Ren was thrown into the night air like a broken arrow, then hit the muddy ground so hard that his breath stopped. For a moment he heard only his own heartbeat echoing in his ears, punctuated by the roar of the water—the gate to the river hissed shut behind him, leaving only a damp splash and the smell of iron.
He rolled over, coughing up mud, and found himself lying on the slope of Farmer Joe's wheat field, half a league from the village. The vortex that had swallowed him had spit him out here—right beneath the star-swallowing ash sky. The old shovel was still in his hand, the wooden handle warm as a pulse. The red runes shrank, as if it had just had its fill of light.
Ren straightened himself with difficulty. Cold sweat dripped down his temples, but relief was quickly replaced by panic: where was Elena? The last time he saw her, he tried to scream at her to run before the vortex struck. His mind reeled around the worst possibilities, but before he could move, his body shook violently—the shovel glowed softly, giving a faint signal.
Beneath him, the wheat rustled; a strange voice whispered faintly, coming from the depths of the field, as if the earth was calling his name:
…Ren…
He swallowed. The same darkness that had just attacked the river was now spreading here?
The creaking of hinges far away in the barn drew his attention. The oil lamp was on—Farmer Joe came out, his big belly shaking under his sackcloth shirt. Seeing Ren soaked in mud, the man let out a muffled cry.
"Oh my, kid! I thought you died in the river!"
Ren wanted to answer, but the words were choked by a new rumble: the ground right between the two wheat plots bulged brittlely, like a giant belly trying to break through the surface. Ren stepped back; Joe swallowed a curse. Then—bang!—the mound collapsed, flattened again. It was only for a moment, but it was enough to strike fear into the old farmer's eyes.
Wasting no time, Joe led Ren to the main house. Joe's little girl—Lizzy—handed him a blanket, looking at Ren with curiosity mixed with fear. As Ren sat on the wooden bench, he realized that the shovel was reluctant to be released; the wood of the handle felt stuck to the flesh of his palm. With a painful gasp he managed to let out, leaving a red mark on his skin like a glowing root, then set the shovel against the wall. The runes dimmed.
"Drink first," Joe handed him a cup of hot soup.
Ren nodded, then forced out what he had experienced—half truth, half softened so as not to make Joe hysterical. He hid details about the earth giants and small creatures; just mentioning "a crack in the riverbed" and "the current dragged me."
Joe, who talked to more cows than people on a daily basis, just shook his head, then offered Ren a day's work the next morning. Ren accepted—not just for the money; being in a village full of gossip made it hard to breathe, while the vast fields gave him space to think.
The next dawn came bleakly. Ren got up from the barn bed, muscles all over his body shattered. As he picked up the shovel (which was now calm), Joe's voice echoed from the fence line: "Start from the east side, son! The weeds are getting crazier after the earthquake!"
Ren fired up his determination; he needed a routine so his head wouldn't explode considering the disaster. So he emerged into the sea of wheat, the pale sun striking the horizon.
First, second, third swing—the rhythm worked soothingly—until his ears caught a soft whisper, rising and falling between the rustle of the grain.
…deeper…
The voice was so thin that Ren shivered, as if someone was calling from behind the curtain of a dream. He turned; the field was empty. But the shovel in his hand vibrated, red runes blinking slowly as the blade touched certain soil.
He dug again—the vibrations stopped; shifted half a step, the vibrations appeared. It was as if the ground beneath him marked certain spots, like a pattern waiting to be carved.
Ren knelt down, pressing his ears. Under the layers of humus, he really heard a sound—not an illusion. Like the rustle of thousands of nails scraping the wood of a coffin. The Buried Ones—Old Martha's words echoed in his head.
Ren stepped back, holding his breath. If this field was over an ancient tomb, then every swing of his could shatter the lid of a giant coffin. He almost decided to stop when the sound of horses' neighs cut through the air. From the stable, Farmer Joe's two horses roared in panic, kicking at the crossbar. Black birds fell from the sky, landing dead in the field—their eyes clouded green.
Joe ran outside, cursing. "What is this?!"
Ren was about to help when an old woman in a gray robe approached from the north fence, followed by a flock of stuttering crows. Old Martha. Her staff struck the ground, and all the horses fell silent as if a magical noose had been wrapped around their necks.
"The ground is too noisy," she hissed at Ren. "The runes on your shovel are calling."
Ren was about to answer, but Joe—who was afraid of Martha—backed away, muttering a prayer. The witch stared at the shovel blade. "When the sun falls tonight, the first door will open here. You must leave before this field turns into a death pit."
"Where?" Ren gasped.
"To the Cavity of Thorns—a cave in the coral hill. We only have one more day."
Ren remembered Martha's warning from the night before. "But Elena—the village—"
"If you want to save them, perform the ceremony in that cave. Sprinkle black salt, open the door there, not here." Martha tossed a bag of black herbs into Ren's hand. "You need the bloodthirsty land alone, far from the settlement."
Ren nodded slowly. His resolve hardened—he would not run away again. "I'll leave at dusk."
Martha brandished her staff, smiling bitterly. "May your bones be strong enough to withstand the whispers." Then she walked away, crows circling overhead.
Farmer Joe came in trembling. "What did the shaman say?"
Ren patted the man on the shoulder. "Just a passing storm, sir. I'll help secure the corral, then head upriver this afternoon."
Joe forced a smile, then calmed the horse again. Ren stared at the shovel; the red runes pulsed rapidly, as if in agreement with the plan.
Dusk covered the sky. Ren stood at the edge of the northern forest, black salt, lunar moss, and an oil lamp tucked into his pack. The Cavity of Thorns awaited the two-hour trek up the hill. He glanced once toward the village—the thin smoke of the fireplace waved as if saying goodbye. Elena's face flashed, sending a soft stab through his chest. He promised to return.
The path wound beneath ancient pine trees. As the sun set fully, a new moon rose—only the horizon was dark. A cold wind slapped his cheek. Far in the valley, the barking of dogs cut off abruptly; Ren picked up his pace, steeled by determination.
At the foot of the hill, the ground was ash coral; the vegetation was dead. A cave passageway appeared beneath a fang-shaped outcrop of rock. The air around him was frozen, as if the life of the world had stopped.
Ren turned on the lamp, stepping inside. The walls of the cave were covered with dry tendrils resembling thorns—Thorns, the name of the cave. They clawed at his back as he made his way down the spiral path. The shovel in his hand gave off a faint red glow, illuminating faint rune symbols on the stone—the same spiral, only much older.
The whispers began to ring, this time a thousand voices echoing in the cracks in the rock: deeper… blood… key… Ren gritted his teeth, pressing forward until the passage widened into an underground hall.
In the center of the room lay a circular slab of black stone—just like the one he had uncovered in the forest—but this one was ten times larger, its edges covered in blue moss. The surface of the slab cracked, green light streaming through the gaps, casting dancing shadows across the cave ceiling.
Ren set down his pack, scattering black salt in a circle around the slab. The whispers died down a little, now sounding like sighs of relief—but hungrier at the same time. He sowed lunar moss at the cardinal points as Martha had instructed; the moss sparked with silver light, tearing through the darkness.
When he was done, the star of the Ashen Spear—the brightest star in the ancient constellation Orion—pierced through the cave, right at the zenith. The runes on the shovel lit up, drawing Ren to the center of the slab. He raised the blade, positioned it in the center crack—the exact shape of the rune's spiral—and pressed down.
Boom!
A heavy thud shook the cave. Green molten liquid gushed over the edge of the slab. The rim of black salt hissed, holding back the spray. Whispers became screams, but they were stifled behind the salt rim.
Ren strained, pushing the shovel deeper. The crack widened, green light towering into the air. The echoes shook his bones. Suddenly, the ground beneath the slab gave way—Ren fell to his knees, the shovel nearly free, but the red runes clung, refusing to let go.
Inside the crack, he saw it: dozens—no, hundreds—of stone coffins stacked together, their lids cracked, through which seeped dried, glowing green hands. His eyes widened; the Buried Ones waited for one final push.
The black salt began to crack; the lunar moss burned. This was Martha's plan—open a door here, then block the first surge. But he didn't know the next part—how to close it after the energy was partially released.
The crack grew larger, the sound deafening. Suddenly, a green skeletal hand emerged from the crack, gripping the shovel, resisting. Ren was shocked; the cold grip pulled him away. He kicked, but a second hand followed, then a third. A shrill, laughter-like scream, bouncing off the cave walls.
Ren pulled with all his might on the shovel, but the blade was stuck, surrounded by claws. The red runes burned the hands to dust, but their numbers continued to grow.
"Damn it…" Ren turned instinctively, grabbing the last bag of salt, pouring it into the gap. Black smoke exploded, the hands shrieking but not retreating. The salt was gone—and the cavity beneath the slab was now a well of creatures, green eyes staring hungrily.
The shovel suddenly stopped pulsing—then heated to extremes. Ren screamed, but the hands held him back. The red runes exploded with light, forming a vein of light along the crack—as if searching for a way out.
Ren realized: the shovel was not just opening a door—it was becoming a door. If left unchecked, the Buried Ones would rise through him as a medium.
A double scream ripped through the cave—a human voice, followed by a girl's. "Ren!"
Ren turned quickly—at the mouth of the passage, Elena stood, her face pale in the light of a small oil lamp. Behind her, the silhouette of Marcus Stonefist holding a spear, eyes burning with revenge.
"Elena—run!" Ren shouted. The shovel whizzed wildly, green energy shooting up his arm, burning veins.
Elena ran inside, despite Marcus's attempts to hold her back. "I won't leave you!"
Marcus threw his spear to the floor, running after Elena, but suddenly the cave wall behind them cracked—green hands sprouted from the stone, blocking the way out.
Ren screamed, "Salt! Put salt on the door!" but his voice was drowned out by the roar. Elena reached into her pocket—she had none. Marcus raised his spear, slashing at the dried hands, but their numbers swelled.
Green lightning shot from the slab to the ceiling, shattering stalactites. A giant rock fell, blocking half the passage—Elena was thrown into the hall, Marcus stuck on the other side, the path blocked by stone. Ren screamed hysterically, but the green light swallowed him, obscuring his vision.
The shovel was now glowing red and white, Ren's arms burning with runes up to his shoulders. The Buried Ones pulled back, repositioning themselves: they waited for his body to break so they could get out.
Ren stared at Elena—she tried to crawl closer, tears mingling with dust on her cheeks.
"Ren!"
Ren shook his head desperately; he couldn't let go of the shovel. The runes pierced his chest, his heart beating with the green veins underground. He felt his consciousness crack. The Buried Ones whispered happily: the door is open…
In that second, Elena jumped through the last line of salt, hugging Ren from behind, her hands on the shovel's handle. The red runes touched his skin—a soft gold light bloomed from his hair, rejecting the green. In the collision of the two lights, a beam of white light shot into the cave sky, stopping the creature for a moment.
Elena whispered in Ren's ear: "You're not alone… let me carry half."
The shovel responded: the red runes split, half moving into Elena's hand, decorating her skin with reddish-gold lines. The mad energy was dampened a little—enough for Ren to take a breath, raising the blade.
But the side effects were immediate: the cracks in the plate spread, emitting a mixture of white-green-gold light, breaking the circle of salt. The Buried Ones roared, hitting a new limit.
The gap widened, the cave floor collapsed, and they plunged—Ren and Elena falling into a new chasm. The white light around the shovel was their only light as the world beneath them was swallowed up, leaving Marcus pounding on the rock, trapped above, while Ren and Elena plunged into a darkness deeper than any nightmare they had ever experienced.