Ren didn't sleep that night.
Even after the Loafling village had quieted, the moldclouds had retreated, and the singing sword had—for the moment—stopped monologuing, Ren remained restless. The mana in this world vibrated differently. It wasn't wild or aggressive like in Cindale. It was… tonal. Rhythmic. Every breath he took synced with some unseen meter.
He sat beneath a half-burnt jamfruit tree, tuning his thoughts.
Balladbrand leaned against a rock nearby, humming lightly in his sleep. Yes, the sword snored. And not subtly either. Every so often, a puff of melody would slip from its hilt like an accidental chorus note.
Ren's thoughts wandered.
Cindale had taught him to dream big, to listen to the world and its rules and then rewrite them. But this new realm—Cravendough—it was teaching him something else. Balance. Harmony. And now, responsibility.
Not because he had to.
But because he could.
A distant hum began to rise.
It wasn't like the soft lullabies of the Loaflings or the constant background hum of the musical trees. This was off-key. Guttural. Crooked in sound and soul.
The air shivered.
Ren stood, instinct waking before reason. Balladbrand snapped alert in a flash of teal light.
They come… the sword whispered.
Across the flour-coated hills, atop broken cruststone paths, rose figures—bakers in blackened aprons, flour-dusted faces cracked like burnt dough. Their eyes gleamed green with rot. They moved in slow, jerky rhythm, as if dancing to some silent, broken anthem.
The Crustfallen Choir.
Once guardians of harmony, now silenced and soured by the plague.
They sang no notes. That was the terror.
Their mouths opened—wide, impossibly wide—but no sound escaped.
And yet the land reacted.
The very earth dulled in color. The humming trees turned mute. Even Balladbrand's glow dimmed.
Ren gritted his teeth.
"Guess we're not getting a welcome performance."
One of the Choir pointed a finger at him.
An ethereal note formed in the air—not sung, not played, just manifested.
A single discordant symbol.
It hovered for a moment before exploding in a pulse of sour mana. Ren threw up a barrier instinctively. The note struck like a chisel on stone, cracking his defense with a soundless thud.
He skid back several feet.
Balladbrand surged to his hand.
We must counter their silence with rhythm. Only living music can fight the dead's echo.
Ren nodded once, mana flaring from his core in a syncopated beat. He didn't know the rules yet—but like always, he'd improvise. He stepped forward, feet moving to a beat he couldn't hear but felt.
He slashed with a horizontal spin, Balladbrand releasing a rhythmic wave of slashes in a spiral.
The first of the Choir shattered like overbaked crust. The others surged forward.
Ren grinned.
"Let's make some noise."
The battle was less a fight and more a composition. Each dodge was a rest. Each strike, a chord. And in the middle of it all was Ren—playing the rhythm of resistance.
When the final Choir member cracked into ash, a deeper silence followed.
Not oppressive. Peaceful.
The Loafling villagers slowly emerged. The jamfruit trees resumed their whispers. Balladbrand pulsed brighter, clearly proud.
But Ren wasn't done.
The Crustfallen weren't just monsters. They were guardians, once.
Corrupted, not born evil.
And something—or someone—was behind the rot.
He looked south.
Where the sour winds came from.
Where the music still refused to play.
His next destination was clear.
The Silent Oven.
He would go there. And either bring back the song of this world—or burn the mold out at its roots.