The wind howled like a grim omen, carrying in its wake a cloud of ashes mingled with faint laments—remnants of fading souls. Jinra descended slowly from the cliff, each step heavy as a sentence, an invisible burden sinking into her bones. The air around her thickened, heavy with a silent melancholy, while her mind wandered into the painful memories of what she had just lost. Her face, once impassive, now unravelled into a tragic fresco, where every tear, as black as ink, traced a map of suffering and despair in the dust.
Before her stretched the village—a stage frozen in the cruelty of destruction, a living nightmare. Mutilated bodies littered the ground, some locked in their final embraces, as if still trying to shield themselves from oblivion. A goblin lay there, belly torn open, a trembling hand outstretched toward her in a final silent plea before the breath of life left him. A wave of nausea twisted her gut violently. She doubled over, vomiting a bitter bile filled as much with regrets as with despair.
"Is it YOU who's responsible?" The voice rang out, deep and ripping, cutting through the crackling flames.
From the rubble emerged a colossal figure draped in a cloak of rough hides and dark feathers. His staff, carved from a giant bone and etched with glowing red runes pulsing with ancient, savage power, throbbed in his hand. His yellow eyes, cold and sharp, pierced Jinra like invisible blades.
"You humans… You take, you destroy, and then… you dare to weep?"
Jinra's fists clenched until her nails bit into the tender flesh of her palms.
"I have no choice."
A bitter, almost cruel laugh burst from the goblin chief.
"No choice? And who holds your leash? That faceless demon pushing you to sow death and desolation?"
Silence fell then—heavy, oppressive—broken only by the sinister cracking of burning beams collapsing.
Then, without warning, the storm erupted.
The Guardian raised his staff, and the sky split in two. Sinous lightning, like azure serpents, tore through the air in burning shards. Jinra, agile despite her exhaustion, barely dodged a blast that seared her shoulder, a muffled cry escaping her lips. Her invisible threads hissed, striking like sharpened blades, but the Guardian, master of winds, dispersed them with a fluid gesture. The breath danced around him—an untamable wild beast.
"You don't even understand what you destroy!" he roared, his voice laden with ancient fury.
Jinra tried a feint, but the ground crumbled beneath her feet, exploding into a shower of glowing debris. She rolled to the side, her body torn, breathing ragged.
"Why do you keep resisting?!" she shouted, voice broken by fatigue and pain.
"Because it's MY LAND!" he bellowed.
A cold, metallic voice echoed inside her mind, sharp as a razor.
"Execute the plan."
She gathered her last strength. Her invisible threads shot forward, winding around three goblin children, lifting them—frozen like grotesque puppets in a macabre dance. The Guardian's face paled, twisted with terror.
"NO!"
His fireball, capable of reducing Jinra to ashes, wavered in his trembling hands. With a piercing roar of rage, he diverted his attack, which exploded into a blaze that tore the sky, staining the clouds an apocalyptic red.
"I'd rather lose… than become like YOU."
Jinra felt an icy shiver run through her being. But her threads did not falter.
As the hobgoblins charged, she raised her hand.
The goblin children were flung forward, their screams echoing in a clash of violence.
Blood splattered the Guardian's face.
He dropped to his knees, his staff rolling away in the burning dust.
"Why…?" he gasped.
Jinra approached, her shadow stretching like a black veil engulfing him.
"I'm sorry."
Her hand rose, relentless.
The threads tightened—cold and firm.
The Guardian, reduced to a bloody stump, breathed in ragged gasps, defeated.
"What… is your last wish?" she whispered, voice hoarse and strangled with emotion.
He spat a thread of blood, then gave a torn smile.
"Burn it all."
"…What?"
"If I die… the tribal lords nearby will come. They will enslave my people. Violate our women. Turn our children into soldiers of war."
A heavy silence fell, thick with muted pain.
"Then… let the flames be our last refuge."
Jinra finally understood.
She was not the executioner.
She was the gravedigger.
Her arms rose, gathering a terrible energy.
The threads ignited, spreading, devouring every hut, every body, every memory.
The survivors did not flee.
Some sang.
Others clung desperately to their dead.
Jinra turned away, walking straight ahead, while behind her the entire village blazed—a fire reciting a funeral chant.
The System appeared, floating in the ash-laden air.
"Objective complete. Key obtained."
She did not respond.
Her hand trembled, opened, and a shadow portal unfolded before her.
She stepped into it.
The last echo was the goblins' song—strange, beautiful, and terrifying.
Then silence stretched, deep and final.