GUHIN

As the bell tower struck the hour, its deep, resonant chimes echoed through the village of Aryan, signaling the close of the market. Vendors hurriedly packed up their stalls, while villagers sought shelter from the increasingly heavy rain. The once-bustling marketplace became a blur of movement, with everyone retreating to their homes or nearby taverns to escape the storm.

Guhin's footsteps were heavy as he made his way through the deserted streets, determined to let it all end tonight. The rain, now pouring in earnest, seemed to mirror his somber mood. He pulled his hood over his head, shielding himself from the downpour as he walked back toward the village entrance.

As he approached the gates, the guard who had initially stopped him noticed his return. The guard stepped forward, holding up a hand to halt Guhin.

"Heading out again so soon?" the guard asked, raising an eyebrow. "You just got here."

Guhin paused, his mind elsewhere. He was about to brush off the question when the guard continued, his tone growing more urgent.

"Be careful out there. The Royal Guards from the lands of Furiël are escorting a criminal through Valherya tonight. They’re likely passing through here on their way west. Nasty piece of work, that one. They say she’s been causing trouble across the continent of the far East, a true calamity."

At the mention of the Royal Guards, an image flashed in Guhin's mind, a vivid recollection of Bokun, the man he had fought not long ago. Bokun’s twisted grin, the kind that spoke of madness, came rushing back to him. The strange techniques he used during their battle—things Guhin had never seen before.

But it wasn’t just Bokun that came to mind, it was the memory of the woman who had been with him. Her innocent blue eyes, wide with fear, tied up and helpless.

Guhin’s thoughts raced as he processed the guard’s warning. The Royal Guards from Furiël escorting a criminal through Valherya? Could Bokun be a Royal Guard? The thought seemed impossible at first, then again. Furiël was a harsh and unforgiving land, if that's his home, it would at least explain the way he looked.

The guard mistook Guhin’s silence for confusion and continued, his voice barely more than a whisper now. “The lands of Furiël are a wasteland, and anyone who survives long enough to call themselves a ‘Royal Guard’ is no ordinary soldier. They are killers, bred from birth to be loyal to no one but the crown they serve.”

“What about the woman?” Guhin asked suddenly, his voice breaking the rhythm of the rain. The guard looked at him, confused. Guhin clarified, his brow furrowed. “You said they’re escorting a criminal, right? Who is she?”

The guard scratched his beard, his expression darkening as he thought. “Don’t know her name, but I’ve heard rumors. They say she’s no ordinary criminal. Something about her being connected to dark magic. Witchcraft, perhaps? It's a shame we didn't get much of the details, but if Furiël is sending its best to escort her, she must be worth something to their king.”

Guhin’s brow furrowed as he considered the guard’s words. Still, the thought of Bokun being a Royal Guard? No. Guhin quickly dismissed it. The man he fought was unhinged—someone who would kill his own men without hesitation. The Royal Guards, brutal as they were, had loyalty. Bokun had none of that.

Guhin shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. There were too many questions and not enough answers. Whatever Bokun was, he wasn’t a Royal Guard. And that woman… maybe she was a prisoner, but whatever was going on, it wasn’t Guhin’s concern anymore. He had done what he had to.

The guard must have sensed Guhin’s turmoil because he softened his tone. “Listen, Guhin,” he said, using his name now. “I don’t know what’s going on out there, but if you’re heading west tonight, watch yourself. Furiël’s guards are not to be trifled with. They’ll kill anyone who gets in their way, no questions asked.”

Guhin nodded absently, his mind still reeling. The guard motioned for the others to open the gates, and as the heavy wooden gates creaked open, Guhin walked through them, the rain pelting down harder as he stepped outside the protective walls of Aryan.

Before continuing, he turned back to face the village one last time. The memories of Ishu and their time together over the years weighed heavily on his heart. The bond they shared, the dreams they spoke of—all of them would be nothing but a distant memory after tonight.

As Guhin disappeared into the rain, his figure gradually fading into the distance, he headed towards a massive wooden lift that loomed on the horizon. It was the lift Guhin didn't want to use when he arrived at the western region. The ancient construct, groaned under the weight of its heavy ropes and pulleys, suspended high above the cliffs. The storm whipped around it, rattling the beams and causing the structure to sway slightly. Guhin knew what awaited him on the other side of this journey, and he accepted it.

Back in the village of Aryan, the storm's fury had driven everyone indoors. The once-lively market square was now eerily silent, the only sounds being the relentless patter of rain against the cobblestones and the occasional rumble of thunder. Shops were closed, windows were shuttered, and the villagers huddled inside their homes, seeking warmth and comfort from the storm.

But one stall remained open, its owner untouched by the storm that had driven the others away. The owners eyes, visible through his mask’s hollowed-out sockets, was fixed on the path where Guhin had just disappeared. The masked man’s breathing grew more erratic, his excitement barely contained. His thin body convulsed with anticipation as his long fingernails scratched at the wood of his mask with an unsettling rhythm.

He couldn’t help but let out a muffled laugh, his entire being trembling with a perverse sense of pleasure. He quickly ducked behind his stall, concealing himself in the shadows to avoid drawing attention to himself.

But then, amidst the sound of the rain, he heard something else, footsteps, slow and deliberate, sloshing through the mud and water. The masked man’s breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He stayed hidden, his body tensed, waiting, watching.

The footsteps grew louder, closer, until they were just on the other side of his stall. He held his breath, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. And then, before he could react, a hand shot out from the shadows, reaching over the stall and grabbing hold of his mask. The force behind the grip was terrifying, and in an instant, the mask was ripped from his face.

The man let out a choked gasp, his deformed face now fully exposed to the cold, wet air. His wide eyes, filled with fear moments before, now softened with disbelief and awe as they fixed on the figure before him. His trembling hand, which had instinctively risen to cover his face, slowly lowered, as if no longer ashamed of his twisted appearance. A wave of emotion washed over him, and his lips quivered, not with fear, but with something closer to joy.

“M-Mer… M-Merin…” he stuttered, but this time his voice was different—quieter, filled with a reverence that made him sound like a child seeing something miraculous. “It’s you… it’s really you…”

Tears welled in his eyes, threatening to spill down his ruined cheeks. He looked at her as if she were salvation itself, his body trembling not with pure, unadulterated awe. He could hardly contain himself, the overwhelming sense of reverence bringing him to the edge of sobs.

Standing before him was a woman with blue eyes and long brown hair, her white gown tarnished and stained from the many trials she had endured. Her gaze was unwavering as she stared at the mask she held in her hands.

Merin, the woman Guhin had saved from Bokun, took a step closer, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the man who had been hiding behind the mask.

The man’s breath quickened, and his voice cracked with emotion. “Y-You came… You came for us,” he whispered, his awe-struck gaze fixed on her face, as if nothing else in the world mattered. “I always knew… always believed…”

Merin's gaze remained locked on the man’s tear-filled eyes. She stepped closer, her presence dominating the small space behind the stall. The rain continued to pour down, soaking her tarnished white gown, but she didn’t flinch. Slowly, she leaned in, her voice a soft whisper that cut through the storm, “Hush now, child. You did well. You will be saved soon enough.”

The man’s breath hitched, a sob escaping him as his tears mixed with the rain. When Merin brought the mask closer to her face, he watched with wide, trembling eyes, as if witnessing a divine transformation. As the mask neared her skin, her features began to change. The weariness of her expression peeled away, revealing a softer, almost serene look. Her weathered appearance smoothed, fading like a mirage under the rain. Her once brown hair darkened into an inky black, shifting to a shorter cut, as if she had transformed into another woman entirely. Yet, despite the dramatic change, her eyes remained the same—a piercing, unyielding blue.

The man dropped to his knees, his voice shaking with reverence. “M-Merin… thank you… thank you…” His words were choked with gratitude, his body trembling as he lowered his head, overcome by his devotion.

Meanwhile, a few villagers, still braving the storm, happened to glance her way. They saw her standing in the rain, her white robes clinging to her form, revealing her frail figure beneath. Concerned, one of them called out, “Miss, get inside! You’ll catch your death out here!”

Another voice joined in, “Come on gal! It’s not safe!”

But Merin ignored them... and then the concerned voices from the crowd faltered. Something was wrong. The air seemed to grow colder, heavier. The man who had spoken first stepped forward again, ready to call out when he noticed movement in the distance—other villagers slowly walking up to Merin, their heads bowed, their steps deliberate and slow.

His eyes widened in shock as he recognized one of them.

“Therry! What are you doing out here?” he shouted, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Get back inside!”

But Therry, the beloved father of Thera, a man he had known for years, didn’t respond.". Nor did the others who trailed behind him, each of them gaunt and weathered, their eyes dull and hollow, as if they knew what was about to happen.

The man’s voice faltered as he took a step back. This wasn’t right. Therry and the others… they weren’t just out in the rain. Something was wrong. And then he saw it—those masks, they had been there the entire time, but now the villagers moved toward them as if drawn by some invisible force.

Without a word, they each reached for the masks displayed on the stand—worn, weathered things, carved from dark, gnarled wood. Therry was the first to reach for a mask—a weathered thing, carved from dark, gnarled wood. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted it from the stall. He glanced at the man, regret flickering in his dull, hollow eyes. His lip quivered, and for a moment, it seemed like he might resist, might turn away.

“I’m sorry,” Therry whispered, more to himself than to anyone else, his voice barely audible over the rain. The words were heavy, carrying the weight of a decision made long before this night.

Slowly, he strapped the mask to his face, securing it with frayed leather straps. His posture stiffened, his movements no longer his own. It was as though the mask had claimed him. One by one, the other villagers followed Therry’s lead, each taking a mask and strapping it on. The masks fit snugly, almost unnaturally, as if they were waiting for this moment all along.

Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating their hollow-eyed expressions, now completely devoid of life.

The man’s blood ran cold. He staggered back in terror, his voice caught in his throat. He could only watch as more figures emerged from the shadows, moving with the same deliberate slowness, joining the growing crowd surrounding Merin.

Merin continued her preparations, her hands moving in strange, fluid motions, forming impossible signs. Her fingers bent and twisted unnaturally, as if no longer bound by human limits. The motions were hypnotic, otherworldly, and despite the storm raging around her, the space where she stood remained eerily still.

Frozen in terror, the man took another step back, watching in disbelief as Therry and the others, now fully masked, formed a loose circle around Merin. Their blank eyes stared vacantly into the distance, as if their bodies no longer belonged to them.

Then, Merin’s voice broke the silence.

"悪魔の芸術"

"Akuma geijutsu"

"Demoncraft," she muttered under her breath, the words slipping through her lips like a curse upon the land.

The man could barely breathe, his throat tight with dread. He wanted to run, to scream, but his body refused to move. His feet felt rooted to the ground, trapped in place as though the earth itself had conspired to keep him there. His heart pounded violently in his chest as he watched the final, unholy hand signs form before her.

Merin brought her hands together in a final sign, and with a voice that was barely a whisper but echoed with chilling power, she spoke a single word:

“犠牲"

"Gisei"

"Sacrifice”

The ground beneath them trembled. The air around her thickened with the pungent stench of decay, like rot that had been festering for centuries. From the ground, just beyond her feet, serpentine tendrils began to rise—greyish and slick, their scaly bodies slithering with dark purpose. They writhed and twisted, moving with a life of their own, their presence seeping with malevolent energy.

The villagers who had not yet fled screamed in terror as the tendrils pierced through the earth and splintered cobblestones. They ripped through the walls of homes, bursting from doors and windows, hunting for any sign of life.

The masked villagers remained still, their bodies unmoving as the tendrils coiled around them, snaking through the streets and buildings, tearing apart wood and stone with an unstoppable force.

The once-grey tendrils darkened as they fed on the life they touched, their color shifting to an oily black as they consumed everything in their path. The parasitic roots stretched out like a web of death, driving deeper into the village, seeking those hiding within their homes, dragging them screaming into the storm.

Bones snapped and walls crumbled as the tendrils hunted down every last villager. Their ghastly forms enveloped all in their path, and those who tried to flee were caught in their cold embrace, their bodies crushed and drained of life as the black roots twisted around them.

At the center of the chaos stood Merin, her figure unmoving, her face hidden behind the worn wooden mask that pulsed with dark energy. Her transformation was complete, her true power unleashed, and the village of Aryan was paying the price for its innocence.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Merin reached up and slowly removed the mask. The storm around her seemed to intensify as her blue eyes, once filled with fear and innocence, now glowed with a sinister light. She gazed out upon the devastation with an expression of cold detachment, her lips curling ever so slightly in a smile.

The villagers who had managed to escape the tendrils looked back in horror, their eyes wide with disbelief at the sight of the village they had once called home—now swallowed by the darkness. The once-bustling market square was nothing but a ruin, the homes they had built and lived in reduced to rubble. The storm raged on, but it was nothing compared to the terror Merin had unleashed.

The storm raged on, the village of Aryan succumbing to the darkness that had been unleashed. And as the last echoes of thunder rolled across the land, Merin’s glowing eyes were the final, haunting brightness. Before all was consumed.

GUHIN!