“We move fast and quiet,” he said, his voice cutting through the stillness. “The hag’s smart—smarter than most monsters you’ll face. She’ll have traps. Ambushes. Maybe even allies. Stick together, and don’t let her separate us.”
The others nodded, their faces grim but determined. Branna hefted her axe, her knuckles white around the handle. Aedric adjusted the grip on his longsword while Lira gave her spear one last test jab. Ryn checked the tension on his crossbow, his sharp eyes scanning the mist as if the hag might appear at any moment. The Con warriors—Kara, Haldor, and the real Yrla—stood nearby, their expressions cold and focused, their weapons ready.
Sid glanced over his shoulder at me, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Sigvard, you’re staying here.”
“What?” I said, standing up instinctively. “I can help.”
“You’re too low level for this,” Sid said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This isn’t a pack of corrupted wolves or some scorpions. Hags are intelligent monsters. They’re cunning, manipulative, and far deadlier than anything you’ve faced so far. If you try to fight her, you’ll die. Stay here and rest.”
I clenched my fists, frustration burning in my chest. “I’m not useless, Sid. I’ve pulled my weight before—”
“And you will again,” he interrupted, his tone softening slightly. “But not this time. You’re not ready for this fight, and I’m not risking your life. We’ll handle it. Stay at camp, keep watch, and keep yourself alive.”
I wanted to argue, but the weight in his voice stopped me. He wasn’t dismissing me—he was protecting me. As much as I hated it, I knew he was right.
“Fine,” I muttered, sitting back down by the fire. “But if she comes here, don’t expect me to run.”
Sid gave a faint smirk. “Fair enough.” He turned back to the group, his sword resting on his shoulder. “Let’s move.”
The party disappeared into the mist, their forms swallowed by the shadows of the swamp. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the distant rustle of reeds.
I stared at the flames, frustration gnawing at me like a persistent itch. I knew I wasn’t as strong as the others, but I hated feeling useless. I hated sitting here while they went off to fight something that could come after me next.
I opened my character sheet, hoping to distract myself. The transparent screen flickered into view, hovering in front of me like a faint, ghostly light. I glanced over my stats and abilities, the numbers feeling like a small comfort in the face of everything I didn’t understand about this world.
That’s when I saw it.
Name: Sigvard
Class: Shadow
Level: 4
Health: 50/100
Stamina: 30/50
Mana: 0/0
Status Effects: None
Abilities:
- Corruption: You are corrupted by the Darkness.
- Corrupt Weapon: Use your Darkness to conjure a weapon of choice. Warning: Only you can use the weapons.
The word Shadow sat there where Ranger used to be. My heart raced as my eyes locked onto it, the strange, unnatural letters seeming to burn into my mind. My fists clenched instinctively, my breath fogging in the cold night air.
“What… the hell…” I muttered under my breath.
My fingers hovered over the ability Corrupt Weapon, the words glowing faintly on the screen. I didn’t know what it would do—or what it meant—but I needed to know.
I focused, willing it to activate.
At first, nothing happened.
Then I felt it.
A cold sensation started in my chest, spreading outward like icy tendrils creeping through my veins. I gasped, my breath hitching as the chill reached my arm. The fire seemed to dim, the world around me fading into a murky haze.
The sensation moved down my right arm, pooling in my forearm, and then something began to leak from my skin.
Thick, black ink poured from my veins, sliding down my arm in heavy, sluggish streams. It didn’t fall to the ground—it clung to me, twisting and writhing like it was alive. The firelight reflected off its surface, giving it a faint, oily sheen.
“What the hell—” I whispered, staring in horrified awe as the blackness coiled around my hand.
The ink shifted, pulling together and solidifying. It stretched out from my palm, taking shape as it hardened into something solid. It was a sword—not a normal one, but something else entirely.
The hilt formed first, smooth and cold in my grip. The blade followed, long and jagged, its surface glimmering faintly like polished obsidian. It wasn’t metal—it was darker, sharper, and somehow heavier, as though it carried something with it.
The firelight danced across the blade, but the shadows clinging to its surface seemed to devour the light, pulling it inward and swallowing it whole.
I gripped the hilt tightly, my knuckles white against the strange black material. The cold radiating from the sword seeped into my skin, but there was something else beneath it—an odd, buzzing energy that pulsed faintly, like the weapon was alive.
I stared at the sword, my mind reeling. The weight of it in my hand was real, solid, but it felt wrong. Unnatural.
As I held it, the blackness around the blade began to shift, leaking from the edges like faint tendrils of smoke or ink. It didn’t fall to the ground—it just hovered there, clinging to the air like it was a part of the weapon itself.
“Is this… mine?” I whispered, turning the blade slightly. The edges were wickedly sharp, the jagged tip glinting faintly in the flickering firelight.
The moment the thought crossed my mind, a faint whisper echoed at the edge of my hearing.
It wasn’t a voice—it was something deeper. A vibration. A sensation that crawled into my head and settled in my chest, a strange, alien presence that I couldn’t understand but couldn’t ignore.
I shivered, my grip tightening on the hilt. The sword felt like an extension of me, but it also felt like something else entirely.
I couldn’t hold it anymore. The buzzing, the weight, the sheer wrongness of it—I had to let go.
The moment my hand released the hilt, the sword began to dissolve. The obsidian blade cracked and fractured, breaking apart into tiny shards that melted back into black ink. The ink slid down my hand, pooling for a moment on the ground before vanishing completely, leaving no trace that it had ever been there.
I sat back, my hands trembling as I stared at the empty air where the sword had been.
“What’s happening to me?” I muttered, my voice shaking.
The answer was right in front of me—Corruption. That portal, that void I had fallen into… it had left something behind. It had changed me.
I stared at my hands, waiting to see if the ink would return, but nothing happened. My status screen still glowed faintly in front of me, mocking me with its simplicity.
Class: Shadow
Ability: Corruption: You are corrupted by the Darkness.
I closed the screen and let out a slow, shaky breath. Whatever had happened in that portal, it had left its mark on me. And now… I had to figure out what it meant.
I glanced toward the direction Sid and the others had gone, their forms long since lost to the swamp’s mist. I could still hear Sid’s voice in my head: “You’ll die. Stay here and rest.”
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
He had no idea what was happening to me. Hell, I didn’t even know what was happening to me. I tightened my fists, staring into the fire. One thing was clear: I wasn’t a Ranger anymore. I was something else. Something darker. And I wasn’t sure I could control it.
Understood. I’ll aim for a more natural conclusion to the narrative. Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like adjusted! Here’s the revised continuation:
I sat by the fire, staring at my hands long after the sword had dissolved. The black ink that had poured from me was gone, but the chill it left behind lingered in my arm. The whole thing felt impossible—like a bad dream I couldn’t shake. The sword, the tendrils of darkness, the whispers I thought I’d heard… it didn’t feel like something that belonged to me.
The ability Corrupt Weapon wasn’t just a tool. It wasn’t just a skill the System had handed me. It felt alive, and it carried a weight I didn’t fully understand.
I opened my status sheet again, but it told me nothing new. Shadow. That word alone was the explanation for everything the System thought I had become. Ranger was gone, replaced by this… class. The portal hadn’t just taken me into the void. It had marked me.
The sword—if I could even call it that—was the proof. It didn’t feel like the other weapons I’d held, not like my short sword or even the makeshift spear I’d used against the rats. It felt like something pulled from deep inside me. But it wasn’t just me. It was darker than that. It wasn’t just a weapon. It felt like a warning.
The fire crackled softly as I leaned back against the log, exhaustion finally catching up to me. My body still ached from the battle with the scorpions, and my health bar hovered uncomfortably low. Despite the cold, sweat clung to my back, and I couldn’t shake the strange emptiness in my chest.
I stared into the flames, trying to push down the rising tide of questions. Why had the portal done this to me? What did Corruption really mean? Was I like the creatures we’d fought—those wolves, the scorpions, the Beastlord? Was this what they had felt when they turned? And why the hell hadn’t the System listed any effects when I’d checked earlier?
The voices of Sid and the others drifted back into my thoughts. They hadn’t hesitated to cut down the corrupted creatures we’d faced, and they wouldn’t hesitate if I turned into one of them. If I told Sid what was happening, what would he do? Would he still trust me? Would I trust me?
I shook my head, trying to push those thoughts away. For now, I had no answers, and there was nothing I could do about it. All I could do was wait for Sid and the others to return and figure out how to explain this to them.
The swamp remained quiet, the shadows thick and unmoving beyond the light of the fire. Occasionally, I thought I heard faint sounds—footsteps in the distance, whispers carried on the wind—but every time I turned to look, there was nothing there.
For now, the camp was safe. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the swamp was watching. And if it was, it had seen far more of me than I wanted it to.
It was near dawn when I saw their shapes emerge through the mist, shadowy figures dragging themselves back to camp. The fire had burned low, leaving only a faint orange glow to light the clearing, but it was enough to see the state they were in.
Sid came first, his sword resting on his shoulder, though he leaned on it more than he carried it. His cloak was torn and caked with black sludge, and a deep cut ran down the side of his cheek, still bleeding sluggishly. His sharp eyes, always so focused, were dull now, heavy with exhaustion. His armor was scratched and dented, but he still walked with purpose, his head high despite the toll of the fight.
Branna stumbled in next, one of her arms hanging limply at her side. The other clutched her axe, the blade chipped and blackened from whatever the hag had thrown at them. Her blond braid was loose and wild, and her face was streaked with mud and blood, some hers and some not. She muttered curses under her breath as she trudged into the clearing, her boots squelching with every step.
Aedric and Lira followed together, the siblings leaning on each other as they limped back into the camp. Aedric’s longsword was still drawn, the blade jagged and notched from heavy use. His face was pale, his fur cloak torn to shreds, revealing a nasty gash across his ribs. Lira’s spear was gone, replaced by a dagger she gripped tightly in one hand. She favored one leg, her shield dragging uselessly in the other. Both of them looked like they had barely made it back alive.
Ryn brought up the rear, his crossbow slung over his back. His usual quiet confidence had been replaced by a grim, haunted look. His leather armor was scorched along the edges, and his left hand was wrapped in a crude bandage, blood seeping through the fabric. His sharp gray eyes darted around the clearing, as though he expected something to leap out of the shadows even now.
The three Con warriors were with them, but they looked no better. Haldor, the hulking axeman, had lost one of his twin axes, the other hanging loosely in his hand. His beard was matted with blood, and one of his eyes was swollen shut, but he still managed to walk tall. Kara moved silently, her bow strapped to her back, though it looked like she had no arrows left. Her face was tight with pain, and her movements were stiff, her cloak soaked through with mud and filth. Yrla looked the worst of them, her war spear missing entirely. She clutched at a deep wound on her shoulder, her fur armor shredded and barely clinging to her frame.
The group looked like they had been through hell. Their faces were hollow, their movements slow and strained. They carried the weight of the fight with them, and I could see it in their eyes—that haunted, thousand-yard stare that only came from facing something truly horrifying.
Sid stopped at the edge of the clearing, glancing over the camp. His gaze landed on me, sitting by the fire, and for a moment, his expression softened.
“She’s dead,” he said simply, his voice low and rough from exhaustion.
The others collapsed onto whatever surfaces they could find—logs, rocks, or just the cold ground. Branna dropped her axe beside the fire with a heavy thud, sitting down with a groan and rubbing at her injured arm. Aedric and Lira leaned against each other, both too tired to speak. Ryn crouched near the fire, his bandaged hand resting on his knee as he stared blankly into the flames.
I stood, stepping toward Sid. “What happened?” I asked, my voice quieter than I’d intended.
Sid shook his head, his lips tightening. “Hags are always bad, but this one…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “She was different. Stronger. Smarter. She knew we were coming and had the whole swamp working for her. Traps, minions, spells—she threw everything at us.”
“Barely made it out alive,” Branna muttered, her voice heavy with frustration. “Damn witch nearly had us.”
“We killed her, though,” Lira said quietly, her voice tired but firm. “She’s dead. Whatever she was planning, it’s over now.”
Haldor let out a bitter laugh, wincing as it pulled at his injuries. “If that’s what it takes to kill one hag, I don’t want to know what’s behind that damn portal.”
The group fell into silence, the only sound the faint crackle of the fire and the labored breathing of the warriors.
Sid finally turned to me, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “You alright? Nothing came at the camp while we were gone?”
I hesitated, my mind flashing back to the black ink, the sword, and the chilling whispers. For a moment, I thought about telling him—about showing him what had happened. But the words stuck in my throat.
“Nothing,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m fine.”
Sid studied me for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before nodding. “Good. You’re lucky. This fight would’ve been too much for you.”
He moved to sit by the fire, lowering himself onto a log with a grunt. The others followed suit, settling into uneasy rest as they tended to their wounds. The firelight flickered over their battered faces, and I could see the weight of what they had faced lingering in their eyes.
The hag was dead, but whatever she had been guarding, whatever corruption she had been tied to—it wasn’t over. I could feel it in the air, in the way the swamp seemed to hold its breath, as though waiting for something worse to come.
Sid didn’t waste any time. After a long night of tending to wounds and catching what little rest we could manage, he stood by the dying campfire at dawn, his voice sharp and commanding despite the fatigue weighing on all of us.
“All right, listen up,” he called, loud enough to make Branna groan and cover her ears. “We’ve done the job. The hag’s dead, the Con are satisfied, and we’re not sticking around to see what other nightmares this swamp can throw at us. Pack your gear—we’re heading home.”
The announcement was met with nods, grunts of acknowledgment, and the occasional muttered complaint. No one protested. The exhaustion was still fresh on their faces, and the thought of leaving this cursed swamp behind was probably the only thing keeping us all upright.
I didn’t say anything as I started gathering my things. My pack felt heavier than usual, the leather straps digging into my shoulders as I hoisted it up. Around me, the others moved with the same quiet efficiency, rolling up bedrolls, strapping weapons to their backs, and stuffing gear into packs. Branna cursed under her breath when her axe didn’t fit where she wanted it, while Ryn silently strapped his crossbow to the side of one of the wagons.
It all felt… abrupt.
The fight against the hag, the near-death experiences, the sheer weight of everything we’d faced—it was all being packed up and stowed away like it was just another job. Like it didn’t mean anything.
I watched as the representative from the Empire, still looking pristine in his clean, fur-lined cloak, exchanged quiet words with Yrla and the other Con leaders. He wouldn’t be coming with us—his job was to stay behind and keep relations open between the Empire and the Con, to secure treaties and trade routes now that the threat of the hag was gone.
As for us, we were done. Paid in full, our work completed. The Mercenaries Guild didn’t do politics. We killed things, got paid, and moved on.
And that’s exactly what we were doing now.
I climbed into one of the wagons, settling onto a rough wooden bench as the others finished loading up. Sid stood near the front, leaning against the side of the lead wagon as he spoke with Branna and Aedric. Even from here, I could hear the faint jingle of the heavy pouch in his hand—the payment for the hag’s death.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a contract completed, but it felt… different this time. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. Some kind of celebration? Recognition? Relief? But instead, it was business as usual. Just another job.
The wagons creaked as the rest of the group climbed aboard. Branna, her axe strapped to her back, let out a groan as she slumped onto the bench across from me. “Never thought I’d be so happy to leave a place,” she muttered, rubbing her sore arm.
Ryn climbed in next, silent as always, though his eyes seemed even sharper than usual, scanning the treeline as though the hag might come crawling out of her grave to chase us down.
Sid climbed up last, swinging into the driver’s seat at the front of the wagon with practiced ease. “Let’s move,” he called out, snapping the reins. The horses snorted, their breath fogging in the cold air, and the wagons creaked to life.
The clearing faded behind us as the wagons rolled forward, the mist swallowing the golden ring and the remains of our camp.
I sat in silence as the swamp rolled past, the landscape shifting slowly as we left the worst of the corrupted land behind. The dead trees gave way to thinner, sparser forest, and the air grew lighter, less oppressive.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling in my chest. The hollow, unsettled sensation that had been sitting there since we’d killed the hag.
I glanced around the wagon. Branna was leaning back against the side, her eyes closed, her breath steady. Ryn was still scanning the horizon, his bandaged hand resting on his crossbow. Kara and Lira were up ahead in the next wagon, their voices faint as they spoke quietly.
They all looked… fine. Tired, sore, and beaten up, sure, but fine. Like they’d already put the whole thing behind them.
I couldn’t understand it.
We’d fought for our lives. We’d been inches from death. And yet here they were, moving on like it was just another day, just another job.
I leaned back against the rough wood of the wagon, staring at the forest as it passed by. Maybe that was the difference between me and them. They’d done this before—fought, bled, and survived. They knew how to let it go. I didn’t.
Still, as much as it unsettled me, I couldn’t help but feel a faint sense of hope as the swamp finally disappeared behind us. Killing the hag might not have fixed everything, but maybe it had made things better.
I thought about the Con hunters, the families who relied on the forest to survive. Without the hag twisting the land, maybe they’d be safer now. Maybe fewer of them would die in the woods, or wander too far and never come back.
The thought helped. A little.
The wagons rolled on, the distant sounds of the swamp fading behind us. Whatever was coming next, at least we’d left the worst of it behind. For now.