Echoed Lands

Colm lost track of time as the days blurred together. Moving from one crumbling ruin to the next had become an exhausting, repetitive cycle, each new house offering nothing but more broken stone and decayed remnants of a life long gone. The monotony wore on his spirit, each step through the desolate streets feeling heavier than the last.

He had tried countless times to climb one of the taller trees on the outskirts of the ruins, hoping to get a better view of the landscape, but it was always the same. The cursed forest stretched endlessly in every direction, an unbroken expanse of gnarled trees and shadows. The ruined city was the only fixed point he had, the only piece of reference in a world that seemed determined to swallow him whole. He reminded himself how fortunate he was to have even stumbled across it, though the thought offered little solace now.

Colm had long since lost count of how many undead he'd killed. His phantoms had made quick work of the creatures, their ethereal forms cutting through the endless waves with cold efficiency. Notifications had become a constant blur in his vision, their messages of victory devoid of satisfaction.

As he moved through another collapsed building, a dark thought took root in his mind. He froze mid-step, his gaze drifting over a pile of broken bones scattered in the rubble. Shit, he thought, his chest tightening. Are the undead I'm killing the old inhabitants of this town?

The idea settled over him like a heavy shroud. He imagined the town as it must have once been—full of life, its streets bustling with people, children playing, merchants calling out wares. Now, those same people might be the mindless, rotting creatures he and his phantoms were cutting down without a second thought.

"Damn it," Colm muttered under his breath, gripping his weapon tightly. He glanced at Carver, who stood silently by his side, its spectral presence unwavering. "Does it even matter anymore?" he asked quietly, though he wasn't sure if he expected an answer.

The weight of the thought lingered as he pressed on, but Colm forced himself to focus. What's done is done. If these undead are the town's former inhabitants, then ending them is a mercy. Still, the idea gnawed at the edges of his resolve, making each encounter feel a little heavier, a little more personal.

As the ruins stretched on, Colm felt the enormity of the town's size. He had only scratched the surface, and even after days of searching, he couldn't tell how much remained. "How big was this place?" he muttered, shaking his head. A city this large must have been important once—so why is there nothing left to explain what happened here?

Cutting through the oppressive silence came the accursed whistling once again. It was the same as before—countless times now; it had echoed through the ruins, taunting him. Each time, Colm had chased after the sound, only for it to lead him nowhere.

This time was no different. He sprinted toward the source, frustration fueling his steps. His boot caught on a crumbling piece of stone, sending him tumbling to the ground. The impact jolted through him, but he barely cared. He was tired of being careful, tired of playing it safe.

Once again, the whistle led him back to the center of the city, its sound fading just as he arrived. Days of searching this area had yielded nothing—only the same cruel pattern repeating over and over.

"Damn it!" he shouted, slamming his fist against the ground. "Every time. It's like something is watching me—" He froze mid-sentence, the weight of his words settling heavily in his chest.

Something is watching me.

The realization sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes darted across the ruins, suddenly hyper-aware of every shadow and flicker of moonlight. The whistle—it wasn't random. It wasn't meaningless. It was deliberate. Calculated.

Every time, it brings me back here. And every time it stops just after I arrive, Colm thought, his pulse quickening. He replayed the pattern in his mind; the frustration bubbling anew. But something's changed.

He realized the whistle had become more erratic, its intervals shorter, its sound more frequent. And on the occasions when it had taken him longer to reach the city center, the whistle seemed to stretch on, almost as if…

His breath caught. As if whatever it is, it's waiting for me.

"Is there someone or something else here?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The silence that followed felt suffocating, and for the first time, the whistle's haunting melody seemed less of a nuisance and more of a warning.

Colm wrestled with the decision to stay in the haunted ruins or leave them behind. Fear crept in, a different fear than what he had faced in the Grove. There, at least, he understood his enemy. The challenges had structure, twisted as they were. But here—here there was no form, no logic. Just the unsettling sense that something unseen was mocking him, playing with him.

The cursed forest loomed ominously around him, its eerie silence broken only by the groans of the undead. And now, the realization of the haunting whistle added an additional layer to the dread. What does the whistle have to do with this town? He wondered, his mind racing. What does it have to do with the undead? Are they connected? Is all of this part of some larger game I don't understand?

Pushing through the storm of thoughts, Colm forced himself to breathe. He clenched his fists, resolving to see this through. No matter what it is, I'll find the source. He trusted in his abilities and his phantoms, their presence a comforting reminder of his strength.

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Still, a dark thought lingered at the edge of his mind. Worst-case scenario he shuddered, the idea chilling him to the bone. I die here and become undead.

Shaking his head, Colm banished the thought and tightened his grip on his weapon. He wouldn't let fear dictate his actions. If the whistle held the town's secrets, he would uncover them, regardless of what lay ahead.

Colm had suspended his search of the ruins, shifting his focus entirely to the source of the whistle. This time, he devised a new plan: camping out near the city center. It always stops when I arrive, he reasoned. But what if I'm already there when it starts again?

He spent hours combing through the immediate vicinity of the central crater, searching for any hidden clue—a cellar door, a collapsed tunnel, anything that might explain the sound. Yet no matter how meticulously he explored, there was nothing. The area was as barren as it had always seemed, offering no answers.

The hours dragged on, and frustration mounted. Colm's body ached from the endless walking, his mind from the ceaseless questions. Finally, as the sky began to darken, he considered calling it a day. The thought of portaling back to the Lucent Grove for a safe rest crossed his mind. But then he hesitated. If the whistle comes back while I'm gone, I might miss it, he thought grimly.

Resolving to stay, Colm found a spot near the crater to settle in for the night. Carver stood vigilantly by his side, while Robin and Lance continued their relentless purge of the undead that dared to wander too close. The faint sound of their distant battles was oddly comforting, a reminder of the strength that surrounded him.

Before closing his eyes, Colm opened his notifications to a convenient summary from the system and messages he had been dismissing for days.

18,011 Undead Walkers Defeated. No Experience Gained.

He scrolled through the endless logs of undead slain, his brow furrowing at the staggering volume. Days—weeks—of relentless slaughter by his phantoms had filled the list to overflowing.

"Just how are there so many undead here?" he muttered, his voice laced with unease. The question lingered, heavier than he expected. Is this entire world overrun by the undead?

The thought made his chest tighten, a flicker of hope dimming at the idea of an existence defined by lifeless ruins and unending battles against the cursed. What if there's nothing left? No life, no people—just this.

Colm shook his head, trying to banish the grim thought, but it clung to him, a shadow of doubt he couldn't ignore.

Equally disappointing was the lack of progress in his abilities or skills. Despite the sheer number of undead slain, he hadn't leveled up a single thing. It was as if the System only acknowledged efforts that posed a real challenge, rewarding growth only when he truly struggled.

"Hell," he muttered under his breath, frustration seeping into his voice, "I don't care if I never level up from killing these things. As long as they're gone."

The words felt hollow, but he meant them. The sight of his phantoms cutting through the endless hordes brought a grim satisfaction. Progress or not, every undead destroyed was one less abomination in this cursed world.

Colm's mind raced, thoughts tumbling over one another as he struggled to find clarity. Slowly, exhaustion took hold, and he drifted off to sleep. The constant groans of the undead, once unsettling, had become a grim sort of white noise, fading into the background as the hours slipped by.

As the night crept on, the piercing sound of the whistle jolted Colm awake. His heart raced, but he forced himself to stay perfectly still, fearing that any sudden movement might scare off—or provoke—whatever was making the sound.

His eyes darted around the area, scanning the darkness as he strained to pinpoint the source. He focused intently on the sound, its eerie melody cutting through the stillness, seeming to echo from every direction at once.

After minutes of intently listening to the haunting whistle, Colm honed in on the crater. The sound seemed to resonate from its depths, and if it was hidden, it had to be there.

Determined to test his theory, he sent Carver into the crater. The phantom moved silently, its spectral form gliding effortlessly over the rubble. The whistle didn't waver—it continued, steady. It can't detect Carver, Colm realized, his thoughts racing. It must be sensing me somehow.

With his resolve firm, Colm saw for himself. He'd been in the crater countless times before, sifting through rubble and debris to no avail, but now he was certain something was buried beneath its surface.

As soon as Colm stood, the whistle stopped abruptly, cutting off so sharply it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It knows I played it, he thought, unease curling in his stomach.

Seconds passed, the silence stretching unnaturally as Colm waited, tense and alert. I've never heard it stop suddenly before. It didn't like that I stayed here. His mind churned with possibilities. That gives me some information—it can sense my movements somehow. Maybe it can't see me, but it can hear or feel vibrations.

He glanced at Carver, watching how the phantom moved effortlessly, its gliding steps barely disturbing the ground. That's why it didn't react to Carver. It didn't hear him.

Then, without warning, the whistle started again. This time, it was different—louder, shrill, and grating. The sound was no longer haunting; it was horrifying. A screeching wail tore through the air, echoing across the ruins with a force that seemed to shake the ground itself.

Colm clutched his ears, the noise like a physical assault, sharp and piercing. It reverberated through the ruined town, each wave of sound more unbearable than the last. He staggered, gritting his teeth as the whistle's terrifying shriek clawed at his senses. It's not just a sound—it's an attack, he realized, his resolve hardening despite the agony. And it knows I'm here.

As abruptly as it began, the shrill sound ceased. Colm let his hands drop to his sides, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing. What was that?

But before he could fully process, the silence shattered again—this time by an ungodly screech echoing from deep within the city. Then another. And another. The sound multiplied, countless voices screeching in unison, a cacophony of horror rising all around him.

Colm's eyes widened as the realization hit him like a blow. His breath caught, and a chill ran down his spine. It's calling them. It's calling all the undead in the city to me.