CALAMITY : Legends Of The Chosen

The mist was alive.

It slithered across the dirt like ghostly veins, swallowing roots, rocks, even sound. When the sun finally rose, it did so weakly—more of a pale blur than a dawn, as if the heavens themselves hesitated to shine upon what lay ahead. The Chosen stood just beyond the lip of the final hill, staring into the fog's open mouth.

And there it was.

A village, sunken into the earth like a forgotten memory. Stone buildings huddled against the cold, walls split by age and moisture. Wooden doors sagged on rusty hinges, some ajar as if people had fled mid-step. The trees surrounding it were tall and skeletal, their branches tangled above like a cage.

No birds. No insects. No scent of life.

But still—footprints.

Shojiro took the first cautious step down the sloped trail, boots sinking slightly into mud that hadn't dried in weeks. His senses, trained by blood and death, screamed to turn back. Something about this place twisted the stomach—like the aftertaste of poison that hadn't killed you yet.

"This place… it's too quiet."

Max followed closely, his aura humming faintly. Sparks flickered across his knuckles as he scanned for demonic signatures, but the readings came back… garbled. Blurred, as though even the VYTHRA couldn't properly see through the haze.

"No wind. No birds. No demons. Just... wrongness," he muttered, jaw clenched.

Morgz touched a puddle with his fingertips. The water felt strange—thick, sluggish. "Salinity's all off. Dead water. Nothing lives here."

Karl's visor scanned the area, lines of code running rapid across his HUD. "No active tech... but there's energy. Pulses. Like a failing heart monitor."

They reached the edge of the main path—cobbled stone fractured by roots and old frost. Strange symbols were carved along the sides of doors, barely visible beneath streaks of dried mud and weather stains. Not decorative. Desperate. Etched with trembling hands.

"Warning signs," Enme muttered. Her tone wasn't cocky this time. Her hands were already forming quiet sigils under her breath. "This whole place is warded like a mass grave."

The air thickened. Denser. Like a throat closing around them.

They moved as a unit, scanning each structure, finding nothing—no bodies, no broken furniture, not even insects. But in almost every house, they found the same thing: signs of recent presence. A still-warm bowl of stew. A bed with a dent where someone had lain. A mirror with fresh fingerprints.

And yet, no people.

It was as if the village had been inhabited just hours ago—right up until the moment it saw them coming.

Shojiro stepped inside what looked like a small prayer house, only to freeze in place. On the wall behind the altar, something had been drawn in thick black ink.

A face.

Dozens of faces.

All with eyes sewn shut. All with their mouths stitched closed.

He didn't call the others. He just backed out slowly.

By midday, they had found the largest building near the edge of the village—a manor or estate of some kind, though most of the second floor had collapsed in on itself. The gate was snapped off. Ivy clung to the windows like fingers trying to hold it closed.

Inside, the air smelled of incense and mildew. Light pierced through in narrow shafts, slicing dust like blades. A coat still hung by the door. A kettle sat on a stove. A half-drunk cup of tea on the table. Something about it all felt staged. Like bait.

"This place hasn't been abandoned," Karl said, voice low.

"It's been watched," Enme added, closing the door behind them with a slow, deliberate push.

They picked their spots. Nobody talked much now. The house creaked too often. It groaned like it had lungs.

And then Max saw it.

Through a cracked window, just beyond the square of the village… stood a statue.

No one had noticed it before.

It was… massive. Seven, maybe eight feet tall. Humanoid. Feminine, almost—if femininity could be twisted into something unsettling. Its proportions were wrong. Limbs bent backward. Ribcage over-extended. Spine arched like a scream.

Her eyes were sewn shut with thick, black cords that looked wet. Her mouth, too, stitched dozens of times. But her hands were open—reaching—not in mercy, but in command.

Shojiro stared at it. "What the hell kind of statue is that?"

Max looked uneasy. "That's not sculpture. That's warning. That's trauma."

Karl stepped forward and touched its surface.

"Not stone," he muttered. "Organic alloy. Flesh mimic. This wasn't made by hand."

"Then how did it get here?" Morgz asked.

Silence.

No one had an answer.

And somehow, the mist deepened.

That night, they stayed inside the estate. The fire crackled low. No one dared to sleep deeply. Enme had placed seals on every window, every door. The air was tight with nerves. Something was wrong with this place, but none of them knew what.

Shojiro didn't take his eyes off the window. Max kept his lightning on, low and pulsing. Morgz had created a ring of still water around their base camp inside the house—any disruption, and he'd know. Karl kept his systems scanning, but the data was useless.

Everything felt blurred.

Like a dream you couldn't wake up from.

Like a memory you didn't remember having.

And outside, beyond the fog, in the center of the square…

The statue.

It was still standing.

But now—its fingers had moved.

They pointed toward the manor.

Toward them.

Toward the ones who had arrived. Too late to escape. Too close to understand.

And just hours from midnight.