For the village, it wasn't a sudden change.
No flash of light, no single moment where someone could have said: Now it's over.
It began quietly.
Eight days had passed since the four of them had left the village. Eight days in which the nights grew shorter, not because the sun rose earlier, but because sleep refused to come. Eight days in which the curse had clamped down like a beast that had no intention of letting go.
And then, almost imperceptibly, something shifted.
The villagers noticed it first in their own bodies.
The pressure in their chests eased. The constant trembling in their hands vanished. Old wounds that had refused to close for days finally began to heal. Children stopped screaming in their sleep. The elderly sat outside their homes again, as if they had never truly doubted things could return to the way they were meant to be.
And the skeletons…
They stopped coming.
Only a few days earlier, during the group's absence, they had attacked one last time. Uncoordinated, almost desperate, as if something was driving them even as it was already dying. Two barns had been damaged, a stable had burned down. But this time they had retreated. No new attack followed.
Then, on the morning of the eighth day, the curse was gone.
Not broken.
Not defeated.
Just… gone.
The villagers had no words for it. Some said the earth itself had taken a breath. Others whispered about Sanitas, finally severed from its source. Most said nothing at all and were simply grateful to be able to breathe normally again.
When the four stepped out of the cave, the village stood still.
Not in fear.
In disbelief.
The sun hung low, warm, so familiar that it almost hurt. Dust swirled beneath their steps, just as it had back then when they'd left. But now everything looked… smaller. Not unimportant. Just human.
"They're coming…" someone whispered.
Then the silence broke.
Doors were thrown open. Voices called over each other. Some villagers ran forward, others stayed where they were, as if they first had to confirm it was real. The innkeeper dropped a mug. An old man simply sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground.
"The curse…?"
"Is it over?"
"Are you really still alive?"
Alvios stopped, just half a step behind the others. The sunlight stung his eyes, or maybe it was simply exhaustion allowing itself to exist again. He looked at the faces: hope. gratitude. doubt.
"It's over," Nouel said calmly, loud enough for them to hear. "The curse has been lifted."
A murmur spread through the crowd, cautious at first, then growing louder. Viktoria stepped forward, her armor still damaged, the bandage beneath the fabric barely visible but undeniably there.
"You're free," she said. No grand words. No gesture. Just a statement.
It was enough.
They were brought to the village center, almost reverently. Someone fetched water. Someone else brought blankets. Hands wanted to help, but didn't know how. Raiiko allowed it to happen, said nothing, only sat down briefly, back straight, eyes alert.
Alvios lowered himself heavily onto a wooden bench. His body protested immediately, but he ignored it. He looked around. Everything was where it should be. The old linden tree. The well. The blacksmith's workbench.
We really came back, he thought.
And the world is still here.
The wounded were treated first. Viktoria let it happen this time, without protest. The villagers worked in silence, focused, almost ceremonial. Alvios was given fresh water, then soup that was more broth than substance, but warm.
"Supplies are scarce," the village elder explained apologetically. "The curse… it cost us a lot."
Nouel nodded. "Then we hunt."
It wasn't a question.
Viktoria wanted to protest, but the moment she tried to stand, she realized her body wasn't cooperating yet. Alvios tried too, managed exactly two steps before dizziness hit him.
Raiiko looked at both of them for a brief moment. "You stay."
Alvios opened his mouth, then closed it again. He knew when resistance was pointless.
"Nouel," Raiiko said then, calm and even. "You come with me."
The hunt led them to the edge of the forest. The ground was damp, the air clearer than it had been down in the grotto. Nouel moved soundlessly, bow already in hand. Raiiko followed with the composure of a man who doesn't rush because he knows time is working for him.
After a while, Nouel raised his hand.
A wild boar.
Large. Alert. About fifty meters away.
Nouel exhaled once. The wind was good. He drew the string, let the flow of Ventus move through him without forcing it. The arrow released.
The hit was clean. Precise. The animal collapsed without a sound.
Raiiko gave a small nod. Enough acknowledgment.
While they dressed the animal, it stayed quiet for a while. Then Raiiko spoke without looking up.
"The chimera."
Nouel's hand paused. "What about it?"
"You saw how it awakened."
Nouel nodded slowly. "Yes. But I've seen things like that before. Aether disturbances, old creatures—"
"Not like that," Raiiko interrupted calmly.
Nouel looked at him.
Raiiko kept working, voice steady. "The flow reacted. Not chaotic. Not wrong. But… deliberate."
"And?" Nouel asked.
Raiiko was silent for a moment. Then: "Alvios' aetherflow is different."
Nouel frowned. "Different as in… unusual?"
"Different as in not comparable," Raiiko replied. "I'm not saying he's at fault. I'm only saying: the chimera didn't react to him by accident."
Nouel didn't answer. But he listened.
When they returned with the catch, the village was ready.
A simple celebration. No splendor. But real food. Laughter. Relief. They sat together, ate, drank, listened. Stories were told, some exaggerated, some true.
Later, when the fire burned low, the village elder approached them.
"You should report to the Guild of Free Seekers," he said. "The large headquarters… it's in Aeridoris. That's where your mission will be recognized."
Nouel lifted his gaze. "And the reward?"
The old man nodded. "Only through the guild. Those are the rules."
Alvios exchanged a glance with the others.
It was over.
And yet… it was only the beginning.
Morning came without ceremony.
No rooster crow, no bell. Only the quiet crack of wood as someone lit the oven early, and the rustle of fabric as villagers dared to return to work. The village lived again. Not cautiously, not hesitantly, but with that silent determination only people have when they know how close they came to the end.
Alvios sat on the inn's doorstep and stared at his hand.
It was there.
Uninjured.
As if it had never been lost.
He clenched his fingers, released them again. No pain. No pulling. Only a dull unease deep inside him. Not physical. Something else. He shook his head and forced himself to stand.
"If you keep staring at it like that, it might disappear again," Nouel said dryly behind him.
Alvios twisted his mouth into a crooked smile. "I'm just wondering if it actually belongs to me this time."
Nouel didn't answer right away. He stepped beside him, followed his gaze, then said: "You're alive. That's enough for now."
Viktoria joined them, already geared up as far as her injury allowed. She moved more carefully than usual, but her eyes were clearer than they'd been the night before.
"The elder is waiting," she said. "About the guild."
Raiiko stood a little aside, arms crossed. He'd barely slept, you could see it. Not from exhaustion. From vigilance.
They gathered in the village's small meeting room. Not an official place, more like a converted storage building. The village elder stood before them, holding a simple document made of firm paper.
"The Free Seekers," he began, "are more than just an adventurers' guild. They are… a system. Order where there would otherwise be chaos."
He explained calmly, almost like a lecturer, as if he'd spoken these words countless times before.
"The Free Seekers mark every mission with a danger rating," he said. "That classification is based on everything we know: aether activity, known enemies, political significance and how many Seekers are expected not to return."
He paused.
"It's guidance," he added. "Not a guarantee."
His gaze moved over the group.
"At the bottom is D. Low danger. Jobs for newcomers, individuals, simple security work or courier runs. Then comes C, standard missions. Patrols, escorts, local threats. Manageable, but never harmless."
Nouel crossed his arms, listening closely.
"B," the elder continued, "is already demanding. Above-average danger. Good equipment, discipline, and tactical thinking are mandatory. Many Seekers fail here not because the enemy is stronger, but because they get arrogant."
Viktoria gave a small nod.
"A is high risk. Complex dungeons, powerful enemies, or politically sensitive operations. Then comes S, catastrophe level. Massive aether disturbances, escalating conflicts. Returning is possible," he said dryly, "but never expected."
His voice lowered.
"People don't speak publicly about SS and SS+. Existence-level missions. Jobs where failure can change entire regions or the flow itself. They don't appear on public boards. Many end without a report."
He looked directly at Alvios.
"Your mission is classified as B. A demanding assignment. Curse resolution with a confirmed aether anomaly."
Nouel looked at the rating again. "That explains a lot."
The elder gave a quiet snort. "The guild rarely makes mistakes. But they always calculate conservatively."
Then he studied them a moment, more serious now, with the quiet certainty of a man who has had to explain these rules too often.
"Now about titles and ranks. You don't get those for a single heroic deed. From A-missions upward meaning A, S, SS, or even SS+ the guild awards official designations. Names that stick."
A thin smile flickered across his face. "But you don't get there easily."
He tapped the table.
"First, C-missions. Many of them. Then B-missions. Only when the guild sees you deliver consistently not just survive, but work cleanly does it decide whether you're even allowed to take A-level jobs. Quantity and success both matter."
His eyes sharpened.
"Of course, you can aim higher without permission. That's always at your own risk. But then it also means: no protection from the guild. If you fail, you may face lawsuits. Compensation claims. And yes even if you suffered losses."
A heartbeat of silence.
"If you succeed outstandingly," he added almost casually, "there's a bonus. That applies to approved missions and also to those you chose yourselves."
Alvios only listened halfway. His gaze stayed on the pouch the elder lifted now.
He let the coins clink softly.
"One hundred Lumina equal one King's Lumen," the elder said. "With that you buy land, ships, or artifacts. Anything beyond that…" he hesitated, "…isn't meant for ordinary Seekers."
Alvios felt the weight not only in someone's hand, but in the reality of what they had done.
"The reward," the elder said at last, "will be paid out to you in Lumina. But only once you're registered as a guild."
"So," Viktoria said, looking at the others, "we found one."
It wasn't a grand moment. No oath. No ceremony. Just a decision.
Later, on the way to the guild post at the edge of the village a small outpost of the Free Seekers, barely more than a crooked wooden shack with a single counter and an obviously overworked clerk the group paused for a second.
"Group name?" the man asked without looking up, pen already in hand.
A quick exchange of glances. No long thinking. No debate.
"Wayfarers," Alvios said with absolute conviction.
The clerk paused, raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. "Heard stranger."
He wrote the name into the register, pressed a simple seal beneath it, and stamped the document with a dull thud.
"Registered," he muttered. "From now on, officially recognized as a group of the Free Seekers."
The paper was slid across the counter to them.
A name had been set.
And with it, a road none of them knew the destination of.
"Welcome to the Free Seekers," he said flatly. "Your first payout is immediate."
A pouch changed hands. The weight was… comforting. Not rich. But enough to keep moving.
"You can take a new job right away," the man added, sliding a wooden board across the counter. Runes and markings were carved into the dark wood, clear and matter-of-fact.
"Escort mission," he read aloud. "Issued by the Merchants' Guild of Aeridoris, Trivordi branch. Objective: secure escort of a merchant caravan from Trivordi to the small town of Textoria. Travel time: seven days. Route via the southern trade roads, with two planned rest stops."
He tapped a carved symbol.
"Rating: C-rank. Standard escort. Expected threats: bandits, isolated beasts, no confirmed aether anomaly."
Nouel scanned the details in silence. "Sounds manageable," he said eventually.
Raiiko said nothing.
His gaze lingered a moment too long on the classification at the bottom of the board. Not on the route. Not on the pay. On the single letter.
C.
He slowly crossed his arms.
"Seven days," he murmured quietly. "Southern route."
Then he looked up.
"We take the job."
The board was taken back. Another seal of the Free Seekers was pressed onto the document.
None of them said out loud what they were all thinking:
A mission was only as safe as the things you didn't know yet.
They accepted the assignment.
That afternoon they left the village again. This time without fear at their backs. Without a curse over their heads. Only with exhaustion and experience.
The path led them along familiar tracks. Alvios walked slower than usual, but he walked. Step by step. He spoke little. Listened a lot.
When the village disappeared behind them, he looked back once more. Not in doubt. More in respect.
We'll come back, he thought.
Someday.
Far away, beyond the known routes, something else stirred.
At the edge of a dense forest whose name no longer appeared on any current map, a man stood motionless in the damp undergrowth. The ground before him was torn up, tracks running like scars through soil and leaves.
He studied them for a long time.
Not hurried.
Not surprised.
His clothing was not the travel gear of ordinary Seekers. A heavy, pure white coat fell in clean lines over his shoulders. Golden ornaments ran through the fabric, edged in black, as if they lay lightly in aetherfire. Beneath the coat, a polished breastplate gleamed, the crest of Aeridor finely engraved. Even in the dim light at the forest's edge it looked dignified, almost untouched.
Twylmir Fribur straightened slowly.
His hair, deep red like bloodmoon embers, caught what little light there was. His bright orange eyes studied the trail ahead with calm precision, as if he wasn't merely reading tracks, but decisions already made.
"So it is," he murmured.
There was no anger in his voice.
Only confirmation.
He pulled the coat a little tighter, a habitual movement, not from cold. At his left hip rested a sword in a white-blue sheath, fine red lines embedded in it like aether veins. He didn't draw it. Twylmir wasn't the kind of man to reach for steel too quickly.
The path ahead led away from every known route, into regions even experienced Seekers avoided. Forests where things vanished without leaving tracks. Places where names carried weight.
Twylmir began to move.
His steps were calm, deliberate, each breath controlled. He didn't look like a man on a hunt, but like someone who had always known where he needed to go.
"Billy the Ripper," he said softly, almost casually.
The name hung in the air for a moment
and then vanished among the trees.
And so his journey began.