Ancestral Lineage

The war drums had long since fallen silent. The battlefield, once a cacophony of clashing steel and dying screams, was eerily quiet. Too quiet.

Corpses lay scattered across the blood-soaked earth, warriors who had perished in combat—some slashed apart, others reduced to lifeless husks. The scent of iron and decay thickened the air, but for the soldiers still standing, the greatest horror was not the dead.

It was the ones who were missing.

Commander Hadrian paced through the ruined stretch of land where his forces had set up camp just hours ago. He was a hardened man, scars running across his arms and face like battle-earned tattoos. He had survived more wars than most, but this—this silence, this absence of bodies—chilled him to his very core. He was part of the main government of Veryan City.

"Sir, we've lost contact with the eastern flank." A scout rushed to his side, panting. "We sent a runner ten minutes ago. He hasn't returned."

Hadrian exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around the hilt of his longsword. "How many?"

The scout hesitated. "At least two hundred soldiers, sir. They were positioned in the trenches. When we checked, their weapons, their armor—even their damn boots—were still there. But the men were gone."

A ripple of unease spread through the remaining officers. Hadrian felt it too, though he would never voice it. Two hundred warriors didn't just disappear. Even in the bloodiest battles, bodies remained—shredded, burned, broken. But this? It was as if they had been erased from existence.

The wind howled suddenly, whispering through the trees.

Hadrian's blood ran cold.

Something was wrong with the wind.

One of the captains, a burly man named Joren, spat on the ground. "This is sorcery."

"Perhaps." Hadrian scanned the treetops, the shifting grass, the distant battlefield cloaked in shadows. "But sorcery or not, something took them. And it's still out there."

Joren clenched his fists. "What are your orders?"

Hadrian hesitated. For the first time in his life, he didn't know. He had fought monsters, men, and mages, but how did one fight the unknown?

A scream rang out.

Every head turned toward the western barricade. The sentries posted there—five men just moments ago—were gone.

Vanished.

Their weapons clattered to the ground. Their torches lay smoldering in the dirt.

Joren took a step back, panic creeping into his normally fearless expression. "By the gods…"

Hadrian didn't waste another second. "Sound the alarm. Everyone moves now. We regroup at the main encampment. No one goes anywhere alone."

The horns blared. Soldiers scrambled, shouting orders, tightening their ranks. But as the wind picked up again, Hadrian couldn't shake the feeling that it was too late.

The unseen force was hunting them.

And it had no intention of stopping.

Eastern Flank – Midnight...

The torches flickered uneasily, their orange glow barely pushing back the suffocating darkness. The night was cold—not the usual crisp chill of late autumn, but a biting, unnatural cold that crept under armor and gnawed at the bones.

Lieutenant Darion shifted uneasily as he stood atop the wooden watchtower, his fingers tightening around the spear he held. The air felt... wrong.

Hours ago, the eastern trenches had been filled with the murmur of soldiers—grumbling about the cold, muttering about the next battle, sharing quiet jokes over stale rations. Now?

Silence.

Too much silence.

Even the wind had stopped moving.

Darion swallowed, glancing at the camp below. Dozens of men were still awake, but their voices were hushed, their movements tense. They all felt it. Something was out there.

A shout rang through the night, breaking the uneasy stillness.

"Lieutenant!" A soldier sprinted toward the tower, panting heavily. "The scouting party—" His breath hitched. "They're gone."

Darion stiffened. "Gone?"

The soldier nodded, his face pale. "The trench near the eastern cliff. Seventeen men. We sent runners to check on them. Their weapons, their armor—everything is still there. But the men are gone."

Darion's pulse quickened. Seventeen men didn't just vanish. This wasn't a battlefield slaughter—there were no bodies.

He turned sharply. "Sound the alarm. No one moves alone."

But before the order could even be carried out—

A scream.

It came from the farthest edge of the camp, sharp and raw. Every soldier's head snapped toward the sound.

Then—another scream.

Then another.

Darion gritted his teeth, grabbing his sword. "Move! NOW!"

He and a squad of ten rushed toward the source of the screams, their armor clanking, torches in hand. The moment they crossed into the trench lines, the torches flickered—then died.

A soldier cursed. "What the hell—?"

Darkness swallowed them whole.

Darion's grip tightened. "Stay close!" He felt his breath turn shallow, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Something shifted in the dark ahead.

A shape—tall, slender, not human.

Silver eyes blinked in the shadows.

The wind sighed.

Then, before Darion could shout a warning—

The man beside him disappeared.

One moment he was there—sword drawn, breathing heavy—the next, he was gone. No scream. No sound. Just... gone.

Darion froze. "Fall back!"

But then, another soldier vanished.

And another.

The darkness swallowed them whole.

Darion turned to run, but the wind shifted again, curling around him like unseen fingers. The air whispered his name.

He barely had time to understand before—

Everything turned black.

The War Council Tent of Veryan City's Government Forces– Just Before Dawn

Hadrian stood at the center of the war council tent, his jaw clenched. The room was full—captains, strategists, and remaining officers stood tensely, but the silence was unbearable.

Over a hundred men were missing.

No bodies. No blood.

Just... gone.

Hadrian's fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword. "How many?"

A scout hesitated before answering. "One hundred and thirty-two confirmed missing."

The room shifted, unease rolling through the gathered commanders like a wave.

A captain slammed a fist against the wooden table. "This isn't a battle, this is—what the hell is this?!"

No one had an answer.

The losses weren't just numbers on a war report—they were impossible. Entire squads, entire sections of the battlefield, erased as if they had never existed.

Hadrian exhaled sharply, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Tell me about the survivors."

The scout swallowed. "Only three, sir. Two soldiers from the western barricade. And—" He hesitated. "Lieutenant Darion. He was found outside the trenches at dawn. Alive, but..."

Hadrian narrowed his eyes. "But what?"

The scout shifted uncomfortably. "He won't talk. He just—he keeps staring into the distance. Like he's listening to something."

Hadrian felt something cold settle in his chest.

He turned sharply to one of his captains. "Bring him to me. Now."

...

Lieutenant Darion sat motionless in the infirmary tent, his armor discarded, his hands resting on his knees. His eyes—once sharp, filled with fire—were now distant, unfocused.

Hadrian entered, standing in front of him.

"Darion." His voice was firm.

No reaction.

Hadrian exhaled. "Tell me what happened."

Nothing.

Then, after a long pause—Darion's lips parted.

At first, no words came—only a hoarse whisper, barely audible.

Hadrian leaned in. "Speak up, soldier."

Darion blinked slowly. Then, in a hollow voice, he said:

"The wind took them."

Hadrian's blood ran cold.

Darion's gaze flickered toward the entrance of the tent. Then, his voice dropped lower.

"It's still here."

The torches flickered.

Hadrian turned sharply. "Guards, secure the—"

The wind sighed.

And then—Darion was gone.

His clothes remained. His armor rested in place. His body—his very existence—was no longer there.

A whisper crawled through the tent.

"He should not have spoken."

The wind moved again—carrying something with it.

Hadrian drew his sword.

But he already knew—

Steel would not save them.

...

Ethan stood at the edge of the battlefield, his breath slow, measured. The echoes of Seraphis's words still clung to him, lingering like frostbite in his mind.

"You've made me remember."

That alone had shaken her more than anything else. And now… now something far worse had arrived.

The land before him should have been filled with the thunder of war. Clashing steel, battle cries, the screams of the dying. But instead—

There was nothing.

An eerie silence stretched across the valley. No bodies, no weapons left behind. No signs of a struggle.

Just… absence.

Asteria's voice trembled slightly in his mind, uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Ethan… something is here that should not exist."

Ethan inhaled, closing his eyes for a moment. His magic stirred at the edges of his senses—Creation, Blood, Sound, Psychic, Earth, Necromancy, Curse, Alchemy, even his Path, Order. He reached for them, letting them flow through him, searching, feeling.

But there was nothing to feel.

Even death left traces. Souls clung to the air, to the remnants of their broken bodies. But here—there was nothing left to mourn.

And that was what disturbed him most.

Something had erased them.

Not killed. Not destroyed. Erased.

His golden eyes darkened.

The frost had barely left him, the echoes of Seraphis's pain still heavy in his chest, and yet now—now he was faced with something that defied even the system itself.

A gust of wind swept across the battlefield, and for a split second, Ethan felt something watching him.

Not with eyes. Not with presence.

But with the weight of an unknown will.

Slowly, he rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers, his magic crackling faintly in response. His power surged beneath his skin, ready, waiting.

"Alright then," he murmured to the empty battlefield. His voice was quiet, but it carried. "Let's see what you are."

And then he took a step forward—

Into the silence.