Yhera let out a long yawn, covering her mouth with her hand. Her tired eyes held the weight of exhaustion that had been building long before the rain began to fall.
"You must be really tired, hmm?" Hiori said, turning to her with a soft smile.
Yhera nodded slowly. "Yeah… I don't know why, but this place makes me feel… a little at peace."
Hiori stood up and jingled a room key in her hand. "Come sleep with me. I already rented a room here. It's not big, but it's comfortable enough."
Yhera hesitated for a moment, then gave a shy smile and nodded. "Alright…"
"Wait, what about me?" Barnard chimed in with half a protest, still holding his half-finished beer.
Hiori grinned and casually tossed another key his way. Clink! The key landed perfectly in Barnard's hand, caught by instinct.
"Relax. I already got a room for you too," she said.
Barnard looked at the key for a moment, then let out a small smile. "Heh… Thanks, Hiori." He leaned back in his chair, propping one foot up on the table like he was back in his comfort zone.
"You're not going to sleep?" Hiori asked as she gently took Yhera's hand and led her toward the inn's staircase.
"Later," Barnard replied, his voice heavy with drowsiness. "You two go ahead… I still want to enjoy the night… and this last beer."
Hiori glanced back at him from the steps. "Don't get so drunk you forget where your room is…"
"Hah! I forgot before I even ordered the beer!" he called back with a chuckle.
Yhera giggled softly, then followed Hiori upstairs. That night, with rain still pouring outside the windows and the warm glow of lanterns lighting the old inn, felt like a brief, peaceful pause—
a moment of calm before the greater storm that waited to return to their world.
Barnard stared toward the staircase, waiting until Hiori and Yhera's silhouettes completely vanished beyond the upper floor. Silence slowly returned to the tavern, broken only by the steady tapping of rain on the roof and old wooden windows.
"Alright…" he murmured under his breath.
He pushed his chair back, rising slowly so as not to make a sound, and swept his gaze across the room. At a glance, everything seemed normal. An elderly barmaid was cleaning glasses. Two hooded men sat quietly in the corner—too quietly. And the scent of firewood mixed with the damp night air hung heavy.
But Barnard's instincts—old instincts from darker days of war—told him otherwise.
"I'll never trust a tavern like this…" he muttered to himself. He slipped a small knife into his belt, just in case. "This village appeared out of nowhere. Not on any map, not mentioned by the folks in Winak… and the air—too cold for this season."
He stepped slowly toward the bar. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said politely, though his tone was edged with caution. "May I ask… what's the name of this village?"
The old woman smiled. Too fast. Too wide.
"Oh… this place? We call it Dusamra. The Village of Mist. But not many come here… and even fewer ever leave."
Barnard narrowed his eyes. Even fewer ever leave?
"I see…" he replied slowly, then turned and returned to his seat. But this time, his eyes never stopped moving—watching every shift, every shadow, every suspicious glance.
Tonight, he wouldn't sleep.
Tonight, Barnard knew—there was something very wrong behind the rain, the mist…
and the false smiles of this village.
"Well then… thanks," Barnard said shortly, giving a small nod.
His heavy steps carried his aging body toward the tavern door. The sound of his boots thudded softly against the old wooden floor, each creak echoing faintly. The night air greeted him as he opened the door—cold, damp, and thick with an ever-growing fog.
The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and silence fell once more over the room.
The barmaid, who just moments ago had worn a warm smile, still stood behind the counter. But now, that smile slowly faded—replaced by a grin far too wide, far too unnatural for a human face. She lowered her head… and began biting the blackened edge of her fingernail.
"So… naive…" she whispered, her voice hoarse and dripping with dreadful delight.
"He… he…"
Her nails grew longer, curling into sharp claws. The skin on her hands began to split, as though something beneath was trying to force its way out of her flesh. Her eyes rolled white for a moment before returning to normal, sweeping the now-empty room.
"Two young guests, one old dwarf… three foreign scents in the wet night…" she muttered like a spell. "Fresh blood, fear, and… fate still unripe…"
She chuckled softly, the sound like claws dragging across wood.
"Let's hope they don't realize too soon. Because once the Night Ritual begins… no one leaves Dusamra alive."
Barnard walked along the cobbled path of the village, wrapped in a thin veil of mist and steady drizzle. Oil lamps still flickered faintly in a few houses, but there were no sounds—no children laughing, no voices from within. It was too quiet… even for a small village.
He pulled up the collar of his cloak, eyes sharp as they scanned every shadowed corner.
"A village this small… but it has a tavern that big?" he muttered under his breath. "And the waitress… she's no ordinary human. I'm sure of it."
His steps brought him to an old, dusty wooden sign that read:
> "Dusamra – Village of Eternal Blessing."
He spat on the ground.
"Blessing, my ass."
Barnard made his way toward an old building near a weathered chapel, overgrown with moss and vines. The front door wasn't locked. He slipped inside quietly.
A wave of burnt wax and mold greeted him. He struck a small flint stone in his hand, casting dim light as he moved toward a crumbling bookshelf.
"What the hell…?"
He found a tattered book left open, its pages yellowed and brittle. The chapter heading read: Ritus Carnis.
> "In the name of Sacred Flesh and Redeeming Blood, we offer the innermost parts of our bodies as sacrifice to Deus Carnis…"
Barnard flipped through a few more pages. His eyes widened.
"Three outsider souls. One of mixed blood. One pure. One chosen. When the moon falls upon the blackened circle, the rite shall begin…"
"Three souls?" he whispered. Me… Hiori… and that girl, Yhera?
He shut the book quickly, his breathing growing heavier.
Suddenly—CRAAAK.
The floorboards creaked above him.
Someone was upstairs.
Barnard extinguished the flint and slowly backed toward the door, inhaling deeply.
"This isn't just a village…" he whispered.
"This is a den of flesh-worshippers.
And we've already stepped too far inside."
"I need to warn Yhera and Hiori about this..." Barnard muttered softly, his sharp eyes scanning every dark corner of the village—now growing unnervingly quiet. Too quiet.
But just as he was about to step out from the narrow alley beside the tavern, a dark figure moved into his path, blocking the way. The sound of metal boots echoed heavily on the damp ground.
"Not so fast, Mister Dwarf," the figure said with a sly, controlled tone. His eyes glowed a faint crimson, and his clothing resembled ritual garb—stitched with strange symbols like webs of flesh and eyes peering from behind the fabric.
Barnard furrowed his brow. His left hand instinctively brushed against the belt where his small warhammer usually rested.
"Heh... I don't like your tone. And I especially don't like people standing in my damn way."
"But aren't you being a bit reckless?" the man replied, stepping closer. "Coming to our sacred village, disturbing the order, even digging up truths buried in blood..."
Barnard didn't step back. He stood taller.
"Sacred? Hah. This village reeks like a giant slaughterhouse. You lot… you're the Flesh Cult, aren't you? I thought your kind died out centuries ago."
"You know too much for someone who's supposed to be just a wandering old man."
The voice dropped lower, nearly a whisper—like something crawling out from a cave.
Barnard narrowed his eyes, then smirked coldly.
"I didn't expect this… Year 478 P.H.W, and your stinking cult's still breathing. You know, you all should've stayed buried with your rotten Flesh God… but I guess the stench of carrion's harder to kill than I thought."
The figure chuckled darkly.
"We were never dead. We only waited… for the right flesh to be offered. And tonight, your companions… are perfect for the purification rite."
Barnard clenched his jaw. The tension thickened, the cold night air now felt like it was being strangled by something unseen.
"In that case," he growled, slowly drawing the small hammer from beneath his cloak,
"You'll have to get through me first, you corpse-worshipping bastard."