---
The forest gave way to frost-choked hills, and from the peak of one, Paul saw it — a village tucked beneath the shadow of an old, crumbling wall. Smoke curled from chimneys. Lanterns flickered orange in the misty dusk.
But something felt... wrong.
He descended slowly, cloak billowing like smoke. His boots left no prints in the snow.
As he approached the gate, he noticed no guards. No dogs barking. No children playing.
Only silence.
Paul stepped through the crooked wooden archway and into the heart of the village. It was quiet, too quiet. Doors were shut. Windows boarded. Even the birds seemed to avoid this place.
A sign above the well read:
> "Gravefield"
The name sparked a twinge in his memory — not from his current life, but from some tale in the dreamlike chaos that came after death but before rebirth. A story about a village where no one could remember the dead. Where names faded from tombstones. Where graves sank empty.
As Paul walked deeper in, whispers began.
Behind shutters.
Behind cracks.
Behind the veil.
> "Is it him?"
"The white-haired one..."
"They said he died centuries ago…"
Paul turned toward a tavern — its door half-open. Warm light spilled from it, cutting through the mist.
He stepped inside.
It was full.
Yet… silent.
Villagers stared into mugs. Old men sat frozen in place. No one spoke. No one moved.
Until she did.
A young woman with tangled hair and red-rimmed eyes stood up from a corner table. She pointed a trembling hand at him.
> "You… you shouldn't be here."
Paul tilted his head. "Why?"
> "Because this is where they bury legends…
And forget them."
She stepped forward, face hardening.
> "And we don't bury them twice."
---
Suddenly, the tavern door slammed shut behind him. Every villager stood. Not with fear.
But with purpose.
Paul's eyes narrowed. The air shifted.
Illusion magic.
They weren't villagers.
Each face began to peel — morphing into hollow masks of bone and stitched leather. Souls without identity.
The Forgotten Cult.
A voice echoed from the ceiling beams.
> "You were supposed to stay dead, Pale One."
> "But since you insist on existing..."
The floor cracked beneath Paul.
From the cellar below, something crawled up.
Not undead.
Not demon.
Not man.
A Grave-Eater. An ancient wormlike beast made of bones, dirt, and memory — drawn to those who should not exist.
Paul looked at it calmly.
Then he opened his palm.
A blast of elemental magic — frost, fire, lightning — surged out in a spiral, splitting the floor, freezing the worm mid-roar.
He stepped forward as the tavern collapsed behind him.
> "Forget me if you want," he said.
"But I don't forget what I am."
And then he raised both hands — and ripped the Grave-Eater apart on a molecular level, the cult screaming as their illusion shattered like glass around them.
---
When the dust settled, the real village stood — empty. Dead for decades.
Only one person remained: the girl with red eyes.
She hadn't run.
Paul turned to her.
> "What's your name?"
She hesitated.
> "...Lyra."
Paul gave a rare smile.
> "Then I'll remember it."
---
[End of Chapter Four]