Chapter 3: May hope prevail
Far across the vast seas and many legions away, there lay a continent long marred by the blight of the Draconian Lord. A curse most unnatural had taken root there—a malevolent force that wrested death from its finality, binding its victims to a twilight existence neither wholly alive nor truly dead. Those ensnared by this affliction became abominations, wretched souls adrift on the unending river of eternity, bereft of solace or reprieve.
These accursed beings, robbed of the sanctity of death, bore flesh that decayed even as it clung stubbornly to their bones, grotesque and unyielding. Their gait was a mockery of life's vibrance, each step punctuated by the sickening creak of rotting sinew. They wandered the land in dreadful silence, not dreaming, not hoping, but merely existing in a perpetual torment that knew no end.
The land itself mirrored their plight. Once vibrant and fertile, it had become a fetid swamp, as though the very soil recoiled from the duality forced upon it. Life and death warred endlessly here, neither side able to claim victory, and in their struggle, all things fell into the grey. Trees stood malformed, their trunks gnarled and twisted, their bark a pale mockery of its former green, dulled to an ashen hue that seemed drained of vigor. These sorrowful sentinels bore strange life—fungi that clung parasitically to their branches, insects burrowing within like uninvited guests in a decaying mansion.
The air hung thick with the stench of rot, and the once-pure rivers meandered sluggishly, their waters clouded with the refuse of a land caught between existence and oblivion. Even the skies, once cerulean and brimming with the warmth of the sun, had succumbed to the curse. The heavens now sprawled above like a great shroud of grey, neither storm-filled nor serene, but an oppressive, lifeless expanse that seemed to stretch endlessly into eternity.
And the sun—ah, the sun!—a dim and withering thing, no longer the fiery herald of day but a dying ember cast adrift in a sky of despair. Its pallid light struggled to pierce the heavy veil, leaving the world in a cold, somber twilight. With each passing season, its warmth waned further, as if it, too, sought escape from the cursed land below.
Here, contradictions reigned supreme. Death ruled, yet nothing could die. Life abounded, yet it was choked and twisted beyond recognition. The very earth seemed to breathe, its lungs heaving with decay, as though it mourned its own desolation. All that was natural and good had been contorted into something unnatural—a grotesque echo of what once was.
Amidst this continent, where the blight of the Draconian Lord held dominion over both earth and air, there lay a ruin—a ruin of such sorrowful grandeur that it seemed to encapsulate the despair of the land itself. It was a fortress, once the seat of kings and the envy of empires, a bastion of glory now reduced to little more than a graveyard of memory. Beneath skies shrouded in an oppressive pall, the ruins stood as a silent elegy to an age long passed, their stones etched with the silent grief of time.
The fortress sprawled in decay, its shattered remnants scattered across the landscape like the bones of a great beast long since fallen. Rubble choked the courtyards where once armies had gathered, and the ground, once paved with immaculate stone, was now devoured by parasitic roots pale as corpses and vines as black as despair. These wretched growths burrowed deep into the stone, splitting it apart like slow, insidious invaders, thriving on the death and rot that pervaded the air. Even the trees, twisted and hunched like gnarled sentinels, stood not in defiance but as agents of the decay, their bark slick with the viscous sap of corruption and their branches adorned with fungi that glowed faintly like sickly embers in the dim twilight.
Yet, near the heart of the ruin, there came a change—a subtle and uncanny shift that whispered of things inexplicable. The cloying stench of rot faded, though no breeze carried it away. The desolation thinned, the air grew lighter, though the eye could discern no cause. Roots that clawed hungrily at the fortress stopped short of a small clearing surrounding the lone tower. Within one hundred meters of its base, the oppressive miasma seemed to falter, retreating like a tide from the shore.
This clearing, though devoid of thriving life, bore none of the grotesque marks of the curse that plagued the land. The soil was bare but untainted, free from the writhing roots and putrid waters that defiled all else. Stones lay scattered, cracked and ancient, yet still intact, untouched by the grasping vines. It was a stillness not of death nor decay but of quiet repose, a stark and jarring contrast to the twisted wilderness that surrounded it.
The tower itself stood in the center of this untouched ground, solitary and steadfast. Its stone, dark and smooth as polished jet, bore no scars of time or affliction. It rose with unyielding dignity, as though no force in heaven or hell could lay claim to it. Narrow slits, perhaps windows, punctuated its height, gazing silently over the endless desolation. It possessed an aura of quiet majesty, a still figure amidst the chaos, untouched and untamed.
Only a few hundred meters away, three figures trudged through the grotesque wilderness. At the forefront walked a tall, slim man with blonde hair, his cloak tattered and worn from years of wandering. Beside him was a monstrous giant, over eight feet tall, his scarred body a patchwork of old wounds and sinew, his face a horror carved by battles long past. Trailing behind was a woman, frail yet resilient, her pale skin glowing faintly in the twilight as though it refused to be dulled by the grey world around her.
The slim man broke the silence, his voice sharp and bitter. "This place is choking the life out of us. These trees—these cursed, stinking trees—they aren't here by chance. They're his, you know. Put here to trap us, to slow us down. Another of his games, no doubt."
The woman, her tone fatigued but defiant, replied, "And yet, without them, we'd be long dead. How many times have they hidden us from the roving horrors? How many days of fruit and water have they granted us? A curse, perhaps, but one we've survived on."
Raviel, as the man was called, turned his head slightly, a sardonic smirk flickering across his face. "Survived? Is that what you call this?" He waved a hand at the withered forest around them. "Existing in a prison isn't survival. It's prolonging the inevitable." He exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair. "But arguing with you is as useless as these damned trees. Let's keep moving."
For a time, the trio walked in silence, the brittle crunch of dead foliage underfoot the only sound. Then Thyric, the towering brute, halted abruptly. His deep, gravelly voice cut through the gloom. "Boss, I see somethin'." He jabbed a gnarled finger through the warped trunks. "There, look. A tower or somethin'."
Raviel stopped, narrowing his eyes as he followed Thyric's gesture. Sure enough, through the mist and twisted branches, a solitary tower rose in the distance, stark and pristine. It loomed above the cursed land like an enigma, untouched by rot or ruin.
"A tower," Raviel muttered, suspicion lacing his tone. "Still standing. Still whole." His lips curled into a grimace. "Either my mind's playing tricks, or the devil missed a spot."
Avelyn stepped closer, her hand brushing instinctively against the hilt of her rusted blade. Her pale eyes locked onto the spire. "It doesn't feel right," she murmured, her voice low. "Nothing here is whole. Not the trees, not the ground, not us. And yet that—" she gestured toward the tower—"that stands as if untouched."
Thyric shifted uneasily, the scars on his massive hands catching the dim light as he flexed them. "Don't like it, boss. Feels... wrong. But maybe—" he hesitated, his deep-set eyes flicking to Raviel, "maybe it's somethin' we can use?"
Raviel smirked, though there was no humour in it, only the hollow cynicism of a man too familiar with false hopes. "Use? Or another trap waiting to snap shut the moment we get close?" He turned his back to the tower and glanced at his companions. "Either way, we'll find out. Because if there's one thing left in this hellhole worth chasing, it's answers."
They pressed onward, the tower's shadow stretching toward them like a long-forgotten memory, its presence undeniable amidst a world that had abandoned all else to decay.
As they drew closer, Avelyn's pace quickened. Her steps, at first hesitant and measured, took on a purpose, a near-desperation that seemed to build with every stride. Without a word, she broke into a run, her tattered cloak billowing behind her as she surged toward the tower.
Raviel called out, his voice tinged with exasperation and confusion. "Why are you running, Avelyn? Surely it's not that exciting—" His words faltered and died on his lips. His sharp eyes, ever attuned to the grotesque desolation of their surroundings, caught sight of something that defied all reason.
Through the skeletal trees and tangled roots, there was life.
It wasn't the grim, mutated parody of life they had grown used to, nor the sickly, shambling persistence of the cursed. It was vibrant, true, and achingly familiar. A patch of grass swayed gently in an unseen breeze, its blades lush and green. A bush adorned with berries of the deepest crimson grew in wild abundance, and soft vines crept along the ground, their tendrils untainted by corruption. Wildflowers of violet, gold, and white dotted the clearing, their petals glistening faintly in the waning twilight. The air itself seemed lighter, sweeter, free of the oppressive stench that clung to the cursed land beyond.
Raviel slowed to a halt as they reached the invisible boundary where desolation ended and vitality began. Thyric, ever the skeptic, stopped beside him, his hulking frame casting a long shadow. For a moment, neither spoke, their disbelief hanging heavy in the air like a fragile thing that might shatter if acknowledged too soon.
Thyric was the first to break the silence, his gravelly voice tinged with awe and trepidation. "Boss... are my eyes playin' tricks on me, or is this... is this real?"
Raviel said nothing, his gaze fixed on the vibrant greenery before them. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. A single tear slid down his weathered cheek, catching the pale rays of the dying sun and gleaming like a jewel. He raised a trembling hand to his face, almost in disbelief that he could still shed tears after so many years of despair.
"When we were outcast from our homelands," he began slowly, his voice unsteady, "and exiled to this cursed wasteland... I thought we'd never see life like this again. I thought it was over—that our lives would meet an untimely and inconclusive end in this forsaken place. But this..." His voice broke, and he gestured faintly toward the clearing. "This gives me what I thought I'd lost long ago." He exhaled, the weight of his words seeming to lift as he spoke the final word. "Hope."
Thyric, usually stoic and unflappable, let out a low, disbelieving laugh—a sound so rare from the giant that it startled Raviel. "Hope," Thyric echoed, his voice filled with an almost childlike wonder. He knelt, his massive hands brushing gently over the grass as if afraid it might crumble under his touch. "I never thought I'd see somethin' so... whole. It's real, Boss. It's real."
Meanwhile, Avelyn had thrown all caution to the wind. She knelt by the berry bush, plucking its fruit with eager hands and popping them into her mouth. Her face lit up with an unrestrained joy that seemed utterly foreign in this world of despair. She laughed, the sound bright and clear, as though it belonged to another time—a better time.
"They're berries!" she called out, her voice carrying a note of giddy disbelief. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't eaten them myself. They're not like the rotting scraps we've had to stomach all these years. They're—" She paused, her brow furrowing as she searched for the word. "Fresh."
Raviel and Thyric approached her cautiously, as though the clearing itself might vanish if they moved too quickly. Thyric reached for a berry, his massive fingers surprisingly delicate as he plucked it from the bush. He studied it for a moment before popping it into his mouth. His eyes widened, and he let out a low grunt of satisfaction. "By the gods... it tastes like the ones we used to have back home. Sweet. Juicy. Not a trace of rot." He looked to Raviel, a rare smile breaking across his scarred face. "It's real, Boss. It's real."
Raviel knelt beside Avelyn, his fingers brushing the soft grass. He plucked a blade and held it up to the dim light, studying its vivid green hue as though it were the most precious thing in the world. Around them, the clearing seemed to hum with quiet vitality. Small clusters of flowers bloomed in vibrant patches, their petals untouched by blight. A gentle breeze stirred the air, carrying with it a faint, floral fragrance that seemed almost otherworldly after so many years of decay and despair.
"It's not just real," Raviel murmured, his voice filled with reverence. "It's untouched. Perfect."
Avelyn, her cheeks smeared with berry juice, laughed again—a sound so genuine it brought a flicker of warmth to Raviel's heart. "I can't believe this is real," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. She spread her arms wide, as though trying to embrace the entire clearing. "For the first time in forever... it feels like we've found a piece of the world as it was meant to be."
The three of them stood together, their eyes taking in the verdant oasis amidst the desolation. For a moment, they allowed themselves to hope, to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, the world wasn't entirely lost.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
VALTHARION
VALTHARION This was a shorter chapter than usual but I felt that ending it on this positive note would be better!
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone