Golden sunlight bathed the village, its rays glinting off the coastal cliffs, making them shimmer like jewels against the vivid blue sky. The breeze carried the salty scent of the ocean, mingling with the eerie silence of the village. But the silence was soon broken by a piercing scream that echoed through the air.
Mokash and Grahn bolted out of their house, fear gripping their hearts as they stepped into the nightmare.
The village they had remembered a moment ago was now a scene of chaos. Houses were burning fiercely, dark plumes of smoke clawing their way into the pristine blue above. The dirt paths were drenched in a crimson hue, and the bodies of villagers were sprawled in unnatural, lifeless poses. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning wood, laced with the sickly metallic tang of blood and charred flesh. The smoke clawed into their lungs, leaving a bitter taste on their tongues.
"Papa!" Grahn screamed, his voice filled with desperation as he looked through the pandemonium for Janak.
'These are no mere bandits; their precision and unity are unmistakable.' Mokash thought, scanning his surroundings. "Stop panicking, Grahn, you need to think calmly and rationally in this situation." Mokash said as he looked at his brother.
Grahn was gasping for air, the air reeked of iron, clogging his senses and burning his nostrils. Mokash saw this and lightly patted his back, "Breathe, Grahn. I’m here with you—we’ll find Father." Mokash said with a determined expression as he assured Grahn.
"Stay close." Mokash said as he charged forward.
The attackers wore a dark crimson cloak with black trim. They all had a sigil emblazoned on their chest— three four-pointed stars, with one star underlined. The sigil was glowing faintly with white-silvery light as if it were alive. Their crimson masks were adorned with flame-like patterns. The sigil was burned into both the brothers' minds, a haunting memory of the terror they faced.
Grahn grabbed Mokash's arm, pointing towards a cluster of villagers trying to defend themselves. "We need to help them!"
Mokash hesitated a little before nodding. Together, they both charged toward the group, fists clenched and hearts racing. An attacker lunged at them, a big man, wielding a giant blade. Mokash quickly back-stepped to dodge the swing, his movements agile and precise. Grahn quickly went behind and kicked the man in his knee. The man stumbled, and Mokash struck his temple with the hilt of his hunting knife. His eyes rolled back as he collapsed with a low grunt.
The cries were unending, each one cutting deep into their hearts. They were passing by the bodies of people they had known their entire lives.
The old lady they had seen that morning lay lifeless against a tree stump, her chest split open. The young boy who was looking at their strong bodies with admiration was now covered in dirt and blood. His shocked eyes were still open as his head was placed on his lap. The body of a lady with a gaping, bleeding hole in her torso, still holding her child tightly, not letting her go even in death. Blood pooled around her, mingling with the dirt and forming a dark, sticky marsh.
Grahn's breath hitched, his stomach churning as he forced himself to look away. "Mokash... There are too many." He muttered with a trembling voice, "Where could Papa be?"
They moved through the village, dodging flames and the attackers. They saw the savagery of the assailants- a man impaled on a spear, his body left in a grim state for others to watch; a mother trying to cover her child as a giant blade descended on both of them, abruptly cutting off their screams. The gore had painted the village in shades of red. The sunlight danced across the grotesque forms, highlighting every hideous curve.
The boys finally spotted their father. He was still wearing the same black coat and trousers with a white muffler, but this time, it was stained crimson. Blood seeped into the dirt as the old man struggled against the assailant pinning him down. His hands desperately moved until they closed around a spiky rock. With a raspy roar, he swung it into the attacker’s leg, earning a sickening crunch. With a pained grunt, the attacker fell, allowing Janak to catch his breath.
Mokash and Grahn saw this, their heart felt relieved. They both exhaled deeply as relief washed over them.
Mokash was about to step toward Janak, but an invisible force stopped him. It was fear— fear of death. It was something deeper, more primal, a force that made their souls scream.
The weight of dread had settled upon their chest, making it hard to breathe. At that moment, the brothers felt the presence of someone lurking nearby—a presence so horrifying, overwhelming, and suffocating that it froze them in their place.
It felt as though their surroundings had gone numb; they couldn't hear anything. They both felt the urge to run, to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the lurking presence. It was a primal response that anyone who has faced true fear could understand.
Thud, thud, thud…
They heard footsteps. Every step echoed like a funeral bell.
A man emerged from the swirling smoke of the burning village. He was tall and imposing, his black attire stark against the burning chaos around him. His shoulder-length black hair cascaded like a midnight waterfall, framing a face both sharp and angular. His wide eyes were fixed on Janak with an unsettling intensity. A flaming trident was tattooed on his face.
It wasn't visible, but both brothers could feel the man standing in front of them radiating an eerie black aura—dark and suffocating, like an unending pit, consuming everything. The domineering atmosphere around him seemed to strangle the air itself, making it hard to breathe as they stood transfixed.
Janak froze, too, his body shaking as he lay on the ground. The man's presence was a force of nature, crushing everything.
But then, in that moment of despair, he caught a glimpse of his sons out of the corner of his eye. A surge of fatherly instincts overcame him, making him go against the fear that was pressing him down.
With trembling hands, he grasped the man’s leg. Tears ran down his face, knowing this was the last time he’d see his sons. In that turmoil, his voice broke free in a desperate roar; it was a cry born from his love and longing to protect.
"RUN, MY SONS!" Janak thundered. "STAY ALIVE!"
The black-haired man's expression soured, warping into a mask of disgust. His brows furrowed deeply, and his lips curled in distaste as he looked at the scene before him.
With a cruel rumination, the man raised his foot—and brought it down with monstrous force.
A sickening, skull-shattering crunch exploded through the air as Janak’s head split open beneath the stomp. Bone cracked like dry wood, his skull collapsing inwards as his face twisted grotesquely under the pressure. One of his eyes burst from the socket, dangling by a sinewy thread, while blood and brain matter sprayed across the dirt like a grotesque halo.
Yet even in death—his face mangled beyond recognition, skull shattered like a broken bowl—Janak's arms remained locked around the man’s leg. His fingers, blood-slick and trembling in rigor mortis, clutched tight with a desperation born not from fear—but from love.
That single, ruptured eye—cloudy, yet unmistakably Janak’s—hung low and lifeless, but it pointed toward his sons.
Toward Mokash and Grahn.
It was the last thing he gave them—his body as a barrier, his death as a delay.
Not their father by blood, but by every bond that mattered, Janak's corpse stood as a silent, gruesome monument of defiance. Even in mutilation, he refused to let go.
"Papa!" Grahn screamed, his voice raw with pain and misery. He tried to run forward but was held back by Mokash. Tears flowed down his face as he forced himself to obey his father's last order.
The man turned his gaze up to the brothers, his black aura pulsating with pure malice. The brothers felt their knees getting weak under the weight of his gaze.
Mokash’s trembling hand gripped Grahn’s shoulder, fingers tightening as if seeking something solid in the void of their loss. With a cracking voice, he said, “Run! Don’t turn back!”
The man’s burning gaze looked at their fleeing figures and said in a low, mocking voice, "No fight. They had no fire in their eyes." his lips curled into a sneer. “Weak beings like them can’t possibly be holding his powers.”
The words burned in the brothers' ears as they ran.
The once-lively village now lay in shattered silence, its bones smoldering beneath a thick veil of smoke. The air was thick with the stifling scent of burning and decay, a haunting reminder of what is lost.
Grahn’s vision was blurring, Janak’s final cry still echoing in his ears. Their father’s blood-stained figure was seared into their minds. ‘Not now.’ Mokash thought as he choked on his sob, ‘We can mourn him later.’
The brothers ran in desperation as the sounds of the attackers got closer to them. Mokash led Grahn to the edge of the cliff, and the raging sea was ahead of them. This was their only escape.
"Jump!" Mokash barked.
Grahn froze at the edge, his legs quivering as he saw the roaring sea before him. His breath hitched, his eyes darting at the fall and the group of attackers closing in. ‘I… I can’t do this.’ he thought.
He felt somebody grab his hand; it was Mokash. His grip was firm but desperate. “Trust me.” he whispered as his voice slowly cut through Grahn’s panicked thoughts.
With a deep breath, the brothers jumped off the cliff. The wind roared in their ears as they plunged into the void, their body twisting and tumbling with the wild rush of the freefall. Mokash closed his eyes, and the uproar above slowly dissolved into the murmur of the sea.
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