Scene 50 — "The Monster They Could Not Describe Correctly"
The road east stretched through old woodland and uneven hills for three days before the traveler saw another settlement.
No walls.
No watchtowers.
Just scattered buildings gathered around a river crossing where trade wagons stopped before continuing deeper toward the northern territories.
Smaller than the last town.
Louder too.
Life still moved normally here.
At least on the surface.
The traveler entered near dusk beneath his dark hood while merchants hauled crates through muddy streets and tired horses drank beside the stone bridge cutting through the center of the settlement.
No one stared too long.
No one stepped away from him.
The absence of fear felt strange after the ruined town.
Warm cooking smoke drifted through the air.
Lanterns glowed softly beneath hanging signs.
Somewhere nearby—
people laughed.
The traveler slowed slightly.
Listening.
The sound felt distant to him.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like hearing something remembered from another life.
Rain began lightly before nightfall.
The traveler eventually entered a roadside tavern near the bridge where travelers gathered around weak firelight and cheap drinks after long journeys.
The atmosphere inside felt ordinary.
Messy.
Alive.
A sharp contrast to the silence left behind in the ruined town.
The traveler chose a seat near the corner wall.
Quiet.
Away from attention.
A serving woman approached cautiously.
"You staying the night?"
The traveler nodded once.
"Just food."
She studied him briefly beneath the hood.
Then shrugged.
"Fine by me."
No suspicion.
No fear.
Just another traveler passing through.
For now.
The room smelled of wet cloth, wood smoke, and cheap stew.
Merchants argued near the far tables while exhausted caravan guards played cards beside the hearth.
And near the center of the tavern—
three hunters sat drinking heavily.
The traveler noticed them immediately.
Not because they were loud.
Because the room subtly avoided them.
The same way animals avoided storms before rain arrived.
One hunter leaned back in his chair.
Scar across his throat.
Tired eyes.
"…I'm telling you, the eastern roads are cursed now."
Another hunter snorted.
"You say every road is cursed."
"No," the first replied quietly.
"This one's different."
The traveler listened silently from the corner.
The serving woman placed food in front of him.
Warm bread.
Stew.
He thanked her softly.
She blinked once—
slightly surprised by how calm his voice sounded beneath the hood.
Then left.
Near the hearth, the hunters continued speaking.
The third hunter lowered his drink slowly.
"…You heard the reports?"
The scarred hunter nodded once.
"Town near the southern forest."
At that—
something inside the traveler sharpened slightly.
Not memory.
Attention.
The second hunter frowned.
"What about it?"
Silence lingered for a moment before the scarred hunter answered.
"…Containment unit vanished."
Several nearby merchants quieted slightly at those words.
The tavern atmosphere subtly shifted.
The scarred hunter leaned closer to the table.
"They found the town afterward."
A pause.
"Roads twisted wrong."
Another pause.
"Buildings moved."
One of the merchants muttered uneasily—
"I heard people forgot their own families."
The scarred hunter nodded slowly.
"…Some did."
The traveler remained motionless in the corner.
Listening.
The rain outside strengthened softly.
The second hunter drank heavily before speaking again.
"…You think it was the Abyss?"
The tavern quieted further.
No one liked hearing the word spoken openly.
The scarred hunter stared into his cup.
"…I think something answered the containment call."
A merchant near the fire whispered—
"The Black Smoke?"
Silence spread briefly again.
The traveler looked toward them beneath the hood.
The hunters noticed.
Only slightly.
The scarred hunter exhaled slowly.
"…You know the old stories?"
The merchant shook his head nervously.
The hunter continued anyway.
"Long ago, entire battlefields disappeared during the Hollow Wars."
A pause.
"No corpses."
"No ruins."
"Nothing."
Another hunter muttered quietly—
"They say reality itself rejected the damage afterward."
The traveler listened carefully now.
Not afraid.
Curious.
The scarred hunter lowered his voice.
"There's an old designation hunters stopped using."
The traveler's attention sharpened harder.
The hunter continued.
"…Nihilfire."
The tavern went silent.
Even the rain outside seemed quieter for one strange moment.
The traveler frowned slightly beneath the hood.
The word felt unfamiliar.
And yet—
something about hearing it disturbed the stillness inside him.
Not memory.
A distant pressure.
The scarred hunter noticed the traveler listening now.
"…You ever hear the stories, traveler?"
Several people glanced toward the hooded figure in the corner.
The traveler lifted his gaze slightly.
"…No."
The answer was honest.
The hunter studied him briefly.
Then leaned back again.
"…Good."
A pause.
"Best not to."
Another merchant spoke quietly near the hearth.
"They say the Abyss Lord carried it."
The traveler's eyes shifted toward him.
"Abyss Lord?" he asked.
The tavern atmosphere tightened again immediately.
The scarred hunter stared at him strangely.
"You really never heard the stories?"
The traveler shook his head once.
The hunters exchanged brief glances.
Then the scarred one spoke.
"…Depends which version you hear."
A weak laugh came from another table.
"My grandfather said the Abyss Lord was a god."
Someone else muttered—
"No. Worse."
The traveler remained silent.
Listening carefully now.
The scarred hunter's expression darkened slightly.
"They say entire kingdoms burned trying to stop him."
Another hunter shook his head immediately.
"No fire."
The room quieted further.
Then the hunter corrected softly—
"…That's the problem."
The traveler frowned slightly.
"What happened then?"
The hunter looked directly toward him.
And for one brief second—
something uneasy passed across his face.
"…Nobody remembers clearly."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Wrong.
The traveler lowered his gaze slowly toward the untouched stew in front of him.
Outside—
rain tapped softly against the tavern windows.
And somewhere deep inside him—
something old stirred faintly at the sound of that forgotten name.
Not memory.
Recognition.