Four adventurers arrived just as I was about to lose hope.
A Marksman, two Swordsmen, and a Priestess—each wearing the badge of the Pallet Kingdom Adventurers. They stood like a ray of hope in the middle of the cursed field.
The monsters screeched when they saw them, but the Adventurers moved without hesitation.
The Marksman stayed at the back, ready with his bow. He quickly aimed his arrows, calm and focused. The Swordsmen drew their weapons—one wielding a gleaming Excalibur, the other a heavy battle Axe—and charged into the chaos with a battle cry that echoed through the corrupted field.
But my eyes focused on her—the Priestess—who broke from the group and hurried toward me.
She knelt at my side, her white-and-gold robe glowing faintly under the moonlight. A delicate scepter shimmered in her hand.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice trembling with concern as her eyes scanned my injuries.
"My foot... it hurts so much," I said, barely able to speak. The pain was too much.
I looked down. Blood covered the ground around me. A rusty metal trap was stuck tightly around my ankle. My skin was cut open and bleeding badly.
Her expression softened. "Hang in there. I'm going to get you out of this," she said firmly, brushing a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. Her fingers, already glowing with a faint healing aura, moved to the trap.
"Help me open this, okay? On the count of three."
I gave a weak nod.
"One... two... three!"
"Ahhh!" I screamed as we forced the metal trap open. The metal groaned, but at last—snap—it let go and dropped to the ground.
I leaned back, breathing hard. Sweat dripped down my face.
"It's off," she said gently. She quickly placed her glowing hands over the wound. A warm feeling spread through my leg. It didn't hurt as much now. The light from her magic slowly closed the cuts.
"You're going to be alright. Just breathe."
I looked at her, amazed. The light from her hands shone in her eyes. She looked young—not much older than me—but something about her made me feel safe.
She raised her scepter and softly chanted an incantation:
"By the grace of Raphael, the healer divine, With your healing touch, take away all pain."
"Divine Magic: Divine Heal!"
Spell Description: Restoration /Regeneration / Wound Mending / Recovery / Support
(Divine Heal is a powerful sacred form of Divine Magic, a miracle drawn from the light of the higher realms. It heals any wound, from minor scrapes to grievous injuries. The healing is often accompanied by a warm, golden light.)
A warm, radiant light engulfed my ankle. Within seconds, the torn skin mended, and the bleeding stopped. The pain faded into nothingness.
Distant screams tore through the night.
I turned my head and saw the others fighting. The Marksman moved with precision from cover to cover, loosing arrows of holy light that struck monsters clean through. The two Swordsmen stood side by side, swinging their sword and axe, pushing back the enemies one by one.
The monsters were unnatural—creations twisted by sin itself, as if the darkness of mankind had taken form and turned against us.
They came in many shapes, each one a living nightmare.
Towering Giants stomped across the battlefield, their cracked, stone-like flesh steaming with rage. Their eyes blazed with mindless fury as they crushed earth and bone beneath their massive feet.
Goblins swarmed beneath them—vile, sharp-toothed fiends with poisoned blades, shrieking with laughter as they danced through blood-soaked soil.
Ogres followed, bloated with muscle and madness, dragging rusted clubs behind them. Their bodies reeked of decay, their minds ruled by nothing but violence and hunger.
Creeping silently were the Skinwalkers —beasts that wore the stolen flesh of their victims. Their forms shifted between man and monster, their eyes empty, their voices hollow imitations of the lives they'd claimed. They were mockeries of humanity, shaped by deceit and cruelty.
Worse still were the Soul snatchers —like specters born from despair. Shrouded in black mist, they floated across the field with glowing, hollow eyes, their cold presence enough to drain hope from the heart. With a single touch, they could silence the soul forever.
Skeletons clattered forward in unholy silence, their eye sockets glowing with cursed light. Armed with rusted swords and broken shields, they fought without fear or mercy, held together only by foul necromancy and a thirst for destruction.
Among them staggered the Undead —rotting corpses with twisted limbs and hollow moans, dragging themselves from shallow graves and forgotten ruins. Some wore remnants of armor, others still carried the weapons they died with. Driven by some cruel will, they struck with unnatural strength, never tiring, never falling unless burned or shattered.
Then came the Werewolves —feral, blood-drenched predators howling beneath the crimson moon. Their claws were like blades, their fangs made for tearing flesh from bone. They moved in packs, swift and merciless, their howls echoing like war drums.
Each of them was born from sin—wrath, sloth, gluttony, and greed. They were not creatures of nature, but the cursed spawn of corruption and darkness. Twisted by the Seven Deadly Sins, they had become weapons of the Abyss.
The two Swordsmen held their ground against three hulking giants, their blades flashing with unrelenting fury. Meanwhile, the Marksman focused on the swarm of smaller monsters, firing blessed arrows that lit the dark like falling stars.
"They're holding them off," the Priestess said without looking away from my foot. She checked it again. "But you need to leave soon and find a safer spot, because I'll be joining them. This place is full of monsters, and more could come."
I nodded slowly. My whole body was shaking. I still felt weak, but the pain was gone.
I was about to stand when a spectral creature lunged toward us—the Soul Snatchers.
They drifted across the field like wisps of shadow, formless yet full of malice. Their whispering voices echoed all around us, circling like vultures. Their words slithered into our ears, sharp as knives and cold as death.
"Abandoned... forgotten... left to rot by your so-called light..."
"You pray to silence."
"The Archangels? Cowards who turned their backs the moment you fell."
"There is no light here—only silence and the sound of your own dying breath."
"Your soul will scream, and not even Michael will hear it."
I froze, the cold of their presence creeping deep into my bones.
Their voices slithered like venom through my mind, whispering lies and despair, tearing apart what little hope I had left.
One of them drifted away from the others.
Its hollow eyes locked onto mine, glowing faintly with cruel hunger.
It unleashed a piercing screech—a sound that cut through the air like a blade—then lunged forward, arms outstretched, eager to tear the soul from my body.
But before it could touch me—a brilliant light erupted around us.
It was warm. Pure. Divine. Holy.
The Priestess began to chant, her voice low and steady—a sacred hum that vibrated in the very air around us, resonating deep within my bones.
"Foul spirits, vile and unclean, Leave this place—be unseen! By the power of the Divine, I command: Wash away all dark offense. Let the light of goodness shine anew!"
As she spoke, her scepter glowed brighter, divine light pulsing at its tip. It danced in the air, weaving a hypnotic pattern—like holy symbols drawn from light itself.
"Divine Magic: Holy Banishment!"
Spell Description: Purification / Exorcism / Area Effect / Crowd Control / Dispel
(Holy Banishment is a sacred spell rooted in Divine Magic, used to banish corrupted, malevolent spirits and cleanse any area tainted by darkness. When cast, it releases a wave of radiant energy that overwhelms evil entities, unraveling their form and severing their grip on the world.)
A blinding wave of radiance burst outward, engulfing the battlefield.
The Soul Snatchers shrieked in terror as the divine light seared through them. Some screamed and vanished instantly, their twisted forms unraveling into ash and smoke, like shadows burning under the sun. Others fled, screeching as their bodies sizzled and tore apart, dissolving piece by piece as they passed through the light—each step peeling their darkness away.
Their whispers turned to screams… and then, to silence.
Within moments, they were gone.
A sharp, agonized cry ripped through the chaos, snapping the Priestess and me out of our focus.
"Graaagh!"
It came from one of the Swordsmen—the one who wielded Excalibur.
He was wounded and stumbled, losing balance before collapsing to the ground, bleeding and struggling to stay conscious.