Chapter 148: Tides of Darkness
The Orante Continent was a land dominated by the gods of the Kass Pantheon, their influence stretching across every kingdom, every village, every household. Yet, despite the divine presence, no great advancements in technology had emerged. The gods hoarded knowledge, keeping mortals subservient in faith and stagnation.
In the north, the frigid winds howled through the valleys, carrying with them the weight of yet another brutal winter. Snow as thick as a blanket covered the land, and with it came the inevitable—corpses, frozen stiff in the alleys and streets of Winter City.
Inside the Wild Boar Tavern, the contrast was stark. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, illuminating the gleeful chaos of mercenaries downing ale, while dancers swayed in rhythmic celebration. Laughter and boasting filled the air, a fragile bubble of revelry insulated from the merciless storm beyond.
Outside, the wind shrieked.
Inside, a gruff voice interrupted the merriment.
"Kass be my witness—you all heard, right?" A burly man with a thick beard and a fresh scar slashed across his face leaned in conspiratorially. "The empire's pulling troops from the northern Great Wall of Despair to fight in the south!"
The table erupted with curses.
"The damn Southern Alliance again? Those spineless nobles and their petty squabbles. Let 'em send their own men to die in their useless wars!"
"Aye! The Great Wall's held for centuries! Do those monsters outside look like they care about our politics?"
More laughter followed, fueled by drink and arrogance.
Yet, one man did not laugh.
"Perhaps," came a slow, measured voice, "the Tide of Darkness is coming again."
The speaker was Potbellied Lake—once known as Scud Lake, a seventh-rank warrior feared for his blistering speed, a sixth-rank magician who had danced through lightning. Once, he had commanded the Blood Crow Mercenary Company, a band on the cusp of joining the elite Golden Mercenary Order.
Then, they took on the mission that ended them.
Beyond the Great Wall, they had ventured deep into the wastes, seeking to capture a wyvern cub—a prize coveted by the Duke of the North, whose infamous Dragon Hunting Havok family maintained a fleet of deadly Flying Dragon Knights.
But something went wrong.
Lake returned alone—blind in one eye, limping, broken. He never spoke of what happened. He simply drowned his past in ale and food, his body bloating with each passing year until "Scud" became "Potbellied."
No one pried. Mercenaries knew better than to question a survivor.
At the mention of the Tide of Darkness, the tavern fell into momentary silence.
Because they all knew.
Every few centuries, the Tide of Darkness surged forth from beyond the Wall—legions of monstrous, mindless horrors with glowing crimson eyes, driven by an insatiable hunger for destruction. Every time, they flooded the Orante Continent like a plague.
The Great Wall had stood against them for centuries. The Church had always called upon all nations to unite in defense. But each time, millions perished.
Eight hundred years ago, the North had been its own kingdom. Until the last Tide of Darkness.
Now, it was just another province of the Orante Empire.
Lake's one remaining eye was unfocused, his fingers tracing the rim of his mug. "This time…" he muttered. "Something is different."
But the silence didn't last.
The mercenaries shrugged off the thought, returning to their drinks and their debates about war and refugees. Faith in the Kass Pantheon would protect them. It always had.
"Damn those Southern nobles!" someone spat. "They start wars in winter, then dump refugees on the Church's doorstep."
"Kass above! Even the Church can't save everyone!"
"And the Pope? The Pope doesn't care! The empires fight every year, but none of them ever win."
The conversation quickly devolved into the same bitter grumblings about the nobility, the clergy, and the endless cycle of war.
Yet none of them noticed.
None except Lake.
The heavy wooden doors of the tavern creaked as they were pushed open, a powerful gust of wind and snow spiraling inward. The temperature plummeted, making even the most seasoned mercenaries shudder. Candles flickered violently, struggling against the sudden chill. The dancers, clad in thin silks, instinctively wrapped their arms around themselves.
But the true unease came not from the cold, but from the figure standing in the doorway.
A tall, hooded stranger stepped inside, moving with an eerie stillness.
And then the tavern fell into absolute silence.
Not because the stranger was unfamiliar—such faces were common in a place like this.
But because of his cloak.
Despite the blizzard raging outside, despite the fact that every other soul who had entered had been covered in snow and ice—his cloak was perfectly untouched.
Not a single snowflake clung to the fabric.
The stranger's voice was low, smooth, and commanding.
"The Tide of Darkness?"
He took a step forward. The firelight revealed just a hint of a face beneath the hood—a face that did not belong to any mortal.
"I'm very interested. Tell me more."
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