Chapter 136: Fissure[3]

I had no choice and sorry for delay. I had an accident, please be somewhat understanding. I will fix soon.

The city of Nolwen was smaller than Xior had expected—it was a cluster of maybe twenty houses around a square with roofs that sagged under damp moss.

The air smelled faintly of ash and salt as it was a costal city. Smoke rose from the chimneys though the fire inside them flickered and was on the verge of death.

It was a five day journey from the capital to Nolwen, but Xior was accompanied by.

Chapter will be fixed soon, I’m out of town for a few days so haven’t had time to really write. But fret now. Hopefully today I will write then and fix them, and then prepare Chapters in advance for later in light of this incident which had me go out of town, so if it occurs next time I’d be able to easily upload the Chapters.

Nolwen was smaller than he expected — a cluster of maybe twenty wooden houses crouched around a square, roofs sagging under damp moss.

The air smelled faintly of ash and salt. Smoke trickled from chimneys, though the fires inside seemed reluctant to live.

As he entered, a few villagers peeked from behind shutters, whispering. A child tugged at her mother’s sleeve before being pulled inside. Even the dogs slunk away, tails tucked between their legs.

No greetings. No curiosity. Just fear.

Xior’s boots echoed in the silence as he walked to the village center, where an old well stood, chained and barred with iron rods thick as his wrist. Salt circles surrounded it, the ground blackened around the edges.

Salt and iron.

Not a common warding — not for beasts or spirits.

For blood magic.

He crouched, fingers brushing the dirt. It was dry and cracked, but beneath the topsoil, a faint reddish tint bled through. Scarlet. Almost too fresh.

“Someone’s been bleeding here,” he murmured.

A door creaked behind him.

An elderly man, wrapped in a patched cloak, stepped out, leaning on a cane. His eyes were pale with cataracts, but they still held the clarity of fear.

“You… you shouldn’t touch that,” the man said hoarsely. “The well’s cursed. Those who pry too close are taken.”

Xior straightened slowly. “Then maybe that’s where I’ll find your missing people.”

The old man flinched at the word missing, like it carried a curse of its own.

The elder led him through the village, limping past shuttered homes. Xior noticed more details — every door had salt scattered across the threshold, every window lined with iron nails. Some had faint runes carved into the wood, amateurish but desperate.

He caught the faint whimper of a dog from behind a shed, its eyes wide and glazed as if it had seen something it couldn’t comprehend.

No laughter. No chatter. Even the birds refused to perch here.

The elder’s voice cracked as he spoke. “They started vanishing three weeks ago. First the smith’s boy. Then a farmer and his wife. Then the children.”

Xior frowned. “Signs of struggle?”

“None,” the elder whispered. “Doors locked from the inside. Food still on the table. They just… weren’t there come morning.”

“Witnesses?”

He shook his head. “Only the fog. Always the fog.”

They stopped outside a house with its door boarded from the inside.

“This was the last one,” the elder murmured. “A family of four. Gone two nights ago.”

Xior stepped over the threshold, breaking the salt line. Inside, the air was stale, heavy with the faint metallic scent of decay. Dust motes floated in the gloom as he opened a shutter.

The table was still set — four bowls of cold stew. Chairs untouched.

No overturned furniture, no signs of intrusion.

But the smell wasn’t right. Not rot, but… something drier. Sterile. Like the scent left behind after blood had been drained clean.

He knelt, running his hand over the wooden floor. There — faint gouges. Four parallel lines dragged from the center of the room toward the door.

Claw marks.

But not from beasts — too clean. Too deliberate.

And the wood beneath his fingertips was cold. Not naturally cold — the kind that lingered from the residue of magic.

He traced the lines with his eyes until they stopped abruptly near the doorframe, where footprints — small, human — simply ended mid-stride.

He stood, jaw tightening.

When he returned outside, the elder sat by the well, staring at it with hollow eyes.

“They said they saw shapes,” the old man whispered before Xior could speak. “In the fog. Not beasts, not men. Shadows that walked like us, but hollow. When the bell rings at night, we lock ourselves in. But it doesn’t help.”

“Have you tried leaving?” Xior asked.

The elder gave a mirthless laugh. “Where would we go? The borderlands? The Empire? They call us cursed already.”

He turned toward Xior, his voice trembling. “If you truly mean to look into this, stranger, don’t open the well. It’s been sealed since the first vanishings.”

“Why?”

“Because the last man who touched it was found at dawn,” the elder said. “His body was empty — not wounded, not torn. Just… emptied.”

Night crept in slow and heavy. The fog returned thicker than before, blanketing the village in pale death. Lanterns flickered weakly as Xior approached the chained well again.

The ground hummed faintly — a pulse, like a heartbeat just beneath the soil.

When he placed his hand on the iron bars, the metal burned cold.

Acheron’s voice came through faintly, edged with unease.

“That’s blood magic, no doubt. Old, too. The kind used for tethering souls.”

He closed his eyes, extending his senses.

Faint threads of mana lingered below — deep and writhing. Not undead energy. Not exactly. Something in between.

Like life suspended.

The villagers had bound something here. But the magic wasn’t theirs. It reeked of the Lich’s touch — distant, diluted, but unmistakable.

He stepped back, his shadow long against the mist.

If the Lich’s corruption had reached this far out.

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