In ancient times, while much of the world remained steeped in barbarism, there lived a man in human form, yet with the mind of a beast.
He wandered the plains of the Fertile Crescent, in harmony with nature, yet untouched by laws, values, or the conscience of civilization.
Over time, the civilized peoples of the region came to call him Vaelish—a name derived from the local tongue, where Vae meant "beast" and Lish meant "man."
Vaelish was the embodiment of savagery: instinctive, relentless, and ignorant of what it meant to be civilized.
Yet Vaelish's fate would be altered by a force beyond his understanding.
A priestess, devoted to an unnamed deity, was given a divine mission: to find him and civilize him.
But faith was not her true motive—it was ambition. She saw in Vaelish a unique opportunity for power and wealth.
She knew that if she could tame this brute, he would become a formidable weapon for her own purposes.
Upon finding him, she realized that kindness alone would not suffice—only manipulation and strength would yield results.
Cold and calculating, she joined forces with Vaelish not out of love, but out of a desire to dominate.
And so, through this alliance, Vaelish began to shed his feral nature, taking his first steps toward rationality.
Under the priestess's guidance, Vaelish conquered a fertile region and subdued its people.
Driven by cruel and selfish desires, he came to see himself as a superior being—believing he held a divine right to shape the fate of mankind, as if he were a god.
But his arrogance did not go unnoticed by the unnamed entity.
As punishment, the priestess died giving birth to their second child.
Her death was not merely a loss—it marked the beginning of an insatiable void.
From then on, Vaelish began to fear death as never before.
The reminder that even the mighty could fall haunted him.
Consumed by this dread, he embarked on an obsessive quest for immortality.
For years he crossed treacherous rivers, climbed desolate mountains, and endured unimaginable trials.
After a decade of wandering, he encountered an immortal being who told him of the Necronomicon—a forbidden grimoire containing the secrets to defy death.
Blinded by the promise of salvation, Vaelish returned to his domain and began studying necromancy.
His first act: to poison the city's waters, exterminating the population—except for his two sons.
Dark rituals followed, culminating in his transformation into a Lich.
Yet in attaining immortality, Vaelish lost what remained of his humanity.
He was no longer beast nor man—he had become a monster.
This transformation deeply scarred his sons:
Graelish, the eldest, was coerced into following the same path when Vaelish kidnapped his wife.
Raelish, the youngest, embraced necromancy willingly, eager to attain ultimate power and please his father.
Later, Vaelish murdered Graelish's wife and reanimated her as a mere zombie.
With Raelish's help, he cast a powerful illusion, tricking Graelish into believing she was still alive.
Then, an inexplicable phenomenon transported them to an unknown plane of existence.
Obedient to his father, Raelish went to explore the new world and, in a distant village, found a young woman who looked exactly like Graelish's deceased wife.
Fascinated by the coincidence, he kidnapped her to continue the deception.
But she was no mere peasant—she was the daughter of a powerful feudal lord.
Upon learning of the abduction, the lord flew into a rage and demanded her immediate rescue.
His vassals, fearing his wrath, launched a military-scale operation to retrieve her.
Despair hung over the fief, until an old man spoke up. Without explanation, he claimed to know a solution.
The next morning, around a hundred men gathered.
The old man assembled them in silence, a grave look on his face, and asked them to rescue the feudal lord's daughter.
Elias had an idea. The fire, though weaker now, was still burning through the underbrush. Thinking quickly, he realized: if the Wanderers had been summoned, maybe they could be destroyed with fire. It was time to make necessity a weapon.
"Art, control the fire! I'll get more wood!" Elias shouted, running.
Art simply nodded, his eyes locked on the flames. Focusing, he began manipulating the fire, trying to form a barrier around them.
Meanwhile, Elias gathered sticks and scattered them across the ground to feed the blaze.
Suddenly, Art opened the panel and conjured oil, pouring it onto the terrain in swift motions.
"Wait a second… You had oil this whole time? And didn't tell me?" Elias asked, surprised and breathless.
Art didn't respond right away. He frowned and stared at the panel, confused.
"I'm feeling… a weird tingling."
He blinked, then his eyes widened.
"Elias… did you give me an aphrodisiac?!"
Elias froze for a moment, staring at his friend in confusion.
"What? Of course not! Focus! We need to get out of here!"
Without waiting for an answer, Elias changed direction, cutting through the trees and avoiding the clearing.
Art followed, still grumbling, but alert.
The forest ahead grew denser, and gradually, silence took over. As they began to relax, they realized they'd gone too far—too close to the heart of the fief.
The clearing before them was different. The ground was soaked and dark, almost swamp-like, but there was something more.
A heavy, oppressive feeling hung in the air, as if ancient laments echoed silently among the twisted branches. A macabre unease settled over them.
"Let's stay as quiet as possible," Elias whispered. "If we run into another skeleton… or worse, an illusion… we're screwed."
They advanced slowly, listening for the faintest sound. Then they saw it.
In the center of the clearing, crouched over the ground, was a creature unlike anything they'd faced before.
Elias activated his diagnostic ability. On the panel, a name appeared in bold:
"Ghoul"
A demonic, humanoid monster. It dwells in graveyards or places tainted by death and miasma.
Feeds on human flesh.
Elias signaled silently, pointing for Art to flank right while he moved left. The plan was simple: catch it from behind and strike fast.
With a faint ethereal glow, a spear materialized in Elias's hand from the panel.
He took position, raised the weapon with mechanical precision, and in one swift, clean motion, drove the blade into the ghoul's neck.
[Ghoul has been eliminated.] +70 XP
He was getting used to the rhythm of combat. Most enemies—zombies and similar creatures—fell easily, as long as he was quick and precise.
Nothing felt truly challenging, aside from the need to stay alert and avoid fatal mistakes.
Elias wasn't reckless, but he could feel it—he was starting to relax too much.
As if the world around him no longer posed a real threat.
That kind of thinking was dangerous, and he knew it.
So when he recognized the thought, he forced himself back into vigilance. Overconfidence was the first step toward death.
He approached the ghoul's body, plunged the spear's tip into the ground, and crouched. Using the blade, he turned the body over to see its face.
The creature bore human features, but twisted by corruption.
Its skin was waxy-pale, stretched tight over sharp bones.
Its eyes were sunken and glowed with a dull green—remnants of spiritual poison that gave them a glassy look.
Its mouth, gaping even in death, was full of elongated, yellowed teeth, some broken—as if it had bitten down on hard things for far too long.
Old scars crisscrossed its face in swollen, uneven lines, signs of past torment—perhaps battle, perhaps torture.
And despite all this, one thing was more disturbing than the rest: around its shriveled neck was a worn cloth necklace, clinging tightly, as if a fragment of humanity still resisted within the monstrosity.
Elias stayed silent for a few moments. Then he stood, wiped the blade on the damp earth, and moved on.
"Got any ideas?" he asked in a low but tense voice. "We're walking blind. Easy targets."
Art's face was flushed as he frowned.
"Actually, yeah... How about we find a safe spot to set up camp? I need food, rest… and, well, a bit of relief too, if you get my drift."
Elias nodded without flinching.
"Just don't make noise… or a mess," he muttered.
Art huffed, embarrassed, and picked up the pace. Elias smirked slightly and followed.
The forest seemed less threatening in that stretch.
With no signs of ghouls or monsters, they used the lull to search for shelter. Then Elias spotted something.
"There. A cabin," he whispered, pointing to a rustic structure among the trees, near a clearing.
"Looks suspicious… But might be worth the risk. Could be good cover."
Art nodded and approached cautiously.
At the door, he clapped twice, trying to provoke a response—better to know what's inside now than be surprised later.
Sure enough, something moved in the dark.
They stepped back instinctively, weapons drawn. A bony, thin silhouette appeared in the doorway.
Seconds later, a skeleton staggered into view, hollow eyes and arms raised.
"Oh, great…" muttered Art, raising his sword.
The creature growled and charged him. Art's blade clashed with its claws, but the force drove him back.
"Too heavy! A little help here, Elias!"
Elias didn't hesitate. Spear in hand, he slipped behind the skeleton and struck its head, aiming for the skull.
But the creature resisted and, with a brutal swing, hurled Art to the ground.
Elias spun the spear and struck the skeleton's ribs, knocking it off balance.
The creature collapsed, bones rattling.
"Now!" Elias shouted.
Art staggered up and landed a precise blow, shattering the skull beneath his blade.
Panting, he muttered, "These skeletons… tougher than they look."
Without replying, Elias pushed the cabin door open.
Inside, it was dusty, cobwebbed, the floor littered with dry leaves—but it was better than the cold, damp forest.
"This'll do. We'll stay the night here," he said, sitting in a corner. "Art, you're cooking."
"Again?" Art grumbled. "One day you'll cook…"
As night fell, the small wooden cabin offered a rare moment of peace.
The fire crackled faintly in the makeshift hearth Art had assembled, and a questionable smell rose from a rusty pot.
Elias watched from the corner, hands behind his head.
"That soup, potion, or poison?" he asked dryly.
Art, spoon in hand, feigned offense.
"I've got French blood, pal. And for your information, this is root-and-mushroom stew."
"Well… gourmet. If we had some salt, it'd be fit for a king."
"If we die after eating this, I swear I'll haunt you."
"Relax. I'm used to being cursed by my cooking."
They chuckled briefly, the exhaustion finally beginning to lift.
Art served them both and they sat by the fire, blowing on the steaming broth.
Elias tasted a spoonful and grimaced.
"This… this tastes like a fermented wet sock from a swamp."
"See? You're developing a refined palate," Art said, mock-proud.
"This is horror. Culinary horror."
"You'll see. When we get out of here, I'll open a tavern. Art's Root Stew. Dish of the day: food trauma."
"Good luck. Just hope all your customers are zombies."
They laughed again, the weight of the forest and its monsters fading—at least for now.
Outside, the mist still crawled through the trees.
But inside, around the dim flame and a suspicious stew, they allowed themselves to forget—if only for a moment—the dark world beyond.