Echoed Lands

The tune of the whistle was mocking, its melody sharp and taunting, as though it reveled in toying with him, daring him to continue their twisted game.

In that moment, Colm's exhaustion and pent-up rage boiled over. With a guttural yell, he unleashed his frustration, his voice slicing through the ruins like a blade. The whistle faltered, silenced mid-tune as his shout echoed into the night. Without hesitation, Colm ordered his phantoms to the crater, marching after them with determined steps.

The sight that greeted him brought him up short. Mounds of undead bodies had accumulated in the crater—less than in other areas, but enough to give him pause. The air was again thick with the stench of death, and the unsettling stillness only heightened the tension clawing at his senses.

Pushing past the unease, Colm set to work again, scouring the crater for anything—any clue, any sign of what was behind this madness. Then his gaze caught something unusual. Amidst the piled corpses, dark streaks shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Blood.

Colm watched in stunned silence as the blood from the bodies dripped down and flowed unnaturally across the crater. It moved with purpose, tracing lines etched into the ground, forming a pattern that had gone unnoticed until now. The lines were too precise to be random, the symbol deliberate and ominous.

His breath caught as the realization hit him. It played me. The thought burned in his mind as he watched the grim spectacle unfold. It drew me here, knowing the blood from the horde would trigger something.

As the blood finished filling the symbol, a brilliant flash of light erupted from the crater's center. The air vibrated with the sound of a mechanism clicking into motion, the grinding of stone echoing beneath his feet.

"What the hell was that? How did that even work?!" Colm fumed, his mind racing as he tried to process what he had just witnessed. "There were no lines, no symbols in the crater before—so how did the blood form those shapes? How did the creature know this would happen?" He stared at the scene before him, frustration and disbelief roiling within him, letting the silence take over once more.

And then, cutting through the heavy silence, the whistle returned.

This time, it was accompanied by something far worse—a chilling, cackling laughter that sent shivers racing down Colm's spine.

Colm watched as the seconds stretched on. The glowing symbol etched into the crater's surface faded, and the mechanical clunks and grinding beneath the ground came to a halt. Then, at the center of the crater, an opening appeared—a gaping, dark hole that seemed to descend deep into the ground.

But there was more. Squinting to pierce the darkness, Colm noticed something within the newly revealed hole—stone steps intricately carved into the walls, spiraling downward into the depths.

His heart raced as realization struck. There's a room under the crater and there was something in that room all this time. Something sealed away for who knows how long. Something that lured me here and now it's free.

As the thoughts surged through his mind, the crackling laughter that had mocked him earlier returned, growing sharper and more insidious before melting back into that haunting, taunting whistle. The tune grew louder, each note echoing through the silent ruins like a creeping omen.

Then it stopped—abruptly. The slow, deliberate thunk shattered the silence that followed, a thunk of slow footsteps echoing up from the dark pit.

Colm's breath hitched, his palms clammy against the shaft of his spear. This is like something out of a horror movie. My heart is racing but I'm also kind of interested, he thought, the absurd humor flickering like a faint spark amidst his mounting dread.

Colm remained tense, watching the dark opening in the crater as the moments dragged on. He quickly commanded his phantoms to form a perimeter around the hole in the crater: Lance on one side, Carver on the opposite, and Robin stationed farther back, spectral bow drawn and ready while Colm tensed every muscle in his body, waiting for the inevitable.

The steady thunk, thunk of footfalls echoed louder and louder from the pit, each step amplifying the oppressive tension in the air. Then, suddenly, the footsteps stopped.

Out of the silence came a sharp, piercing whistle—unlike any of the previous ones. This wasn't a taunt. This was an attack. The sound was so sharp it felt like needles stabbing into Colm's skull, making his vision blur and his focus falter. Before he could even process what was happening, two notifications flared in his vision.

Your Phantom Spearman has been destroyed.

Your Phantom Warrior has been destroyed.

"Shit," Colm hissed, his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn't even seen what had happened, let alone how the creature had taken out his phantoms so swiftly. The realization that Spectral Persistence had already run its course before he could react sent a chill down his spine.

Acting on pure instinct, he quickly activated Phantom Warrior and Phantom Spearman in rapid succession, summoning Carver and Lance back into play.

Before Colm could fully regain his composure, a sudden flash of movement caught his eye. A creature burst from the darkness with terrifying speed, landing directly atop Robin.

Robin immediately fell into its faded form from the attack, now powered by Spectral Persistence, releasing a flurry of arrows at the attacker. But the creature moved effortlessly, weaving between the projectiles with unnerving agility.

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Within seconds, another notification flared across Colm's vision.

Your Phantom Archer has been destroyed.

Grunting in frustration, Colm immediately activated Phantom Archer again, the spectral figure materializing beside him alongside the other two phantoms. His breaths came heavy as his eyes darted toward the once charging creature. It stood at a distance now, still and menacing, but its earlier movement had been too fast to track.

Forcing himself to focus, Colm activated Analyze, his eyes narrowing upon reading the window in front of him.

Pitchcaller (Level ??)

Straightening up, he steeled himself, his phantoms silently poised at his side. His eyes locked onto the creature before him, and a shiver ran down his spine. It was truly terrifying.

The creature stood nearly as tall as Colm, close to six feet, its frame draped in tattered, swaying garments that clung like shadows to its form. Thin layers of withered skin stretched over its bones, leaving much of its skeletal structure—especially its ribs—exposed. Long, silver hair cascaded down to its shoulders, unkempt and lifeless, and its fingers ended in elongated, razor-sharp tips that shimmered under the dim light.

What unnerved Colm most were its hollow eye sockets. Though empty, they seemed to track his every movement, locking onto him with an unnatural intensity, as if peering straight into his soul.

The Pitchcaller stood motionless, its presence a silent challenge. It seemed to dare Colm to make the first move, its head tilted slightly as if studying him. The air between them felt thick, charged with an unspoken tension.

Colm held his ground, his phantoms frozen in place, their spectral forms poised but unmoving. No one dared to move—not even Colm. His breaths were shallow, the surrounding stillness oppressive, as if time itself had paused.

An undead creature with intelligence, Colm thought, his mind racing to grasp the absurdity of the situation. It's been toying with me for days, mocking me with that damned whistle. And now it's using some kind of magic sonic attack?

His thoughts spiraled further. How does any of this connect? The ruins, the taunting, and even the name Brimwhistle—what does it all mean?

Just as his thoughts overwhelmed him, Colm noticed a subtle shift in the creature's stance. Something had changed.

The Pitchcaller's mouth curled into a grotesque smirk, the flesh clinging weakly to its face stretching into an expression of cruel amusement. It stepped forward slowly, its bony fingers twitching, the sound of its steps like whispers on the wind.

A haunting, nonchalant whistle emerged from its throat, piercing the silence and filling the air with a taunting melody. The tune twisted and echoed around them, each note wrapping Colm in a suffocating blanket of unease.

It knows, Colm thought, gripping his spear tighter. It knows exactly what it's doing.

As the creature advanced, Robin loosed an arrow with precision, but the sound of a sharp whistle split the air. The arrow veered off course unnaturally, curving away from the creature as though repelled by an unseen force. Meanwhile, Lance and Carver charged headlong into the fray, Robin providing covering fire from the rear.

The Pitchcaller met their charge without hesitation. It twisted past Carver's swing with an uncanny grace, another sharp whistle causing Lance to stagger mid-step and fall short of its strike. Robin then fired a second arrow, but the creature weaved through it effortlessly, its movements fluid, as if it had predicted the attack long before it came.

Carver and Lance pressed the attack, relentless in their strikes, attempting to overwhelm the creature through sheer ferocity. Yet the creature thwarted every blow. With each swing or thrust the creature couldn't dodge, it let out its eerie whistle, redirecting their attacks or forcing them off balance.

Colm watched the scene unfold, unease tightening in his chest. It's not just dodging—it's controlling the fight, he realized. The creature moved with precision, as if toying with its adversaries, and continued its relentless advance toward him, entirely undeterred.

Its movements are incredible, Colm thought as he watched the Pitchcaller effortlessly evade his phantoms' strikes. Its hollow sockets turned and locked onto him with unnerving precision. Shit—it's not even fazed by them. It knows I'm the target.

As if to confirm his fears, the Pitchcaller suddenly broke into a sprint the moment it was out of their reach, heading straight for Colm. The phantoms struggled to keep up, their swings and lunges landing too late to intercept the creature. Within seconds, it had closed the distance, its relentless speed leaving Colm little time to react.

Robin continued to unleash a relentless barrage of arrows at the advancing creature. Yet each time, the Pitchcaller seemed to sense the projectiles coming. With a sharp whistle, the arrows veered off course, twisting unnaturally away from their target.

I don't know how it's doing that, Colm thought. But that's definitely not good.

Gritting his teeth, Colm tensed and adjusted his stance, his mind racing through options. I can summon them back to me at the last second. That might give me an opening.

The Pitchcaller was only a few feet away now, its skeletal grin widening as it prepared to strike. With a grunt, Colm activated his Phantom Warrior ability, summoning Carver between them, and immediately followed with Phantom Spearman, materializing Lance a step behind the creature.

The moment the phantoms appeared, the Pitchcaller lunged. Its speed was blinding, unlike anything Colm had faced before. His stats barely allowed him to keep up as he parried the attack, deflecting the creature's razor-like claws with his spear. He countered with a swing, aiming to strike, but the Pitchcaller whistled again.

This time, Colm didn't just see the effect—he felt it. The air around his spearhead grew unnaturally dense, as though it had struck an invisible wall. The weapon's trajectory shifted, forced to curve around the resistance. What the hell is this? Colm thought, his swing going wide and leaving him vulnerable.

The Pitchcaller wasted no time exploiting the opening, lunging at Colm's exposed side with razor-sharp precision. But before it could land its blow, Carver's blade swung toward its face. The creature ducked beneath the attack, and the distraction gave Lance the opportunity to thrust his spear. The spectral weapon drove into the Pitchcaller's shoulder, a clean hit.

Yet, the creature didn't so much as flinch. It moved forward with relentless purpose, its hollow eye sockets locked on Colm. The Pitchcaller ignored the damage from Lance's spear, pressing on relentlessly toward its singular goal: Colm.