The road toward the third village Mistden grew eerily still as Eryndor and his party advanced.
Thick, pale fog rolled over the ground like a living creature, swallowing the path and making every distant shape look distorted and ghostlike.
Even Gronk, usually unfazed by anything, slowed his steps and grumbled.
Krog gulped. "Master Eryndor… a-are you sure a village is actually inside this fog?"
Eryndor checked Kern's crude, wrinkled map.
"He said the third village sits deep inside a fog-covered basin. Hidden on purpose. Supposedly, only those who know the route can walk straight in."
Elara brushed a hand across the fog. "A clever defense. Outsiders would turn back long before they found anything."
Xaren muttered, "Or they hide because they have terrifying secrets. Fog always means secrets."
Eryndor sighed. "Not everything suspicious is evil."
Xaren tilted his skull. "In the Netherworld? Yes it is."
As they pressed forward, the fog thickened until it felt like walking through wet cotton. They followed the path for almost an hour until the outlines of wooden walls slowly took shape within the fog.
A gate.
Tall, reinforced, silent.
No lanterns.
No voices.
Not even footsteps.
Three thin, weary catfolk stood atop a rickety watchtower behind the fog-shrouded gate, their hollow eyes fixed on Eryndor's cart as they kept their bows aimed on the newcomers.
"State your purpose," one of them called out, voice strained but firm.
Eryndor raised both hands politely and offered Mina's sealed letter.
The gate creaked open, and Eryndor's group stepped inside the third village.
Unlike the starving population, one man stood out immediately—
Lord Tornak.
Tall, buff, thick arms like tree trunks, fur well-groomed, eyes cold and predatory.
He didn't look hungry.
He didn't even look affected.
He looked… indulged.
Tornak snatched the letter from Eryndor, skimmed it, then flashed a sharp grin.
"So you're the courier Mina spoke of."
He clapped a heavy hand on Eryndor's shoulder. "Good. Come. You arrived just in time for something fun."
Eryndor already disliked the tone.
They followed Tornak deeper into the village. Everywhere they looked—hunger, sickness, despair. Rat tribe members were chained, beaten, used like property. Cat tribesfolk lay weakly against walls, bones visible under their fur.
Elara's expression fell.
Krog muttered, "This place… it's worse than the swamp."
Then they reached a crude open arena.
A crowd gathered, whispering eagerly.
Tornak stepped forward proudly.
"I host an entertainment every week. Helps keep morale up."
With a gesture, two fighters were pushed into the dirt arena—thin rat-tribe youths, both trembling. Their size and age were similar, but Eryndor didn't think too deeply about it yet.
Tornak grinned. "Fight."
A guard cracked the whip. The boys hesitated.
Eryndor frowned. "They look terrified. This isn't a duel—this is coercion."
Tornak shrugged. "They're rats. You give them food, they multiply. You give them work, they complain. You make them fight, at least they're useful."
Eryndor felt disgust stir, but he kept silent—for now.
The first boy was shoved into the ring, barefoot, ribs showing through his skin.
He wiped his nose with the back of his wrist, smearing a thin streak of blood across his cheek.
The second boy followed, just as thin, just as terrified.
Tornak grinned widely.
"Begin!"
Neither child wanted to move—but fear pushed them.
The first boy threw the opening punch.
It was weak, sloppy… but it still cracked against the second boy's jaw with a sharp, skin-splitting sound.
Blood sprayed in a thin arc from the boy's lip.
The second boy staggered, then retaliated out of panic.
His fist slammed into the first boy's face, and this time the impact was louder—meat hitting bone.
The boy's nose burst instantly, a red stream running down to his chin.
Krog winced. "Ancestors…"
The children kept swinging, each blow fueled by terror rather than strength.
Their knuckles split open.
Blood dripped to the dirt, dotting the ground like crimson rain.
Every strike made a dull, sickening thud—more like bone hitting bone than any actual fight.
The first boy's legs were shaking violently.
His breathing hitched.
Still, the guards shouted at him to keep going, and the child obeyed, stumbling forward with a desperate cry.
Then the second boy landed a final punch square on his temple.
The sound was wrong—too heavy, too final.
The first boy's eyes rolled back as his legs folded under him.
He collapsed face-first onto the ground with a wet smack.
Blood pooled slowly beneath his cheek.
He didn't get up.
The second boy dropped to his knees beside him, sobbing.
"B-Big bro…? Big bro, get up… please…"
The arena fell silent.
Eryndor felt the breath leave his chest.
Brothers? They… made brothers fight each other?
The surviving boy sobbed, clutching his dead sibling.
The lifeless hand dangled, caked in dust.
Tornak smirked, completely unbothered.
"Hmm. Weaklings. Throw the corpse to the beasts. The survivor gets food tonight."
Eryndor's stomach twisted violently.
His hands tightened into fists.
The cruelty…
The casualness…
The joy in Tornak's eyes…
It made bile rise in his throat.
Elara whispered, "This… this is wrong."
Krog muttered, "Boss… can I punch him? Just once?"
Eryndor didn't speak.
If he opened his mouth, he wasn't sure if he could stop himself.
Without a word, he stepped away from the arena.
He opened his spatial ring and released ten tonnes of food—meat, fruit, vegetables—so the starving could survive at least a little longer.
Villagers cried in gratitude.
Even the chained rat tribes watched with wide, desperate eyes.
Tornak seemed irritated by the generosity, but he said nothing.
Eryndor avoided looking at the arena again.
He was angry—quietly, dangerously angry.
This village was wrong.
Twisted.
Rotten to the core.
All he knew was that he had to get out of this village. Because if he didn't, he might ignite a rebellion of his own, consequences be damned.
And Tornak… Eryndor could only hope that someday someone would return to him the same cruelty he had poured into the world. But justice was a rare visitor in the Netherworld, and men like Tornak often walked free while better souls suffered.