The wheat rustled softly under the morning breeze. Thin stalks danced like golden waves across the horizon. To the eyes of a simple farmer, it was a peaceful sight.
To Kael, it was a prison wrapped in sunlight.
He sat beneath a withered oak at the edge of the field, watching villagers toil. Men with sunburnt skin and cracked hands swung rusty scythes, while women carried baskets lined with rotting cloth. Their children — some his age, others younger — chased rats for sport, barefoot and coughing.
This was Elmsfall.
A village forgotten by the Empire, unshielded by nobles, unblessed by clerics. But it was not the poverty that disturbed Kael — it was the silence. No birds. No insects. Even the wind felt off, like something was listening.
> "Magic once lived in the roots of this land," Kael murmured. "Now it's just… hollow."
He extended his hand, index and middle fingers touching the soil. He closed his eyes, reaching deep — not for spellcraft, but for the **pulse** of the world. Essence. Life.
A throb. Weak. Faint. But there.
Beneath the village, something old slept. Foul and forgotten. And it was leaking — slowly — poisoning the fields above.
> "Rot in the leyline," he muttered. "No wonder the crops fail."
Footsteps approached. Kael didn't turn.
"Boy," said a gravelly voice behind him. "Your da's looking for you."
It was Goran, the village watchman. One eye, one arm, and one leg shorter than the other — a relic of some long-forgotten militia. He spat beside Kael and sniffed.
"You're not playing with the others?" Goran asked. "Bit odd, sitting alone, talking to dirt."
Kael gave him a slow glance. "The dirt's more intelligent."
Goran squinted. "Watch your tongue, lad. Keep acting strange, and the priest'll say you're hexed."
> Hexed.
The word hung in the air like a bad omen.
Kael stood. "Better a hex than blind."
He left the stunned man behind and walked toward the village's edge — where the wheat gave way to forest. He needed answers. And if his instincts were right, he knew where to find them.
---
The cave was shallow and hidden, carved beneath the roots of an old ironwood tree. The entrance was barely visible behind thick vines. It reeked of decay.
Kael stepped inside without hesitation. His hand glowed faintly — a flame hovering just above his palm. Not conjured by spellform, but by will. A trick from his past life, half-remembered, half-forged anew.
> *Only low-tier spells. The core is too weak.*
> *But it will grow. Slowly.*
The deeper he went, the colder it became.
The walls shimmered faintly with black moss. Sigils — ancient, cracked — pulsed once as he passed. Warding runes. He recognized the language.
> *Pre-Empyreal. Forgotten even before my fall.*
> *Why are they here?*
Then he saw it.
At the heart of the cave stood a **stone obelisk**, cracked and oozing a black, tar-like substance. Symbols ran down its sides — faded, broken, and humming with corrupted essence.
Kael's heart raced.
> "This… is not natural magic."
> "This is… tethered."
The obelisk was **not feeding** on the land — it was **anchoring** something far worse.
Suddenly, the ground trembled. A whisper coiled through the air — no words, just a feeling: hunger.
Kael's flame flickered. He stepped back.
Then he heard it — a **voice** inside his mind.
> "You are not of this time..."
Kael clenched his fist. The flame surged.
"I am what you feared in the last," he growled, eyes glowing faintly.
"And what you will never consume again."