing the land in a gentle brilliance, hushed and still.
To most, it was a divine blessing.
To adventurers? A cursed famine.
Peace meant no monsters. No monsters meant no quests. And no quests… meant empty coin pouches.
Some guilds had even suspended their missions in reverence to the Life Stone's pulse, honouring the sacred lull bestowed upon Tertha. The very earth felt lighter; the air, softer to inhale. It was as if the entire realm sighed with peace too deep for words.
A rare epoch, where even warriors had no need to draw their blades.
The inns echoed not with laments of danger, but with gentle laughter and warm meals shared in comfort.
Children roamed freely through woodland and village alike, elders lounged beneath treeshade unafraid, and farmers tilled the fields or traded in distant cities without burden of lurking terror.
For once, no swords were raised.
No horns of warning blared.
Only warmth… only stillness… a silence too gentle for a world so oft-scarred.
— Great Forest of Archelion, South-Western Reach
Booted steps creaked over a narrow woodland trail, soft mud clinging to the iron sabatons of a lone hunter. The week's hunt had been woefully dull—an occasional deer or sluggish bison, little more.
"Hah... Not even a goblin? No filthy beast at all? Damn boring," he muttered, peering at the meagre pouch of herbs slung over his shoulder. A job fit for a greenhorn.
And yet he was a Bear-Rank Adventurer—a slayer of Wyverns, destroyer of High-Orc battalions, explorer of sunken Dungeons, survivor of haunted Labyrinths.
Now? He picked herbs. Delivered satchels. Guarded plodding caravans.
No blood.
No peril.
No glory.
Only peace. Peaceful, quiet peace.
Then—
Cold.
Stillness.
Not a breeze stirred. No birdsong. Not even the murmur of leaves.
It was as though the world had forgotten how to breathe.
Even a Fenrir in the far distance stood frozen, unblinking, as if time itself dared not proceed.
Birds halted mid-air—wings wide, motionless—suspended in the eerie hush.
And then… something passed.
It did not walk.
It did not tread.
It floated, low and soundless, and in its wake came frost… deep and deathly.
Worse than any Cataclysm.
Crueller than any known Disaster.
More dreadful than the wrath of the Celestials.
Deadlier even than Death.
The plains crystallised beneath its drift. Jagged spears of ice erupted from the soil. Snow devoured the land in sheets, blanketing the forest until no bark nor stone remained uncovered.
It glided forward, heedless and silent.
It did not look.
It did not seek.
It simply was.
To the hunter, it had no eyes.
No intent.
No malice.
Just... indifference.
Everything it passed was reduced to pure white silence.
The man trembled, leather creaking beneath his grip as he clutched his adamantite spear tighter.
"W-who... who are you!?" he choked, frozen sweat running cold down his spine despite the frost-laden air.
The entity paused.
Turned.
Slowly.
A figure—perhaps no older than sixteen—stood wreathed in a quiet mist. Skin pale as hoarfrost. Calm. Still.
Almost... innocent.
"Me?" it echoed, voice soft. Almost kind.
"I have no name."
"But they call me the Arrow Devil."
"Excuse me, Mister… do you know where the Grand Knight is?"
A question.
Simple.
Polite, even.
Too polite.
Wrong.
So wrong.
Impossible.
That—
DANGER.
RUN.
NOW.
THAT IS NOT AN ANTROPHO.
ESCAPE—NOW!
With a growl of pure terror, the hunter slammed his spear into the ground, vaulted back, wrenched the weapon free, and sprinted—
Never once meeting its gaze.
His steps pounded into the frozen earth. His lungs burned as dread swallowed his breath whole.
He knew.
He knew.
To remain was death.
The creature tilted its head in quiet amusement. Then, ever so softly… it smiled.
Raised its bow.
Drew an arrow.
Its eyes gleamed—not with wrath.
But with delight.
A delightful little prey…
…had stumbled into the hunting grounds of a predator far beyond apex—
a being that could unmake cities with a mere blink.
— Adventurer's Guild, Amõha Tœvə
28.72 Local Time
"Hey, mate? Seen Reygh around? He hasn't come back from the forest. Said he was just picking herbs... wanted a drink after, but it's past dusk now."
A bearded man waved to a passing waitress, ordering another round. The spring air bit colder than usual.
"No clue," another replied, draining his tankard. "It was a basic job. He's probably just taking his sweet time. No monsters around with the Life Stone pulsing, yeah?"
"Maybe he slipped near the ridge?" a paladin offered, chewing a thick cut of steak.
"Reygh? Slip? Don't be daft," a hunter scoffed, honing a blade with slow, deliberate strokes. "He's Bear-Class. Ridge or no ridge, he's tougher than most."
"Bloody right!" a large barbarian bellowed, slapping a worn map onto the table. He jabbed a finger at the Forest of Archelion.
"Even Phoenix-Class tread lightly there. But with the Life Stone pulsing? No beast'd dare move. Ghahaha! Reygh's not gonna croak on a herb run, that's for sure!"
They laughed. They drank.
They waited for a man who would never return.
One by one, the adventurers left for their homes, trusting the tranquility cloaking their village.
The sacred energy still flowed.
Soft.
Serene.
Unquestioned.
— Deep within the Great Forest of Archelion…
"Hey, hey, Mister! Let's play! Come on, let's play again!"
A small voice echoed through the frost-veiled grove.
A childlike creature spun a small urn in its hand, giggling merrily—as if it held a trinket.
But the urn brimmed with terror.
Countless souls sealed within.
"Mister! Your soul was really tasty! Let's play chase again, okay?"
Crunch. Crunch. Choomp. Choomp. Glup~
The creature gnawed upon the man's spirit like warm meat, chewing with perverse innocence.
It was savoury.
It was rich.
Under the blue glow of the moon, the entity devoured its "meal" beside the shattered body of the man it once called playmate.
Ice lances stabbed the ground like spears.
The forest lay buried beneath frost and mist—
a snow-laden silence that had no place in spring.
And yet...
It happened.
It should not have.
Wrong.
Terrifying.
Blankets of snow…
…in the middle of spring?
So wrong.
The man's corpse lay motionless, a black-fletched arrow skewered through his back.
Nearby, his adamantite spear lay discarded.
Herbs scattered like funeral petals.
The creature sat close by, still chattering to itself—gleaming eyes wide with joy.
No guilt.
No shame.
Only innocent, radiant glee.
Earlier that evening…
He had run.
He had screamed.
He was slain in a single shot.
Then again.
And again.
Each time, the entity loosed the soul.
Each time, another arrow flew.
Each time, another scream rent the air.
Again.
And again.
Until satisfaction was reached.
Dead.
Dead again.
And again.
"Hey, Muse! Look at this soul, Muse! You liked the last one, right? This one's tasty too!"
The childlike being offered the fragment of a soul like one might offer sweets, presenting it to the sword resting beside them.
The blade trembled faintly—
Absorbing the essence offered.
Its surface shimmered cold.
And from within its core… countless voices shrieked.
Millions.
Millions of souls… consumed.
Their agony echoed within the cursed steel.
It grew heavier.
Colder.
Hungrier.
And still… the snow fell.
— Adventurers' Guild of Amõha Tœvə
Yondi, 37th of Avoca, 3128 Tenet
Dawn, 06:38 local time
"Everyone, listen up! Something's not right!"
The guild's great oaken doors burst open, echoing thunderously as Torãmo stormed in—his voice sharp as a whetted axe. The early risers froze—some mid-bite, some mid-blade-sharpening—eyes shifting to the entrance as stillness overtook the morning bustle.
Torãmo, veteran Bear-Class adventurer, bore grim news. Reygh—comrade, slayer of wyverns, trusted shield of caravans—had not returned. His mission? Merely to gather herbs in the South-Western reach of Archelion's vast green. An errand for fledglings.
No beast, no bandit, no curse dared tread during the Life Stone's pulsing lull. Peace held the land in its cradle—yet Reygh had vanished like morning mist.
A heavy hush followed.
"He should've been back by dusk," Torãmo muttered, voice now tight with unease. "Dawn's broken. Still no word."
A barbarian rose abruptly, chair screeching behind him as he shouldered his blood-stained axe. Guilt tugged at the corners of his eyes. "Arm up! Our brother's in danger!" he barked.
Like flint to tinder, the room ignited.
From spellcasters to beast-tamers, seasoned swordsmen to rune-weaving scribes—every warrior clutched their pact-bound weapons and surged to motion. Scrolls were torn from boards, charms fastened to belts, armour strapped in place.
"E-Everyone, please—! P-please remain calm~!" squeaked the poor receptionist girl, her voice barely audible amid the frenzy.
Dozens of warriors clawed at the mission board, tearing off slips like starved hounds descending upon a carcass.
Panic had not yet settled, but dread had begun to fester. Even the meekest novice could sense it—
Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.
---
— The Great Forest of Archelion — South-Western Quadrant Expedition
They moved swiftly, in formation yet wordless, bound by the unspoken pact of seasoned adventurers.
The Everin scouts soared through the canopy—elegant shadows gliding from branch to branch.
The forest was ancient. It knew silence well.
But this silence? This was not peace.
This was absence.
The world itself seemed to hold its breath.
They were not only searching for Reygh anymore.
Others had vanished as well.
Merchants. Nobles. Clerics. Knights. Even fellow adventurers.
All devoured by the forest's wordless maw.
Four search squads branched in each cardinal direction.
Tracking hounds were unleashed, their paws pounding the frostbitten earth.
Beast-tamers summoned their contracted beasts, shadows with fangs and feathers.
Scouting hawks cut through the sky, high above, wings slicing through clouds as they scanned for unnatural movements.
No birds.
No squirrels.
Not even the insects dared stir.
---
— Heart of the Great Forest of Archelion
The Fourth Unit reached the rendezvous first.
A brilliant blue flare bloomed in the sky—a desperate flower of light in a bleak, grey world.
Magical channels failed here.
No spells of sending. No echoes of mental link.
Even compasses spun without mercy, as though the land itself refused guidance.
They stepped into it.
Into the frost.
Not the forest they knew.
Not the soil they loved.
Snow.
White, thick, ancient.
Blanketing every tree root, branch, and leaf like the remnants of a forgotten curse.
Ice-flowers, crystalline and tall as spears, pierced the canopy like the fangs of winter itself.
The Mages, cautious but trained, began channelling spells of flame and protection—whispers of destruction folded within their incantations.
The Everin archers took their stance—bows taut, eyes narrowed, hearts poised between calm and alarm.
And then—
It began.
A scream.
A howl.
A cry.
And then—
Collapse.
No blades.
No blood.
No enemies in sight.
Yet one by one—
They fell.
Slumped into the frost like puppets with their strings abruptly severed.
Their minds shattered.
As if some unseen force had scraped across the surface of their souls.
The air changed.
Heavy.
Thick with dread.
Something stirred.
Not walked.
Not stomped.
Stirred.
Like a dream waking with a smile.
A giggle danced in the drifting snow.
Light. Sweet.
Childlike.
"Hey, uncles~"
The voice lilted, far too innocent.
"Shall we play a little game?"
A pause. Then another cheerful hum.
"And after… we can share a meal together, okay~?"
A moment passed.
A breath.
And then—
"Muse… let's begin~"
Silence.
Not the silence of quiet places.
Not peace..
Their legs refused to respond.
Their instincts begged them to flee.
But their bodies were already betraying them.
They knew—
They had crossed into a realm not meant for mortals.
Not merely dangerous.
Not cursed.
Not bewitched.
Sanctified.
This place belonged not to life…
But to death.
Not to wrath, nor to war.
But to one of the Ten Nightmares...
A being whose existence bent reason, sundered law, and broke the balance of Tertha itself.
Arizha.
The Arrow Devil.
Nightmare of the Glacial Hell.