Klee held Kael seated with effort, her small, firm hands clutching his bloodied shoulder. With each breath he took, a hoarse groan escaped between his clenched teeth. The smell around them was suffocating: burnt flesh, damp wood, and earth soaked in old blood—as if the ground itself had begun to rot.

She tried to clean the cut on his back with a piece of her sleeve, but the fabric was already soaked.

"You're bleeding a lot..." she said, her voice bordering on panic. Her eyes, normally lively, now trembled with fear.

Kael slowly raised his eyes, panting. "It's not enough to stop me. Not yet."

His voice came out hoarse, as if he were swallowing ashes. He forced his body to stand up, leaning against a wall covered in dark moss. Every movement hurt as if the monster were still there, digging its claws into his flesh. The fog around him thickened with an unhealthy glow, as if the village itself were feverish, burning in a mystical delirium.

Kael breathed in with difficulty. The air was different. Denser. More... alive.

"Something's wrong," he muttered, looking around. "More wrong than before."

Klee crossed his arms, rubbing his elbows. "You mean... besides flesh demons trying to tear us alive?"

"Yes." The answer came dryly. "This is all... growing. Evolving. The fog, the dead, the screams we heard back there... None of this is chaos. There is order in it. Rhythm. Flow."

Silence. Until a soft voice cut through the darkness in his mind.

"He's right."

Ahri. Whispering like a prayer in ruins. "It's not random. There is symmetry in the events. And there is a center."

Kael frowned. "Center?"

The word sounded heavy in his mouth. Almost an omen.

"Do you think there's someone... behind all this?"

The answer came grave, vibrating in the depths of his soul. Umbra.

"The curse is being conducted. Guided like a river carved by human hands. Every anchor, every corpse, every whisper in the mist... are ingredients. This is not just a cursed village. It is a receptacle. An expanding altar."

Klee swallowed hard. Her breath short.

"So... someone planned this?" Her voice came out low, almost childlike. "These dead, these... things... Was this all on purpose?"

Kael nodded slowly. The horror began to fall into place. The truth was rising to the surface like a corpse floating on a lake.

"It's a ritual. One of the great ones. But it's still incomplete."

Inside, he felt his stomach churning. How many people had died—not by accident, not by some natural curse—but by design? How many deaths would it take to feed something so dark?

"This village..." he said, looking around with narrowed eyes, "is not a victim. It is a focus. An instrument. A spell that breathes with the blood of those who fall."

Klee did not respond. He just nodded, his eyes fixed on the yellow mist pulsing in the street ahead.

"Let's go," he said at last, adjusting his posture and reloading his weapon. "If we're quick, maybe we can find the last anchors before the ritual is completed."

The girl ran beside him. No more words. Just footsteps in the viscous silence of a village overtaken by horrors.

The streets seemed even narrower. As if the houses, already crooked and corroded, were leaning over them. Shattered windows opened like silent mouths. Doors creaked even without wind. And the fog... it whispered. Not like before. Now with real voices. Names. Calling out to them.

Soon they reached the entrance to an old inn. The rotten wood creaked like old bones under the weight of decay. The steps creaked even without anyone stepping on them. But what made Kael stop was not the sound. It was what was on the floor.

He crouched down.

There, drawn in overlapping circles and erratic lines, were the symbols. Made with dried blood. Still dark, recent. Spirals, inverted angles, distorted runes.

Klee approached, frowning. "Do you recognize this?"

Kael nodded slowly, touching one of the lines carefully.

"Yes... They are summoning marks. But not common ones. These here... are conductors."

"Conductive?"

"They're part of something much bigger." He pointed to the interconnections. "It's like they're tracks. Each anchor of the curse... is like a station. These symbols are the tracks that connect everything. Conducting energy. Turning every death, every trapped spirit, into fuel for a single point."

"Paths to where?" Klee whispered.

Kael looked up. The densest fog was coming from the east. There, the sky seemed darker. More saturated. The shadows there didn't move with the wind — they pulsed.

He pointed. "There. If these symbols are right... that's the path to the center."

Umbra murmured darkly,

"The confluence point. The heart of the ritual."

Ahri added, with clear regret in her voice,

"And whoever is behind this... knows you're coming."

Kael was silent for a few seconds, staring down the street.

"Klee," he said calmly, without taking his eyes off the east, "from here on out... things are going to get worse. You don't have to come with me."

She smiled. It wasn't a confident smile—it was stubborn. "You're stupid if you think I'm going to let you walk alone into the center of a death ritual."

He let out a brief, pained laugh. "Okay. Just don't die. It would suck to carry that guilt."

"You're the one bleeding like a pig," she retorted. "If anyone's going to die first, it's you."

And with that, the two began to walk, crossing the street plunged into shadows and silence. The village watched — like a witness who could not speak, only observe.

In the direction they were going, the fog seemed more alive than ever.

There, among the rubble and the stench of old blood, something waited for them.

Something that smiled in the darkness.

Something alive.

Something prepared.

And time was running out.

A few minutes had passed since they left the inn. The trail was winding, made up of forgotten streets where the roofs slanted like bent spines, and the stones underfoot seemed to breathe. The fog grew denser with each block they passed. Now, it not only obscured their vision—it distorted it. Lanterns stretched out like flaming claws, and shadows gained legs, running down the walls.

Kael could smell the magic thickening. As if the very mana of the earth was rotting. His wound burned, throbbing to the rhythm of the fog's pulsations.

Klee, close behind, remained alert. She didn't speak. She just watched. There was something about that part of the village—something too quiet. No whispers. No crackling. Just the sound of their footsteps and their own heartbeats.

Until she stopped.

"Kael," she said softly.

He turned, alert.

Klee's eyes were fixed on a narrow alley to the left, partially covered by black vines growing directly from the stone.

"There... I saw something. I don't know what, but it was looking at us. A second before it disappeared."

Kael prepared to act, but something—something visceral—filled the air.

A subtle noise, like flesh being torn with claws. A damp whisper.

Instinct.

Without thinking, Kael turned and pulled Klee toward him, twisting his body in the movement. At that moment, something tore through the air. Sharp claws cut into his back like hot blades through wax.

Kael screamed through clenched teeth, holding Klee tight. Blood spurted out, splattering on the rocks and rotten leaves on the ground. The thing—the attacker—passed them with animalistic speed, disappearing into the mist with a muffled roar.

Klee staggered from the impact, but Kael gently pushed her back. He fell to his knees immediately afterward, breathing heavily. The pain was excruciating. His flesh had been torn in layers. The smell of fresh blood mingled with the smell of the ritual, attracting more than just monsters.

"Stay behind me," he growled.

From the mist, the eyes appeared first—six eyeballs lined up, glowing a sickly yellow. Then the limbs: four elongated legs, almost human in shape, but covered in taut muscles and exposed flesh, as if the skin had been torn away.

It was a four-legged creature, looking as if it had been torn apart and reconstructed. Irregular bones protruded from its joints. Its claws looked like they were made of black glass. And where there should have been a face... there was a hole. A void where voices whispered.

Kael tried to stand up. His legs gave way, but he forced his muscles—and with a muffled groan, he managed to remain upright.

"Can you fight?" Klee asked, eyes wide.

"I can... enough," he replied.

Umbra roared in his mind, furious:

"This is not a spirit. This was created. A profane emulation made of stolen flesh and pain."

Ahri added, her voice trembling:

"It's an offering. A prototype sacrifice. Created to guard the center. Someone is testing the limits of carnal summoning."

Kael raised his arm, summoning a fragment of elemental magic. Fire ignited in his hand, flickering unsteadily. The pain in his back made his concentration waver. But he held on.

The creature advanced.

Kael launched a short burst of flame—a burning beam shaped like a blade—that struck one of the beast's front legs. A horrendous squeal echoed, but it did not slow it down. The flesh regenerated—slowly, but enough to render light attacks nearly useless.

"It's going to tear us apart," Klee muttered, pulling a dagger from her belt.

Kael looked around. The symbol on the alley floor was lit. It pulsed like a heart. The energy of the ritual emanated from it.

A thought popped into his mind.

"We need to break the seal," he said. "She's anchored to it. The beast won't stop as long as that symbol is channeling mana to her."

Klee nodded. "Cover me."

Without hesitation, she ran in a zigzag pattern, dodging the creature's attacks. Small and agile, like a spark amid the smoke. Kael, meanwhile, channeled a second burst of fire, now denser, and launched a flaming blast that forced the creature to retreat for a few seconds—just long enough.

Klee leaped onto the symbol and plunged her dagger into its center.

The symbol glowed brightly... then imploded, disappearing like a candle being blown out. The creature roared as if it were being suffocated. Its body began to shake, its legs failing.

Kael stepped forward, even though he was bleeding. With his last reserve of strength, he concentrated his magic and launched a sphere of condensed fire directly at the beast's chest.

The explosion was contained—like a candle being crushed between invisible fingers. The creature did not explode: it fell apart. It fell to pieces, each bone loosening, each muscle separating until only a shapeless mass of flesh remained, as if it had been forgotten by time.

Silence.

Kael staggered to the wall and fell backward against it, breathing heavily. Blood continued to flow down his back. Klee approached and, without asking permission, tore part of his shirt to press on the wound with improvised bandages.

"You're an idiot," she muttered.

"You said that before," he replied, exhausted.

They remained there for a moment, saying nothing. The fog, though dense, seemed to have receded slightly. As if that anchor—that seal—had been one of the key points of the ritual. There was more, Kael knew. But they were close.

Umbra broke the silence:

"Each seal we destroy weakens the flow. But the center remains. And... it's active."

Ahri sounded more serious than usual:

"You need to hurry. The next anchor... is close. But you're not alone."