Chapter 679: 679

He rested a moment longer, letting the trembling in his limbs subside. Then, with a groan, he forced himself to his feet. His clothes clung to him, heavy and cold, and his body ached with every step.

But he recognized the lay of the land. He wasn’t too far. If he followed the river upstream, he would reach his town, what remained of it.

And so, leaning against a fallen branch for support, Gram began to walk, driven by the faint, desperate hope that somewhere beyond the horizon, his family was waiting for him.

The walk back felt endless. Each step was a battle between pain and will. Gram’s legs trembled, his vision swam from exhaustion, but he pressed on, using the sun’s position and the familiar curve of the hills to guide him. The river that had carried him slowly narrowed, winding toward the valley where his town once stood.

When he finally reached the outskirts, the silence hit him first.

There were no birds, no rustling leaves, no sound of human voices. Only the soft hiss of the wind moving through ruins. The town that had once echoed with laughter, children’s cries, and the sound of hammers and hooves was now swallowed by a stillness too deep to be natural.

Then he saw them.

At first, just one body face down in the mud near what used to be the main road. Then another. And another.

The further he walked, the more he found.

Men and women, some he recognized, their bodies twisted and broken, thrown against walls, crushed beneath collapsed roofs. Livestock lay scattered in the streets, horses, goats, and oxen alike mangled beyond recognition. T

he stench of death and wet blood hung thick in the air, so heavy that it burned his throat when he breathed.

Still, Gram pressed forward.

His heart pounded as he stumbled over debris, calling out hoarsely, “Lira! Taren! Myra!” But only the echo of his own voice answered him, swallowed by the ruins.

Everywhere he looked, there was only death. The houses that once stood tall had been reduced to heaps of splintered wood and stone. The small square where the townsfolk gathered for market was buried under the remains of the clock tower. Even the fields beyond were flattened, as though some great hand had swept them away.

But Gram refused to believe. He couldn’t.

Maybe they had fled, he told himself. Maybe they were hiding somewhere, waiting for help. His body screamed for him to stop, but he forced his aching legs to move, clinging to that thin thread of hope.

Hours passed. The sun climbed high, then began to fall again. Gram searched every corner, every shattered home, everywhere his feet led him but the faces he found were all lifeless.

And slowly, doubt began to creep in.

His hands shook as he lifted the broken door of his home, the wood charred and splintered. Inside, everything was gone, walls crushed inward, furniture shattered. The cradle where his unborn child was meant to sleep was overturned, split in half. He sank to his knees, numb, staring at the wreckage in silence.

No voices, no movement, no laughter. Just the wind, whispering through the wreckage like a cruel echo of the life that had been.

For the first time since he’d awakened, Gram felt the hope inside him begin to crack. Fear crept in, cold and sharp as reality began to take shape in his mind. He wanted to scream, to deny what he saw, but no sound came. Only a hollow silence filled the space where his family’s laughter once lived.

His knees gave way, and he fell forward, clutching a piece of torn cloth he found among the rubble, his daughter’s small tunic, recognizable even through the mud and blood.

Finally Gram found his voice as he let out a cry that sounded like a roar, fears could not stop falling from his face as he continued to cry out finally he reached his limit as he passed out.

The sky was darkening now, the first stars flickering to life overhead. Gram stayed there, unmoving, as the shadows stretched around him.

The town that had once stood as a symbol of unity and safety was now nothing but a graveyard.

And Gram, the man who had once believed in the strength of his people, was now its only survivor, alone with his grief, his rage, and the unbearable silence of the dead.

Gram felt like he was trapped in a nightmare, one that refused to end. No matter how much he tried to wake, he found himself falling again, hearing the same screams, seeing the same faces. His wife’s voice, his children’s laughter, all fading into the hollow roar of the wind. The nightmare mocked him, whispered of his weakness, his failure to protect what mattered most.

Then, with a strangled gasp, Gram finally woke up.

His body jolted as if pulled from drowning. He screamed, the sound raw and broken, echoing through the still air. For a moment, he didn’t recognize where he was. His hands clawed at the earth, eyes wide and wild. The nightmare still clung to him, and for a few seconds, he believed he was still falling.

The shout caught the attention of others nearby.

Voices murmured in alarm, boots crunched on gravel. A few figures emerged from the treeline, adventurers, wrapped in worn cloaks and carrying lanterns that flickered against the ruins. Their armor was scuffed, their faces marked by fatigue and caution. They were the one’s who saved him and managed to nuture him back to health.

They had been moving through the devastated lands for days, ever since the nights of destruction had finally ceased.

They had been hired by nobles from neighboring kingdoms, desperate for answers. The disasters that plagued Erik’s lands had shaken even the most distant lords. Entire regions whispered of divine punishment, of a godling’s wrath made manifest. And yet, no one truly understood what had happened, why did their punishment come so late and not as they had expected?

So these men and women were sent, to measure the damage, to bury the dead to prevent plague, and to see if anyone had survived.

When they entered what remained of Gram’s town, even their seasoned hearts faltered.

The air was thick with decay and ash. Broken homes jutted from the ground like shattered teeth. Corpses, human and beast lay strewn everywhere, some half-buried in mud, others hanging grotesquely from trees. The silence of the place pressed down on them, making even hardened adventurers keep their voices low.

Their leader, a grizzled man named Kael, shook his head as he surveyed the destruction. “They didn’t even have a chance,” he muttered, voice heavy with pity and dread. “Whatever happened here… it came too fast.”

The others nodded, their expressions grim. They had seen villages burned by conflict, towns swallowed by plague but this… this was something else. There were no signs of fire or weapons. It looked as if nature itself had turned against the people.

Sighing and feeling a weight settle in their chests, the group pressed on through the ruins. The smell of blood and rot thickened the air, clinging to their armor and clothes like a curse that refused to leave. None of them spoke for a while, there was nothing left to say. They all understood what kind of tragedy had unfolded here, and none of them wished to imagine it happening to their own homes.

Their leader, Kael, tightened his grip on the handle of his shield and muttered, “Let’s finish this quickly. The dead have had enough company.”

The mage walking behind him nodded silently, clutching her staff as the crystal embedded at its top began to glow faintly. She whispered an incantation under her breath, her eyes closing as threads of magic expanded outward, scanning the devastated landscape. Her spell, a life-detecting weave was invaluable in missions like this. It could sense even the faintest flicker of life, saving them hours of pointless digging through rubble and corpses.

Still, while they searched, they didn’t forget to loot.

It was an unspoken rule among adventurers. Supplies, trinkets, coins, anything useful or valuable was fair game. The dead wouldn’t need them, and the living still had mouths to feed. Each one justified it in their own way, though the guilt lingered behind their eyes.

It was during one such quiet moment, as they moved between the broken remains of homes, that a sharp gasp came from the mage. Her staff pulsed with brighter light.

Everyone froze. Instantly, steel whispered from sheaths, bows were drawn, and shields were raised.

“What is it?” Kael demanded, his voice low but firm.

“…Life signs,” the mage answered, her tone strained as she focused. “Multiple beast signatures, likely drawn by the smell of blood and decay.” She paused, her brows furrowing as the crystal flickered again. “But… there’s something else. A faint life sign, weak but steady. Not a beast. Human, presumably a survivor.”

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