"Sometimes, the ones who were supposed to save… are the first to fall."
[CAPITAL CITY | Midnight]
The towering spires of the Hero Association Headquarters pierced the velvet night sky like white spears of justice. Bathed in pale moonlight and glowing mana lanterns, the building stood tall—pristine, intimidating, revered. It was a fortress of marble and silver, etched with runes of power, and a symbol of everything the world once trusted.
Inside its gleaming halls, heroes walked in and out like clockwork—some chatting casually, others resting after bloody missions. The air smelled of expensive perfume, sterilized magic, and quiet tension.
Beneath all the glory, however, were offices. Paperwork. Stress.
And apathy.
In a poorly lit room with piles of scrolls stacked like ancient ruins, a middle-aged man in wrinkled robes and tired eyes rubbed his temples.
"Another distress signal?" he muttered, staring at the glowing crystal that pulsed ominously red.
The name flashed: Windfall Village.
He sighed and muttered curses under his breath. "These damn farmers and their wolf sightings again… Don't they know how expensive teleportation costs are?"
A bored assistant nearby yawned. "Want me to ignore it?"
He hesitated. Public pressure had been mounting. After the Shadow Prince's attack, after villages were left to rot, the Association's image was in ruins.
He grunted. "Tch. Fine. Send in those new recruits. Make it look like we give a damn."
★★★★★
The moon cast silver shadows across the training yard where five freshly minted A-rank heroes stood, their expressions ranging from cocky to cautious.
"Tonight's the night, boys!" shouted Riken, a tall guy with spiky red hair and a sword nearly as long as his ego. "First mission, and I get to show off in front of an S-ranker? Let's goooo!"
"Keep your mouth shut," grumbled Karn, the stoic one with short black hair and scarred knuckles. "This isn't a playground."
"Aww, don't be such a killjoy," Yuri, the only girl of the group, said with a nervous chuckle. She twirled her spear but kept glancing at the floor, clearly battling anxiety.
"I-I think we should focus on teamwork," mumbled Lior, adjusting his glasses. He was smaller than the others, twitchy, and had already tripped twice tonight.
And finally, Juno—lean, silent, always chewing on something—leaned against a wall, eyes half-lidded. "Hope they've got bandits. Easy warmup."
Their excitement doubled when their leader arrived: S-rank Hero Victor, dressed in dark armor, his presence suffocating even without speaking.
He looked them over. "You're not here to play hero. You're here to learn. Don't embarrass yourselves."
Moments later, they vanished in a flash of blue light—teleported toward Windfall Village.
Moments Later :
In the Command Room
[Ping!]
Another signal.
This time from Elderpine Hamlet—opposite side of the region.
The officer groaned. "Another one?!"
The assistant raised a brow. "Same level threat?"
"Apparently. Looks like another village about to cry wolf. Send five more. No S-ranker this time—we can't waste our top cards on dirt farmers."
He lazily scribbled a command, and within minutes, a second squad was dispatched.
****
[Windfall Village – Nightfall]
Moonlight spilled gently across the quiet thatched roofs of Windfall Village. The scent of damp earth mingled with the soft rustle of wheat fields under the breeze. Lanterns flickered gently in the streets, casting warm glows against worn stone.
Then came the screams.
Flames. Sudden. Violent. Blacker than coal and licking upward like living things. They erupted from the fields, crawling through fences, devouring wooden homes in silence.
"Get the buckets! The buckets, gods damn it!" a man cried out, his hands trembling as he tried to scoop water from a well. The moment he tossed it—nothing. The black fire hissed and roared higher, completely untouched by water.
Children cried. Women screamed. Men shouted in desperation. The fire did not burn like normal—it didn't crackle, didn't consume—it erased.
Among the chaos, strangers helped.
A group of refugees—mud-streaked, tired-looking men and women—rushed through the crowd, helping children, shielding the elderly, throwing buckets of water.
"Don't give up!" one of them shouted, holding up a crying girl. "The heroes will come!"
And right then—as if summoned by that very cry—came the storm.
From the sky, streaks of light soared down. Five figures in polished gear landed with controlled grace, their cloaks billowing. Behind them stood a tall man in silver armor, a red scarf fluttering across his chest.
Team One had arrived.
"A-rankers. Spread out!" barked the leader, S-Rank Hero Victor the Swift. His amber eyes scanned the fire. "Contain the blaze. Get the civilians to safety."
"On it!" a cocky young man with spiky red hair smirked, launching himself toward the flames with a water-based spell. "Let's show 'em why we're A-rank!"
Beside him, a girl with a large staff and anxious eyes tried to chant a spell, "Aqua Blessi—!" but her words choked mid-air. Her mana… was gone.
"What…?"
"I can't cast!" another one yelled. "Why can't I feel my mana!?"
"We're not getting signal either!" shouted the blond youth who had tried to contact HQ. "My comm-crystal isn't responding!"
Victor cursed under his breath. "This is… an anti-mana field."
The villagers—once screaming—now lay unconscious, slumped across the ground.
The fire was gone.
Completely....Vanished.
The ash disappeared. The houses that were burning stood untouched. Even the broken fences looked newly built. The children slept peacefully, as if none of it had happened.
"What the hell…?" one A-ranker whispered.
Then came the sound.
Dozens. Hundreds. The soft shuffle of feet against dirt. From every direction.
The shadows moved—men in cloaks, masks, armor stained in darkness. Their eyes glowed faintly violet beneath their hoods. The fake refugees now stood upright, still and silent, surrounding the heroes like a tightening noose.
Then—
"Victor!"
They turned to look.
Their leader knelt.
A black chain wrapped around his limbs, binding him to the earth. He hadn't even made a sound. He looked up, eyes filled with disbelief.
"How… when…?"
One of the A-rankers tried to rush to him—only to collapse mid-stride, body twitching.
Then the others fell—one by one—no pain, no blood. Just stillness. Their vision blurred. Their bodies heavy. The last thing they saw was the smiling face of a masked woman whispering, "Sleep well, little hero."
And then…
Darkness.
****
[Elderpine Hamlet – Simultaneously]
The second team never stood a chance.
No S-ranker. No preparation. Just a flicker of light in the forest, then silence.
They arrived to fire, confusion, and false cries for help.
They didn't even get to shout before the black mist swallowed them whole.
Gone—without a single sound.
[Windfall Village – Moments Later]
The land was silent again.
The Forsaken stood still.
Then, in a matter of seconds—every masked figure, every shadow—vanished.
No trace. No flame. No destruction.
The villagers stirred, yawning as if waking from a deep slumber.
"Wha… why am I on the ground?" one asked, rubbing his head.
"Wasn't there a fire?"
Another shrugged. "No… everything looks fine."
It was as if nothing had happened.
The houses untouched. The fields healthy. The well full.
The entire nightmare had been an illusion—or worse, something deeper.
They would never remember.
They were never meant to.
★★★★
A massive chamber lay beneath the ruins of the old kingdom—a place long forgotten, hidden from the world.
The hall was lit only by violet flames. Stone pillars twisted upward, carved with the names of the fallen. In the center of the room, twenty kneeling figures—bound, gagged, trembling.
The heroes.
Both teams.
Stripped of gear, pride, and hope.
Before them stood five robed figures—The Council. Their eyes lowered in silence.
Then came the sound.
Tak.
Tak, tak.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured.
From the far end of the chamber, a silhouette emerged.
Black cloak. Bare feet. Eyes like a void that forgot light. Her presence crushed the air.
Every Forsaken knelt. Even the council.
A queen among monsters.
She walked with poise, her every step echoing like judgment itself. She stopped before the throne—a towering, obsidian seat shaped like a blooming violet flower—and sat.
The room exhaled.
Her gaze dropped on the heroes. Hollow. Emotionless. Distant.
She didn't see warriors.
She saw the symbols of everything she lost.
And then—finally—she spoke.
"Welcome, heroes."
Her voice was like a knife wrapped in silk. Cold, deadly.
"We… are the Forsakens."
A hush followed.
And the violet flames roared higher.
[To Be Continued…]