Quick Draw
Nearly a week ago, a diverse and determined team, driven by equal measures of hope and desperation, set out on a highly dangerous expedition into the Searing Sands: a place of ever-growing infamy where the laws of nature itself seemed to unravel. This eclectic group consisted of some of the finest minded researchers and scholars, supported by battle-hardened soldiers and ruthless mercenaries. The team was united by a singular goal—uncovering the secrets behind these mysterious lands and perhaps finding a way to stem their dreadful corruption. The terrifying landscape stretched before them, an endless, merciless terrain where the earth lay cracked and blistered beneath their feet. Scorching winds twisted and howled around them, hot enough to sear flesh and bone. As they pushed deeper into this desolate, burning desert, the environment seemed to conspire against them with a chilling, almost supernatural ferocity. One by one, they fell, succumbing to the lethal elements or perhaps to even darker, unseen forces lurking within. Tragedy struck with merciless efficiency, claiming nearly every soul who had dared to breach this world's hostile borders. In a cruel twist of fate, only a single survivor emerged from the devastation. It was a young local, a nimble and streetwise youth from the sprawling city of Luminara, who had spent his life mastering the bustling and chaotic alleys of his home. His knowledge had seemed an asset, but nothing had prepared him for the horrors of the Searing Sands.
Barely clinging to life, he staggered back to the city. His clothes hung in tatters, drenched and crusted in blood, both his own and perhaps that of his companions. His eyes stared blankly into nothingness as though the sights he had seen were too nightmarish to comprehend or recount. He collapsed, sinking into a paralyzed and unresponsive state, his body alive but his mind seemingly trapped in a silent, inescapable abyss. That was three days ago. Since then, the mystery of what transpired in those cursed lands—what terrible force or beast had brought an end to such a well-equipped team—remained unanswered and deeply shrouded in silence. Whispered rumors and dark speculations spread throughout Luminara like wildfire, seeding both fear and curiosity.
Was it the searing heat that had claimed them, or did something more sinister lurk behind the veil of dust and mirages? Despite the risks, it was not uncommon for other teams to set out, driven by a heroic determination, only to be brutally decimated while valiantly attempting to push back the relentless tide of corruption.
By some mere twist of fate, yet another group of search personnel stumbled upon a grim and unsettling discovery: the stark remains of the earlier fallen team, sprawled across the desolate expanse they had so bravely ventured into. This occurred not long after the lone survivor had staggered back, making the timing of the find uncanny and sparking a fever of new speculation. The fierce sunlight, unrelenting and merciless, burned with an intensity that defied the natural order, radiating a heat that seemed sentient in its cruelty. As night fell, the spectral glow of the frigid moonlight, bathing the hidden realm in an otherworldly luminescence, played its own role in hastening a macabre transformation from flesh to bone. This unnatural combination of extreme elements seemed to mock any human understanding of decay. Various monstrous creatures, rumored to lurk menacingly within that forsaken place, must have found their way to the lingering flesh, feasting hungrily upon it. But perhaps it was the insidious corruption itself, a creeping and malignant force, that had accelerated the decay. Regardless of the exact cause, this immeasurably grim turn of events made the transportation of the skeletal remains for most of the team a more manageable, albeit hauntingly somber, task.
The grim discovery also unveiled the sheer brutality and horrors faced by the entire crew. The destinies of all but two of the forsaken survey members were shrouded in uncertainty, adding to the growing tension across the city. Anticipating the known world’s fragility and the magnitude of the unknown, a request was swiftly dispatched to the local Ivory Tower branch for a Seer-class Awakened. These Seers were rare and coveted, even among the already scarce Awakened who specialized in support. They were treated as precious gems, treasures hidden away from the world and closely guarded, so the general expectation was grim and resigned: their desperate plea for help would inevitably be rejected. Surely too high a risk for too little gain, most thought it beyond hopeful fancy that one would actually appear, let alone that the Seer who would answer the call would be a relic from the bygone era. Nearly forgotten to history, this living testament to the world that once was had arrived to uncover the truth. Perhaps, the ethereal specter of days gone by could indeed unearth the truth about what terrible fate had befallen the fallen team, easing the plague of doubt haunting Luminara.
As the new team made their report, the unsettling transformation of one of their strongest and most mentally resilient soldiers into a mad, monstrous figure before his untimely end did little to boost the morale of the growing crowd. The air was thick with despair and apprehension, a dense fog of emotion that seemed to cloud the very streets, especially when they discovered a skeleton whose bones bore the grim tale of torture. Bullet holes punctuated strategic parts of the body, ensuring a slow, agonizing bleed-out as the victim desperately attempted to crawl away. The scene reached its chilling crescendo with a final gunshot, executed with raw and cold precision at the nape of the skull, evoking a haunting sense of dread in the hearts of those who stumbled upon the aftermath of the brutal encounter. The entire situation felt overwhelmingly suspicious, a veil of unease hanging heavily in the air.
Entering a corrupted zone like the notorious Searing Sands was a venture only the hardiest would dare to undertake, an endeavor that bordered on madness and enticed only the most daring. Once breached, it was as if stepping into an alien territory—a separate pocket of reality that had torn itself from the fabric of the known world. The experience was like stumbling into an alternate dimension, a bizarre and chaotic place where nature's laws twisted and contorted in defiance of reason. These were the Hidden Realms, a name granted to these perilous zones that had emerged after the cataclysmic fall of the old world eons past. At certain locations, these terrifying landscapes had broken free from conventional existence, drifting apart in an unsettling manner, unmoored from the binding threads of reality. Establishing contact with the world outside, once inside one of these territories, became an almost inconceivable task—a near-impossible feat that thwarted even the most prepared. The strange dimensions within seemed to conspire against those who dared to enter, isolating them in a chilling and disorienting silence.
Yet the allure was undeniable. Rare materials and mysterious relics from the ancient world, and possibly even other enigmatic dimensions like this one, drew adventurers like moths to a lethal flame, rendering the perilous risk a gamble some believed was worth taking. Such priceless finds could secure a lifetime of wealth and prosperity, transforming the chance of death into merely one stake in a high-risk game. Because of this, those who lingered on the fringes of the Hidden Realms were as much fortune-seeking opportunists as they were resolute guardians, striving endlessly to shield humanity from the unfathomable threats lurking just beyond its familiar borders. The deeper purposes often aligned in strange ways, each contingent on daring and desperation
The perils were not limited to the physical dangers within these unpredictable zones. Surviving in such a reality was treacherous beyond the immediate threats. Before crossing the threshold into the unknown, everyone at least made a pretense of clinging to their humanity, standing on the fragile promise of cooperation for the sake of survival. But once engulfed by the looming shadows inside, the transformation into a monster—whether through a literal change or by the insidious warping of one's morals—became an almost inevitable part of enduring the harsh new world. The boundaries of trust shattered, and former allies watched each other with suspicion and fear. No one was immune to the creeping change. Each step further in risked a greater loss of self. The moral decay rivaled that of the flesh in its ruthless progression, particularly as the hunt for treasure pitted even the noblest against their own conscience. Survival came with an intangible price.
“A whole team of experienced Awakened wiped out like civilians. What a waste,” remarked Osi, one of the oldest surviving members at this far-flung outpost, a place bearing its own stark reminders of such sacrifices. With hands calloused by countless years of battle, he had clawed his way through blood-soaked fields and navigated the chaotic margins of the Hidden Realms ever since the day he first grasped a knife. The years of carnage and survival chiseled his features as sharply as they had his resolve. Rising to the essential position of Quartermaster, Osi lived to discern which treasures were worth hauling back to base and which were best left behind. His uncanny ability made him a trusted, if taciturn, figure. He held an unparalleled knack in gauging a comrade’s true value to the unit, a talent that occasionally rendered him cold in his judgments. Yet even his seasoned heart recoiled at the thought of losing so many irreplaceable assets in one terrible, efficient strike. The waste was unconscionable, an affront to his sensibilities both strategic and human.
Nearby, a young man paced like a caged animal, his rugged, wolfish visage revealing a life filled with physical clashes and a spirit consumed by inner turmoil. Seized by a moment of raw emotion, he gripped at his face. His hands clawed at his features until thin red lines marked their path, and venomous words sputtered from his lips, splattering like poison onto the dusty floor. “This bastard defeated me in the past,” he growled bitterly, his disdain echoing off the cold stone walls. His eyes burned with betrayal and rage. “Though I initially suspected foul play, I kept my suspicions at bay.” He paused, memories flooding him with fresh resentment. “Over time, I grew to admire Quick Draw—as maddening as that nickname is. Now, staring into the emptiness of hindsight, I see it was my own blindness that sealed my fate.”
The bitterness in his voice thickened the air, enveloping the gathered group in its toxic fumes. As though a dam had burst, the assembled hired guns erupted, their long-simmering fury unleashed in a torrent of vociferous insults. Words lashed out like merciless whips against the bound prisoner, the resounding crack of their accusations filling the chamber. Quick Draw’s silence made his situation even more unbearable, stoking the anger of the gathered men like dry tinder awaiting a spark.
“Traitor! Fraud!” their voices sneered, spitting venomous labels at the one they now reviled.
“I never thought he was tamable,” jeered one grizzled mercenary, his voice dripping with disdain as he recalled encounters littered with Cole’s near-mythic escapes. “He was always a cocky bastard; his only saving grace was his deceptively charming face.”
Another chimed in with a sneer of derision, his words punctuated by contemptuous laughter. “He fooled even the best of us, but not anymore.” Skepticism turned to vitriol as the crowd grew more frenzied.
“Interrogator,” another declared with grim finality, “the evidence against Cole Blackburn is irrefutable. There is nothing left to unearth through questioning, and I am certain the Seer will only validate what we already know. Let him atone for the deaths of his squad mates with his own blood!” The sentiment surged through the room, a tide of shared certainty that they had the guilty party at last.
The mob’s righteous indignation and fierce desire for retribution reached a fever pitch. The air buzzed with the sinister thrill of imminent violence and a lust for vengeance that could only be sated through blood.
Sergeant Mixwater, a weathered figure whose life had been etched by battle and betrayal, leaned heavily against a scarred metal table laden with grim torture implements. His face betrayed a weariness that came from years of hard decisions, yet his eyes were alight with a determination as unyielding as tempered steel. He allowed the mob’s vitriolic venting a few more heartbeats. An ominous silence followed, hanging expectantly in the air like the breath before a storm. His gravelly voice then cut through the clamor with a chill that froze the room. “In my opinion,” he declared ominously, “the death penalty is too lenient a punishment for him.”
For several agonizing days, Mixwater subjected the captive to an extreme and relentless interrogation, employing every conceivable method of coercion known to the bloodstained history of men like him. His grizzled hands were merciless, and his persistence unyielding, as he directed a barrage of brutal techniques at the bound prisoner. The array of tools and strategies at his disposal seemed limitless, each designed to methodically break a person's will and eradicate their defiance, yet the stubborn captive remained an impenetrable fortress of silence. His toneless, defiant gaze and unwavering lips were sealed against divulging the critical information that Mixwater so desperately sought. The strain of his stoic endurance was evident, but his resolve remained intact as hours bled into days, and the interrogator’s patience wore thin.
In that charged moment, when Mixwater finally tired of the battle of wills and the surrounding sentries buzzed with a frenetic excitement that was as palpable and volatile as a crackling wildfire, a sly, ominous smile crept over one man’s face. His eyes gleamed with malice and a hunger for vengeance as he spoke with vicious intent. “I believe such a sinner should be condemned to serve in the Rose Camp,” he proposed, his cruel words hanging in the air like a death sentence. A collective gasp of awe and anticipation rippled through the room before the soldier continued with a merciless glint in his eye. “Let him sacrifice his precious life and grovel in endless penitence until death itself claims him.”
The onlookers burst into raucous laughter at the damning pronouncement, a symphony of derision and low, mocking whistles echoing around the chamber with a cruel and taunting resonance. The very walls seemed to shake with the force of their sadistic amusement.
“I wonder,” a gleeful female mercenary chimed in, her tone both triumphant and scathing as she watched Blackburn’s situation unfold with relish, “if we should change your name from Quick Draw to Quick Shot. You will be so busy entertaining others, so it would only be a matter of time anyway.” Her words, sharp and dripping with vindication, flayed him with their venom, making it clear that she had long harbored a resentful wish to see the once-celebrated figure brought miserably low.
“Don’t worry,” another Awakened man with thick knotted muscles and arms that testified to countless battles announced with a grim smirk of satisfaction. His voice, laden with the weight of past grudges, recalled numerous encounters in which Blackburn had bested him, and now, with the tables turned, he relished every opportunity to humiliate his former adversary. “We will take care of you.” His dark amusement was as pronounced as his muscular form, and he savored the promise of Blackburn’s suffering, letting it stretch out like a shadow over the restrained man.
Just as he was about to continue his barrage of insults, an icy chill swept over his entire body, freezing him in place. It was as though he had stepped into a realm of frost, his blood crystallizing in his veins. The sudden, bone-chilling cold obliterated his words, stopped them in his throat, and an eerie silence settled over him. A nameless terror bubbled up from the depths of his heart, a feeling so profound and primordial it was as though it had been carved into his very soul. It saturated him, seeped into his marrow, and consumed every fiber of his being with a horror he had never known. His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum, the relentless beats echoing with panic. The faint, methodical ticking of a clock reverberated in his mind, each tick amplifying the sensation of being battered by soul-tearing winds that roared like a fiery tempest. The more he resisted, the more acute the intensity grew, until his thoughts became a maze of confusion and dread. Even the hellish landscape of the Searing Sands paled in comparison to this unseen force that seemed to target him alone.
He had faced countless enemies and had walked on the edge of death more times than he could count, yet never had he felt so small, so helpless, so utterly vulnerable.
In the swirling chaos of the sandstorm, he sensed an ominous presence, an invisible gaze that pierced through the maelstrom from afar.
With just that glance, the oppressive weight intensified, and an Aura, thick with the intent to kill, enveloped him. It was a shroud of malice so potent it nearly choked him with its malevolence. He felt like prey caught in the sights of its natural predator, paralyzed by a fear so raw it shook him to his core. The more he struggled, the more entangled he became in its grip, until it was all he could do to breathe. His bones quaked and his legs threatened to give way beneath him. He was drowning in the sheer force of it, and for the first time in his life, he wanted nothing more than to escape.
The once formidable, muscular Awakened mercenary was now ashen-faced, beads of sweat trickling down his brow like a river. His teeth were clenched so tightly he feared they might shatter, yet this pain was a welcome distraction from what awaited him if he dared to submit. Trembling, he forced his head to rise, his eyes locking onto the figure of the fallen prisoner bound to the torturous rack. The prisoner barely managed to lift his eyelids, casting a dispassionate, almost disdainful glance at his would-be tormentor. Those eyes, once a mundane brown, often derided as mud, now blazed with a crimson intensity. The prisoner's scarlet gaze cut through the bloodied veil that shrouded his face, sharp and cold like a blood-stained blade. It was a look that belied the fact that he had been shackled and subjected to endless torment for days on end.
Every fiber of the mercenary’s being screamed at him to flee, to escape the soul-shaking horror that wrapped around him like a vice. Overwhelmed by a wave of guilt that he struggled to comprehend, the mercenary felt his bravado crumble. Unbearable pressure bore down upon him, and he staggered as the world closed in around him. Unable to reconcile the fearsome presence emanating from the prisoner with the broken figure he had expected, he finally succumbed to his terror. A primal instinct took over, an urge to survive that eclipsed any desire for vengeance or show of strength. Silently, he slunk away from the crowd, his voice stilled, no longer daring to hurl insults from the safety of numbers.
Already away from the grounds, Siomha Sinistra was making her way up the grand stone steps, her footfalls echoing softly in the quiet air. She had left the commotion behind, her attention fixed on the imposing building ahead, when a sudden sensation caught her off-guard. Abruptly, she paused mid-step, as if an unseen force had pulled at the strings of her consciousness. A peculiar awareness, like a ghostly whisper, tugged insistently at the edges of her mind. Her heart jolted with the unexpected dread that seeped into her senses, and she turned slowly, her gaze drawn back with an inexplicable urgency towards the distant figure of the prisoner. She did not see him, not exactly, with the rolling dunes and chaos of the camp between them, but his presence was heavy and undeniable. The eerie sound of mad laughter reverberated through the air, mingling with the indistinct whispers that seemed to swirl around her like a dark mist. The faint ticking of a grandfather clock resonated more prominently, as if acknowledging her sudden awareness of his presence. A shiver ran down her spine as she absorbed the unsettling chorus. She had only seen the prisoner from afar, yet she knew without a doubt that he was the source of this sinister pull, that he was more dangerous than he appeared, and that she was wise to keep her distance.
“That cannot be a good sign,” she murmured under her breath, her voice barely audible over the cacophony, before turning back and continuing her ascent into the looming structure.