Spectral tales

During a full moon night, in a dark forest, a group of five moved surreptitiously while carrying an asleep child. Under the cold, silver light of the full moon, the dense forest loomed like a shadowy maze. Trees, tall and gnarled, clawed at the sky with their twisted branches, while the damp ground beneath their feet muffled their hurried footsteps. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled the air, and the whisper of the wind through the foliage added an eerie undertone to their flight. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, but the group of five pressed forward, their breath visible in the cool night air, as they carried the small girl through the oppressive darkness. A middle-aged man, Bruce, carried her and ran toward the towering outer walls of a city, the other four following closely behind him. As they approached the wall, a young man in the group stepped on a brittle twig, the sharp echoing through the otherwise hushed forest. “Careful,” Bruce whispered, casting a worried glance at the girl cradled in his arms. Her peaceful sleep was disturbed by the noise, and she groggily opened her eyes. She seemed to be around eight years old, standing about 128 cm tall, with dark black hair, blood-red eyes, and a spot-free, doll-like face. Her most striking features, however, were her pale white skin, pointed ears, and sharp canine teeth—classic traits of a vampire. The group of five shared her striking features, all carrying the same pale complexion and sharp eyes that flickered under the moonlight. As the girl gazed out at the forest and the imposing walls before her, confusion clouded her blood-red eyes. “Um, Bruce, is this an undead town entrance?” she asked while staring at the wooden gate held tight against the rocky outer wall. The gate appeared ancient, almost as if it had been swallowed by the surrounding forest. Moss and ivy crawled up the wall’s surface, and strange carvings, worn by time, could still be seen etched into the stone. Bruce, the man carrying her, answered with a sombre nod. He was around forty years old, with brown hair and brick-red eyes, standing at 185 cm tall. His well-built frame carried a certain weight, and his muscles rippled as he adjusted the girl in his arms. “Am I being abandoned?” The girl inquired with a stoic look, her voice calm, though it cut through the silence like a dagger. The question was met with an uncomfortable stillness. The group of five actively avoided her gaze, their faces betraying nothing but guilt. “Why don’t you kill me?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, as if she were genuinely curious about their decision. She knew her life was in danger—that she was a nuisance to her family. Bruce bit his tongue in frustration and looked at her with a troubled gaze, his breath coming out shakily. “Miss Arya, we were ordered by your father to exile you into the undead fields. If we ever hear of your presence in vampire territory again, you will be disposed of immediately.” He closed his eyes as tears threatened to spill, his words heavy with grief. “You will be abandoned in the undead forest. Whether you live or die… that is up to you.” He turned away, trying to hide the tears spilling down his face. “Please don’t show your face to us ever again.” No one moved to comfort him; he didn’t deserve it. The other four members looked at her with pity, but they knew that they had no right to console her. “…Anything else?” Arya’s doll-like face showed no visible emotions. She didn’t seem bothered by the situation in the slightest, which only added to the group’s frustration and guilt. “Nothing,” Bruce replied and began walking away. As they departed, the young man who had initially stepped on the dry twig glanced back at her and bowed his head in shame. “Um, I… We, forgive us,” he managed to stammer before following the others. Arya stared at the group until they were no longer visible, unmoving. She stood alone in the dark forest for a long time, the oppressive silence weighing on her. A single drop of water fell from her eyes. “Why?” she whispered softly to herself, wiping the tear from her lonely face. Inside a large palace, on the third-floor corridor, a middle-aged man with black hair and blood-red eyes stood at 190 cm tall, his slim yet toned build silhouetted against the vast window as he gazed out at the horizon with sorrowful eyes. The grand corridor stretched endlessly behind him, its marble floors reflecting the flickering torchlight. Tapestries depicting ancient victories adorned the stone walls, though they did little to warm the cold draft that whistled through the palace. The scent of stone and dust filled the air, mixing with the lingering melancholy of centuries past. Hearing footsteps, the man turned around. A figure approached—his rival and childhood friend, a man around the same age with blue hair and orange-red eyes. Sirius, standing at 185 cm tall, wore his combat mage uniform, his expression one of quiet frustration as he joined Veld by the window. “When did you become a hypocrite?” Sirius asked, his voice low and biting, as he cast his gaze toward the setting moon. Veld, the king, frowned in confusion. “I don’t know what you mean.” Sirius sighed, his eyes narrowing. “You never cared about her, at least not when she was around. So don’t look like you’re concerned now.” Veld didn’t respond. His reasons for ignoring Arya felt hollow now, flimsy excuses that no longer made sense. “Where is she now?” Sirius inquired, his tone softening just a bit. “Somewhere safe. You don’t need to worry; she won’t die,” Veld answered, though his voice carried both sorrow and a strange relief. “And how are you so sure? What makes you think she won’t commit suicide? She’s tried countless times already,” Sirius pressed, his voice trembling with concern. Veld turned to face him, his gaze somber. “I don’t know. But her last attempt was three years ago. Do you know why?” Sirius raised an eyebrow in confusion. “It’s because of you, Sirius. You taught her about skills. You gave her a reason to live. As long as she has someone like you in her life, I think she’ll be fine.” Sirius sighed. “And who’s going to replace me?” “Arthur. From the undead city of Altraud,” Veld replied with a grin. Sirius massaged his temples. “Do you think she’ll come back for revenge?” Veld shrugged. “No idea. But if she does, I just hope I’ll be her first kill.” “May you rot in hell, Your Majesty,” Sirius muttered, turning to leave. Veld laughed. “Those words could get you executed.” “Yeah, and lead to civil war,” Sirius replied dryly. “Lately, everything I do seems to lead to civil war,” Veld murmured to himself before walking back to his chamber. Sirius lingered a moment longer, gazing at the setting moon. “I hope you don’t become a cold-blooded monster like us,” he whispered, before heading to his post. The outer wall of the Undead city of Altraud. Arya stood in the cold, damp night air, not knowing what to do. The towering outer wall loomed before her, an ominous monument of ancient stone and decay. The wall, weathered and cracked, was covered in thick, black moss that crawled like veins along its surface. The massive wooden gate groaned as the wind pushed against it, strange, twisted symbols etched into the wood glowing faintly in the moonlight. Beyond, the undead city pulsed with a cold, lifeless energy—a place where the living had no place to tread. “How long are you going to just stand there?” Startled by a sudden voice, Arya looked up toward the top of the wall. There, perched like a twisted sentinel, was a skeleton dressed in tattered purple mage robes. Its bones were bleached white and smooth from time, and blue flames flickered incessantly in its hollow eye sockets, casting eerie shadows across its bony face. Despite its grim appearance, the undead skeleton sat with casual grace, watching her with unsettling interest. Arya immediately bit her thumb and drew blood. She pointed her fingers at the skeleton and muttered, . The blood turned into an arrow and shot toward the undead figure, who did not appear even remotely concerned. With a casual swing of its hand, the skeleton created a shockwave strong enough to disperse the arrow and still affect Arya, leaving shallow gashes on her exposed skin and tearing her clothes in several places. “Now it’s my turn. .” A green hue emerged from the undead’s body, shooting toward Arya at a speed far greater than her blood arrow. She attempted to dodge, but the attack hit her arm, turning it into the withered, shriveled arm of a corpse. Frustrated, Arya clenched her teeth and muttered, . Instantly, a red hue enclosed her arm, returning it to its original form within seconds. She looked back toward the wall, ready for another round, only to realize that the skeletal figure was gone. Before she could react, her knees buckled, and she stumbled, her face turning pale from exhaustion. Sweat dripped down her brow as she felt the cold touch of death lingering behind her. “Is that all?” came the undead’s rugged voice from behind her as it pointed its bony hand at her heart. Arya’s breath hitched, and she instinctively knew her life hung by a thread. “Yes, that is all,” she whispered, nodding slightly, bracing for her imminent death. But it never came. “I don’t enjoy killing children. Leave this area before it’s too late,” the undead muttered in the same rugged voice, though it was oddly fluent. Lowering its hand, it began to walk back toward the city gates, but stopped when it heard Arya’s quavering voice. “Help me, please.”