It stood like the very pillar that held the earth in place,
or the invisible string tethering the heavens to their rightful place.
The great snowy mountain towered with unmatched majesty—
rising like a white spear that pierced the sky,
its summit vanishing into the folds of clouds and eternity.
No eye could reach it. No mind could fathom its end.
There it stood—an eternal sentinel—
shielding mankind from the unknown calamities that lurked beyond.
But what waited behind the mountain...
was no longer at rest.
As though summoned by fate itself,
a distant tremor echoed across the skies—
a sound like the world exhaling for the first time.
A colossal being surged from the depths,
ascending like an arrow,
tearing through the heavens with a roar that rattled the bones of the earth.
Its wings—two massive clouds of soot and shadow—
unfurled across the sky, blotting out the sun,
casting a shroud of darkness over the mountain like the veil of judgment day.
With a single mighty flap,
a dragon emerged—black as the abyss—from behind the mountain,
as if the mountain had merely been a curtain to hide this primeval horror.
With each wingbeat, a devastating wind tore through the clouds,
shredding the silence and drowning the world in a dreadful stillness.
In that ominous quiet, the dragon drew breath…
And roared.
From its jaws erupted a hellish tempest—
a breath of raw destruction that split the skies,
a storm that surged forward like a divine punishment.
In an instant—
the mountain fell.
The sacred colossus—protector of the world—shattered.
Its stones scattered like ash in the wind,
and the barrier that had divided the realms for centuries crumbled into nothingness.
But…
The dragon was not alone.
Amid the swirling dust and ruins,
a figure appeared.
Its body was slender—almost human—
yet from its back spread vast black wings like the cast of living shadow.
Its aura… like the remnants of the first night before the birth of the sun.
A power inexhaustible, unfathomable, undefined—
crawled through the sky and trembled through the earth.
The dragon paused.
Its blazing eyes met the eyes of the figure.
A silence heavier than death fell…
Then—
A single morning dewdrop slipped gently onto his eyelash,
trickling through the strands of his black hair.
His eyes opened slowly—
twin voids, dark as the bottomless deep, holding truths no mind could decipher.
He appeared as a young man in his twenties,
wearing an old, weathered black armor,
like that of a wanderer.
But he was no traveler.
Nor was he twenty.
He had lived over a hundred years.
"Echo Shadow" awakened with staggered breath, sweat covering his body—
but it was no ordinary dream.
It was a dark omen—
a vision of a fate still unwritten.
Ever since he obtained that strange book tied to the southern continent,
his soul had been disturbed, and things began to happen that he could not explain.
When he first received the book,
it merged into his being—vanished—
and from within his consciousness, a strange, miniature world began to form.
A relentless call now haunted him—
urging him to go there…
to the forbidden southern continent.
The land from which all colossal beasts had once fled,
thousands of years ago.
The homeland of the monsters he had hunted for centuries…
as one of the cursed warriors of the Echo Shadow Sect.
.The Outskirts of Stone
Far to the south of the golden kingdom of Crylas, where crashing waves kissed black forests that reached for the skies, stood the city of Stone. Like a fortress drawn from legend, its towering walls bore tales of strength and sanctuary. Its fame — built upon exporting fish of unparalleled quality — had grown so vast it rivaled even the capital itself.
But just as the calm sea hides a lurking storm, Stone concealed a slow-burning crisis. A flood of population swelled within its walls, stretching the city to its limits. In response — perhaps as if summoned by fate — five villages bloomed just beyond the walls, scattered like cherry blossoms in a hopeful spring. These hamlets became Stone's final breath of expansion.
Among them, Fommen was the weakest and most distant — a village balanced on the edge of survival. Monsters stalked its borders without end. Yet the people of Fommen endured, fighting to protect what little they had, no matter the cost.
Fommen had long been a favored target for the forest's savage creatures. Its humble defenders wielded crude weapons — spears, bows, old swords, even rocks and wooden clubs. Against the notorious Frog Goblins — stubby, slow-moving beasts with bloated bodies and frog-like heads — their odds were manageable. These goblins were no real threat to a well-placed blade.
But not all beasts were so simple. As stronger, more cunning creatures emerged, tragedy followed. Blood ran through Fommen's streets, and the scars left by each battle never faded. Once a village of over two hundred homes, Fommen had been reduced to a ghost of its former self — fewer than fifty households remained, the rest abandoned to silence.
That morning, the village stirred from its slumber like a weary soul. The wooden homes, roofed with straw and mud, huddled together in crooked rows. Rain from the night before still clung to the paths. All streets eventually led to the one road that cut through the village, linking its eastern and western gates.
At the front stood two wooden pillars, four meters tall, solemn as silent sentinels. Though plain, they gave the villagers a fragile sense of safety. A wooden fence, no higher than a man, curled around the village like a weak embrace against the wilderness beyond.
At the village's heart lay a circular square — the center of daily life. The surrounding stalls creaked open as the sun climbed, and a small tavern swept out its drunkards, ready for a new day. A green-painted shop stood proudly among the rustic scene, its color oddly vibrant against the gray morning.
By the rear gate sat the only stable in the village. Its few horses — precious as lifelines — were watched day and night. Nearby stood a modest row of houses, quiet and worn, witnesses to the simplicity of life on the fringe of the world.
In the center of the square, a two-meter iron pole jutted from the earth. Fixed to it was a wide, horizontal iron mesh divided into two panels. One bore a blue-painted wooden plate, the other a red one.
It was no decoration. This pole, recognized across the land, was a request board — a vital relic of communication. The blue side held requests suited for ordinary folk — tasks requiring only strength or simple skill. They were written on cheap natural paper, easy to come by.
The red side was another matter entirely. Here, requests were etched onto parchment made from treated hides — enchanted with basic spells to warn of danger. These jobs were for the elite, for warriors and those who had trained to face death.
And on that day, standing before the red board, was one such warrior.
An Echo Shadow.
.
A cold breeze swept through the outskirts of Fommen. He didn't flinch. The chill of morning was a minor foe—hardly worth acknowledging. His eyes were as dark as midnight, their calmness as deep as a still lake.
Guiding his horse with unwavering ease, he descended the winding path that led into the village.
"In this weather…" he muttered to himself with a yawn. "I could use a cup of tea."
The rain from the previous night had turned the road into a slick trail of mud. The hooves of his black steed, Bii, sank deeper with every step, leaving behind heavy imprints in the soft earth as they neared the gate.
The scent of damp earth welcomed him, rich and nostalgic—a fragrance that told of a world freshly washed by nature's hand. It carried a softness, a melody of childhood memories long faded. But that scent was short-lived. Soon it gave way to the stench of manure and rotting straw, the mud thickening into foul muck beneath his boots. As he approached the main gate, the ground spat dirt with every step—a messy reminder of how humanity often defiled nature's harmony.
At the village's front gate stood a tall watchtower, rising six meters above the muddy ground. It could barely accommodate two or three men, but it loomed like a sentinel nonetheless. Atop the structure stood a lone guard, tall and silent, clutching a spear and watching the world below with the sharp vigilance of a hawk. His thick garments obscured his features, save for two sharp black eyes that glowed with suspicion.
Below, the Echo Shadow approached. His footsteps echoed softly, steady and unfazed. The guard's eyes followed him, unblinking—his gaze brimming with contempt and loathing. But to the Echo Shadow, such stares were as common as sunlight and morning wind. He'd grown used to them. They no longer pierced his calm. In this world soaked in prejudice, his resolve was too deep, too anchored, to be shaken by mere looks.
Society had its hierarchy. Villagers sat at the bottom, followed by townsfolk, then nobles, and at the top—the kings. Monsters, of course, were beneath them all. Yet the Echo Shadow was something altogether different. Not quite human. Not quite beast. Something in between. A being both feared and scorned by all.
Humans saw him as a threat beyond control. Monsters cowered before his blade. He stood with no allegiance, loyal only to his own path. A wandering sword in the dark, unbound by crown or creed.
Comments (0)
See all