Eternal Realm: Shadows and Radiance

Volume One: “Omen of Fate”

Chapter 4: First Dark Attack

The darkness this night clamped down, not as the gentle embrace of peaceful slumber, but as a thick, suffocating blanket that relentlessly pressed down upon Oakhaven, deliberately muting the already faint, fragile sounds of the isolated frontier town. The wind, for once, had strangely subsided, finally ceasing its mournful howl, leaving an unnerving, oppressive stillness in its wake, a silence that felt heavy, pregnant with unspoken, unseen threats that lurked just beyond the lamplight. The moon, a mere sliver of cold bone hanging precariously in the vast, inky sky, reluctantly offered scant, inadequate illumination, desperately casting long, distorted shadows that danced and writhed with the erratic, flickering flames of the few remaining oil lamps that stubbornly fought valiantly against the encroaching, all-consuming night.

The Crooked Tankard, as always, still stubbornly pulsed weakly with a desperate semblance of fading life, a defiant, flickering beacon of dwindling warmth and forced revelry defiantly poking holes in the oppressive darkness. Forced laughter still rumbled gutturally from deep within its rough-hewn timbered walls, intermittently punctuated by the occasional forced, raucous shout and the jarring clatter of tankards banging clumsily against the scarred, rough-hewn tables. A scattered few late stragglers still reluctantly lingered hesitantly outside, huddled in small, shivering groups, their voices deliberately low and nervously murmuring, their visible breath fogging visibly in the biting chill air as they shared final, desperate drags of cheap pipeweed and reluctant, last sips of watered-down ale before finally, reluctantly retreating to the dubious warmth of their own meager hearths.

Elvin sat rigidly perched on the very edge of the rough-hewn oak bench outside his family’s small dwelling, the reassuring Dawn Stone nestled warmly and reassuringly in the deep pocket of his worn tunic, a comforting weight against his thigh. He stared intently, unblinking, into the oppressive darkness, his sharp eyes scanning, relentlessly searching, the deep shadows seeming to actively writhe and menacingly coalesce into grotesque, threatening shapes in the very periphery of his heightened vision. Since the impossible celestial display and the stone’s unsettling awakening, his senses inexplicably felt unnaturally heightened, painfully sharpened to an almost unbearable degree of sensitivity. He distinctly heard things he had never consciously heard before in his life, the almost inaudible rustle of dry leaves on distant trees, the frantic skittering of unseen, nocturnal creatures in the dense undergrowth, the faint, rhythmic creak of the ancient, overworked windmill laboring on the distant outskirts of town. He keenly smelled things much sharper too, the faint, acrid woodsmoke drifting from distant chimneys, the damp, earthy scent of cold, wet soil, the faint, metallic tang of drying blood carried on the almost non-existent breeze from the butcher’s yard, stubbornly lingering even long after the fall of night. He frowned, wrinkled his nose, inhaled deeply, tasted the metallic tang on his tongue.

He shifted restlessly, uncomfortably on the hard bench, his nervous hand instinctively stroking the reassuring outline of the Dawn Stone protectively through the rough fabric of his worn tunic, seeking solace in its familiar shape. The stone mysteriously hummed faintly against his skin, a subtle, almost imperceptible vibration that inexplicably resonated deep within his very bones, a constant, oddly reassuring presence in the unnerving, oppressive silence that weighed down on Oakhaven. He suddenly felt a sharp, icy prickling unease abruptly crawl up the nape of his neck, a distinct sense of something unseen, something malevolent… approaching rapidly. Not a tangible physical sound, not a discernible scent carried on the still air, but a visceral, instinctive feeling, a chilling premonition that resolutely settled heavy and cold in his gut, deeply unwelcome and profoundly disturbing. He shivered, pulled his cloak tighter.

Suddenly, a piercing, bloodcurdling cry violently ripped through the oppressive stillness, brutally tearing through the muted, fragile sounds of the night like a jagged, razor-sharp shard of shattered glass. It immediately came sharply from the general direction of the central market square, a high-pitched shriek of pure, unadulterated terror that abruptly, chillingly cut off suddenly mid-scream, brutally leaving a terrifying, echoing void of absolute silence jarringly in its immediate wake. Elvin violently jerked bolt upright, his head snapping sharply towards the terrifying sound, his eyes widening abruptly, desperately searching, straining to penetrate the all-consuming darkness. He listened, held his breath, waited.

Another strangled cry abruptly followed the first, then quickly another, and another, each successive scream disturbingly closer, each one undeniably more frantic, more desperately terrified, more agonized. The muffled, indistinct sounds of forced revelry drifting from the Crooked Tankard immediately, abruptly ceased altogether, violently replaced by a sudden, stunned silence that hung heavy and thick in the air, even more profoundly unsettling, more terrifying than the preceding forced clamor. He clearly heard the frantic, panicked slamming of nearby doors, the terrified, desperate yelling of disembodied voices, the unmistakable, chilling sounds of panicked scrambling feet and increasingly desperate pleading cries. He flinched, winced, covered his ears momentarily.

He instinctively leapt agilely to his feet, his heart now hammering violently against his ribs, a frantic, urgent drumbeat relentlessly urging him urgently to immediate action, demanding he move. He immediately sprinted headlong towards the market square, his worn boots pounding heavily, urgently on the muddy, uneven ground, his lungs burning, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps that tore at his throat. As he violently rounded the sharp corner of the dimly lit bakery, the horrifying scene that suddenly unfolded abruptly before his widened eyes violently snatched the very air from his straining lungs, brutally stopping him dead in his tracks, freezing him to the spot. He stared, gaped, reeled.

The once familiar market square, usually a bustling, vibrant hub of noisy commerce during the day, now violently writhed in utter chaos and brutal violence, dimly illuminated only by the wildly flickering, sputtering flames of several overturned oil lamps that grotesquely cast long, distorted, dancing shadows that writhed and leapt across the gruesome scene. Figures, men clad entirely, uniformly in stark black, their faces completely obscured by deep, concealing cowls and further shadowed by wide-brimmed hats that completely hid their features, silently moved purposefully through the blood-soaked square with a chilling, unnatural efficiency, their movements eerily fluid and undeniably deadly, like living shadows suddenly given terrifying substance. They brutally wielded wickedly curved, razor-sharp blades that ominously glinted menacingly in the flickering lamplight, already visibly dripping thick crimson in places, their honed edges already darkly stained with fresh blood. They slashed, stabbed, cut, killed with cold, practiced precision.

Townsfolk, his neighbors, his friends, frantically scattered wildly before them like dry leaves before a violent gale, their faces visibly contorted in raw, abject terror, their desperate screams frantically echoing shrilly through the night, piercing the oppressive silence. Some blindly fled desperately, frantically seeking any possible escape, any refuge from the carnage, while countless others, sadly caught utterly unaware, quickly fell silently and helplessly beneath the ruthless attackers’ flashing blades, their broken bodies violently crumpling to the muddy ground like carelessly discarded sacks of grain, their screams abruptly silenced. The air suddenly filled, thick and heavy, with the overwhelming, sickeningly metallic tang of freshly spilled blood, cloyingly thick and sickeningly sweet, brutally mingling with the acrid, stinging smell of raw fear and the sharp, burnt scent of overturned, sputtering lamps. He gagged, coughed, clutched at his throat.

Elvin suddenly saw Martha, strong Martha the baker, desperately struggling valiantly against two of the relentless black-clad figures, her usually calm, capable strong arms now wildly flailing desperately as she fiercely fought back with the raw ferocity of a cornered, desperate wolf defending its pups. He then chillingly saw old Jedediah, the usually jovial farmer, bravely attempting to clumsily defend his terrified wife with a heavy, farm-worn axe, his face now reddened with desperate exertion and raw fear, but his movements tragically slow and utterly predictable against the attackers’ terrifyingly swift, deadly strikes. He then despairingly saw old Hemlock, surprisingly nimble and agile for his advanced age, frantically scuttling desperately between market stalls like a frightened, cornered rat, his thick spectacles precariously askew on his nose, his cloudy eyes wildly darting, frantically searching as he desperately sought any meager refuge, any pathetic hiding place.

Raw rage, hot and blinding, suddenly erupted violently within Elvin’s chest, completely banishing the paralyzing fear that had momentarily frozen him helplessly in place, igniting a white-hot fury. He involuntarily roared, a primal, guttural sound violently torn from the very depths of his throat, and instinctively charged headlong directly into the bloody fray, his fists suddenly clenched tightly, his senses suddenly burning with a fierce, laser-focused intensity that obliterated everything else. He suddenly moved with an incredible speed and surprising agility he hadn’t even remotely known he secretly possessed, fueled by a potent cocktail of adrenaline and a desperate, overwhelming need to fiercely protect his vulnerable town, his helpless people. He sprinted, leapt, dodged, weaved.

He violently slammed head-on into one of the merciless black-clad figures, aggressively driving his braced shoulder forcefully into the man’s armored chest, brutally sending him violently stumbling abruptly backwards with a surprised, involuntary grunt of startled pain. Before the momentarily disoriented attacker could even remotely recover his balance, Elvin immediately unleashed a furious, blinding flurry of rapid blows, his clenched fists relentlessly connecting with solid, sickening thuds against the man’s masked, cowled face and surprisingly resilient armored torso. The brutally assaulted attacker violently staggered, wildly swaying, then abruptly collapsed heavily to the muddy ground with a muffled, pained groan, his wickedly curved blade clattering uselessly, harmlessly on the rough cobblestones, skittering away into the darkness.

Elvin violently spun sharply around, his adrenaline-fueled eyes frantically scanning the surrounding chaos, desperately searching for another immediate target, another victim to save. He suddenly saw yet another black-clad attacker relentlessly advancing menacingly upon the struggling Martha, his wickedly curved blade now raised ominously high above his head, clearly poised to deliver a final, fatal strike. He instantly lunged desperately forward, instinctively interposing his own vulnerable body directly between Martha and the imminent, deadly blow, his own unprotected body selflessly shielding her completely from the descending blade. He yelled, pushed Martha aside.

The razor-sharp blade ominously whistled menacingly through the frigid air, brutally slashing violently across Elvin’s outstretched arm, viciously tearing cleanly through the thin fabric of his worn tunic and brutally biting deeply into his unprotected flesh beneath, drawing hot, crimson blood. Raw pain, sharp and searing, instantly exploded violently through his entire arm, brutally making him involuntarily cry out in surprised agony. He violently stumbled unsteadily back, instinctively clutching his suddenly bleeding arm tightly to his chest, his vision momentarily blurring sickeningly with the intense shock of sudden, searing pain. He winced, gasped, staggered.

Martha, her usually composed face now tragically smeared with mud and fresh blood, violently whirled abruptly around, her usually sharp eyes widening alarmingly in horrified alarm as she immediately saw Elvin suddenly wounded, clutching his bleeding arm. “Boy! Elvin! Get away now!” she desperately shouted urgently, her usually steady voice now tragically hoarse with a potent mix of raw fear and desperate exertion. “Run, you fool! Run! They’re… they’re not human, boy! Run while you still can!” Her eyes darted wildly around, pleading with him to flee.

Elvin stubbornly ignored her desperate warning, vehemently gritting his teeth against the agonizing pain that lanced through his arm, his focused gaze resolutely locking directly onto the menacing attacker who had so brutally wounded him. The black-clad attacker ominously stood motionless for a prolonged moment, his cowled head slightly cocked to one side, as if deliberately studying Elvin intently, clinically assessing his resilience, his fighting spirit. Then, with chilling deliberation, he slowly advanced menacingly again, his bloodied blade now weaving a deadly, mesmerizing pattern in the wildly flickering lamplight, a dance of death. He stepped, glided, menaced.

Elvin desperately ducked low and frantically weaved erratically from side to side, desperately evading the attacker’s swift, lethal strikes, his desperate movements now fueled solely by raw adrenaline and pure survival instinct. He suddenly kicked out sharply, his worn boot brutally connecting solidly with the attacker’s exposed leg, violently knocking him momentarily off precarious balance, disrupting his deadly rhythm. He immediately followed up instinctively with a swift, sharp jab directly to the attacker’s masked face, then another, and another, his clenched fists relentlessly pummeling the now disoriented attacker brutally, repeatedly. He punched, struck, attacked.

The brutally assaulted attacker violently staggered unsteadily back, instinctively raising his arms defensively in a desperate, futile posture, his previously fluid, graceful movements suddenly losing their chilling precision, now becoming jerky, panicked, and desperate. Elvin fiercely pressed his hard-won advantage, relentlessly driving the faltering attacker steadily back towards the very edge of the blood-soaked market square, relentlessly towards the dark, gaping alleyways that menacingly snaked between the tall, shadowy buildings, promising escape or a deeper, darker danger.

Suddenly, shockingly, just as Elvin triumphantly landed a final, powerfully decisive blow directly to the attacker’s armored chest, the man inexplicably stumbled awkwardly again, then simply… inexplicably vanished completely. One terrifying moment he demonstrably was right there, undeniably solid and tangibly real, the next chilling moment he was utterly gone, vanished without a trace, as if he had simply silently dissolved inexplicably into the very shadows themselves. Elvin involuntarily stared wildly around in utter disbelief, his clenched fists abruptly halting uselessly mid-swing, his ragged breath suddenly catching sharply, painfully in his constricted throat. He wildly blinked rapidly, frantically rubbed his disbelieving eyes roughly with his still good hand, frantically looked around wildly, desperately searching for any lingering sign, any trace of the inexplicably vanished attacker. There was absolutely nothing left. Just the empty, blood-soaked muddy ground, the wildly flickering lamplight that cast dancing shadows, and the profoundly chilling silence that had ominously descended heavily once more upon the ravaged square. He shivered, trembled, reeled.

He slowly lowered his clenched fists, his heart now pounding thunderously in his ears, a deafening drumbeat, his disbelieving mind violently reeling, desperately trying to rationally comprehend the impossible scene he had just witnessed. He had undeniably seen it, he was absolutely sure of it, his mind still vividly replaying the impossible vanishing act. The black-clad attacker had simply, impossibly… disappeared without a sound. No telltale sound, no lingering trace, just utterly, inexplicably gone, vanished into thin air. It was suddenly as if the very shadows themselves had inexplicably reached out with unseen hands and silently swallowed him whole, consuming him entirely. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as dust.

He slowly looked down numbly at his suddenly throbbing, wounded arm, the warm blood still flowing freely, relentlessly staining his already bloodied tunic a darker, more ominous shade of crimson red. He suddenly felt a chilling, icy dread inexplicably seep slowly into his very bones, colder even than the frigid night air, colder than the brutally cold steel of the attackers’ wickedly curved blades. These were demonstrably not ordinary, mundane bandits, not simple opportunistic raiders. These were something else entirely, something deeply… unnatural, something profoundly sinister. Martha’s terrified words frantically echoed ominously in his stunned mind: “They’re not human!” He shook his head, whispered her words aloud.

He slowly glanced fearfully around the ravaged market square, his widened eyes frantically sweeping across the gruesome scene of utter carnage and senseless bloodshed. The remaining black-clad attackers, perhaps instinctively sensing that their initial element of surprise was completely lost, or perhaps already having ruthlessly completed their grim, unknown task, were now silently, efficiently retreating en masse, purposefully melting back seamlessly into the deep shadows as silently and efficiently as they had inexplicably, terrifyingly appeared just moments before. He helplessly watched them silently go, their indistinct black figures rapidly fading completely into the all-consuming darkness, brutally leaving behind only the desperately wounded, the slowly dying, and the tragically dead, stark testament to their brutal efficiency. He stared, trembled, despaired.

As the very last of the shadowy attackers silently vanished completely from sight, a small, unexpected glinting object on the blood-soaked ground near the exact spot where the inexplicably vanished assailant had just stood suddenly caught Elvin’s weary, bloodshot eye. He painfully limped slowly towards it, his wounded arm now relentlessly throbbing agonizingly with each painful heartbeat, and awkwardly bent stiffly down, carefully picking the small, glinting object gingerly up from the muddy ground. He held it up to the flickering lamplight, examined it closely.

It was a small, sharp obsidian shard, no larger than his own dirty thumbnail, surprisingly smooth and unnervingly cold to the touch despite the heat of battle. Intricately etched meticulously into its polished surface, almost completely invisible in the dim, flickering lamplight, was a chilling, unmistakable symbol – a stylized, menacing coiled serpent, its sharp fangs bared menacingly, its malevolent eyes burning with palpable, unnatural intent. Elvin instantly recognized the sinister symbol, a chilling, visceral recognition that immediately sent another icy shiver of pure dread violently down his already chilled spine. He had chillingly seen it ominously before, crudely etched into the crumbling, moss-covered stones of the ancient, forgotten ruins just outside Oakhaven, nervously whispered about in hushed, fearful tones by old Hemlock in his more cryptic, unsettling pronouncements of impending doom. The coiled serpent. The unmistakable, chilling mark of the dreaded Shadow Council. He whispered the name, his voice barely audible.

He numbly stared fixedly down at the small shard clutched tightly in his trembling hand, his knuckles visibly white as he instinctively clenched his fist tightly around the ominous object, as if to crush it, to destroy it, to erase its terrifying presence. The impossible ominous night sky, the unreadable celestial runes, the unsettling awakening of the mysterious Dawn Stone, and now this… this brutal, utterly inexplicable attack on his peaceful town, these impossibly shadowy figures, this undeniably chilling symbol of pure evil. It was all undeniably connected, he instinctively knew it deep in his troubled heart, with a chilling certainty that froze his blood in his veins. Erechia was demonstrably not merely facing simple bandits or opportunistic petty raiders, not just localized unrest. Something far darker, something infinitely more sinister, was undeniably stirring ominously in the deep shadows, actively moving against the light, and Oakhaven, small and utterly insignificant as it undoubtedly was, had somehow tragically become deeply, irrevocably caught directly in its vast, unseen web of darkness. He slowly looked wearily up at the cold sliver of distant moon coldly hanging precariously in the indifferent sky, his young gaze suddenly hardening with a newfound, steely resolve that belied his tender years. He silently vowed to himself, to his fallen neighbors, to his lost grandmother’s memory, that he would relentlessly find answers, no matter the cost. He would bravely uncover the insidious truth behind this brutal attack, relentlessly expose the shadowy machinations of the terrifying Shadow Council, desperately decipher the meaning of the ominous signs that had so violently, irrevocably descended upon his beloved Erechia. He owed it to Oakhaven, to his grandmother’s fading memory, and to the strange, powerful Dawn Stone that now mysteriously pulsed faintly, warmly in his pocket, a silent, enigmatic promise of immense, untapped power, and a looming, unavoidable threat of unimaginable darkness yet to come, inextricably intertwined. He nodded slowly, tightened his grip, steeled his resolve.

《永恒之境：暗影与光辉》卷一《命运预兆》

第四章：暗夜初袭

今夜的黑暗，来得格外猛烈，不似温柔的怀抱，倒像是一张密不透风的毯子，将橡木镇紧紧裹住，镇上那点微弱的声响也渐渐消失，只剩下死一般的寂静。风，也停了，不再发出呜咽的哀嚎，留下令人不安的静默，仿佛某种未知的威胁潜伏在灯光照不到的阴影里，伺机而动。一弯冷月，孤零零地挂在夜空中，洒下微弱的光芒，勉强勾勒出那些扭曲的影子，在忽明忽暗的油灯下，张牙舞爪。

“歪把酒壶”酒馆里，依旧传出些许喧闹，像是某种困兽的挣扎，试图用虚张声势的狂欢来刺破这令人窒息的黑暗。粗俗的笑声，偶尔夹杂着几声吆喝，还有酒杯碰撞的哐当声，从那粗糙的木屋中传出。几个喝得醉醺醺的家伙依旧不愿离去，聚在外面，低声交谈，嘴里呼出的热气在寒冷的空气中凝成白雾，他们贪婪地吸着劣质的烟草，不舍地抿着最后一口掺了水的麦芽酒，然后才不情不愿地回到自己那简陋的家中。

艾尔文僵硬地坐在家门口的橡木长凳上，那块黎明石就放在他外衣口袋里，紧贴着他的大腿，传来阵阵暖意。他目不转睛地盯着黑暗深处，锐利的目光仿佛要穿透这浓重的夜色，搜寻着每一个角落，那些阴影似乎在扭动，变幻成各种诡异的形状，在他的视野边缘游走。自从那晚看到天空中那诡异的光芒，以及黎明石那不同寻常的反应之后，他的感官就变得异常敏锐，甚至到了令人难以忍受的地步。他能听到一些他以前从未注意过的声音：远处树林里树叶的沙沙声，夜行动物在灌木丛中奔跑的窸窣声，还有远处那架古老的风车发出的吱嘎声。他的嗅觉也变得更加灵敏，远处烟囱里飘来的淡淡的烟火味，潮湿泥土的腥味，还有屠宰场那边传来的血腥味，在微风中久久不散。他皱起眉头，深深地吸了一口气，嘴里似乎还能尝到那股金属般的味道。

他不安地在长凳上挪动了一下身子，手下意识地抚摸着口袋里的黎明石，从那熟悉的形状中汲取着力量。石头在他的皮肤上微微震动，这种几乎难以察觉的震动，却在他的骨髓深处产生了共鸣，在这令人不安的寂静中，给他带来一种奇怪的慰藉。突然，他感到一阵寒意沿着他的脖颈向上爬，像是有某种看不见的东西，某种邪恶的东西…正在迅速逼近。不是某种具体的声音，也不是某种气味，而是一种发自内心的直觉，一种冰冷的、不祥的预感，沉甸甸地压在他的心头，让他感到一阵强烈的不安和恐惧。他打了个寒战，裹紧了身上的斗篷。

突然，一声凄厉的、令人毛骨悚然的尖叫划破了夜空，像一块锋利的玻璃碎片，刺破了寂静。那声音来自镇中心的集市广场，一声纯粹的、绝望的尖叫，却在中途戛然而止，留下令人心悸的、死一般的寂静。艾尔文猛地站了起来，头猛地转向声音传来的方向，眼睛瞪得大大的，拼命地搜寻着，试图穿透那吞噬一切的黑暗。他屏住呼吸，侧耳倾听。

紧接着，又一声尖叫响起，然后是第三声，第四声，每一声都比前一声更近，更绝望，更痛苦。“歪把酒壶”酒馆里那喧闹的声音也戛然而止，取而代之的是一片死寂，这寂静比先前的喧闹更加令人不安，更加令人恐惧。他能清楚地听到附近房屋里传来砰砰的关门声，人们惊恐的叫喊声，以及慌乱的脚步声和越来越绝望的哭喊声。他畏缩了一下，痛苦地捂住了耳朵。

他本能地跳了起来，心跳如鼓，一股强烈的冲动驱使着他，他必须行动起来。他飞快地朝集市广场跑去，靴子踩在泥泞不平的地面上，发出沉重的脚步声，他的肺火辣辣地疼，呼吸急促而凌乱。当他绕过面包店的拐角时，眼前突然展开的景象让他倒吸了一口凉气，他猛地停下了脚步，像被钉在了原地。他目瞪口呆，惊骇不已。

原本熟悉的集市广场，白天还是一个熙熙攘攘、充满活力的商业中心，此刻却陷入了一片混乱和血腥之中，只有几盏翻倒的油灯发出微弱的、摇曳不定的光芒，将扭曲的影子投射在地面上，在阴森恐怖的场景中舞动。一些人影，全身裹着黑衣，脸上戴着兜帽，头上戴着宽檐帽，将面容隐藏在阴影之中，他们悄无声息地在血迹斑斑的广场上穿梭，动作敏捷而致命，像幽灵一般。他们手中挥舞着锋利的、弯曲的刀刃，在灯光下闪烁着寒光，刀刃上沾满了鲜血。他们无情地砍杀，精准而冷酷。

镇上的居民，他的邻居，他的朋友，像狂风中的落叶一般四散奔逃，脸上写满了恐惧，绝望的尖叫声在夜空中回荡，刺破了令人窒息的寂静。一些人盲目地逃窜，试图寻找任何可能的藏身之处，而更多的人，则猝不及防地倒在了袭击者无情的刀下，他们的身体像被随意丢弃的麻袋一样瘫倒在地上，尖叫声戛然而止。空气中弥漫着浓重的血腥味，令人作呕，还夹杂着恐惧的气息和油灯翻倒后散发出的焦糊味。他一阵恶心，捂住了嘴。

艾尔文看到了玛莎，那个强壮的面包师，她正在和两个黑衣人搏斗，她那双平时稳健有力的胳膊此刻正疯狂地挥舞着，像一只被逼到绝境的母狼，拼死保护着自己的幼崽。他看到了老杰迪，那个平时总是乐呵呵的农夫，他正挥舞着一把沉重的斧头，试图保护他那吓坏了的妻子，他的脸因为极度的恐惧和用力而涨得通红，但他的动作却显得迟缓而笨拙，在袭击者那快如闪电的攻击面前，毫无还手之力。他还看到了老亨洛克，他虽然年事已高，身手却异常敏捷，像一只受惊的老鼠一样在摊位之间乱窜，他那副厚厚的眼镜歪歪扭扭地架在鼻梁上，浑浊的眼睛四处张望，寻找着任何可以藏身的地方。

一股怒火，在艾尔文的胸膛里熊熊燃烧，将他从恐惧中唤醒，点燃了他心中的怒焰。他发出一声怒吼，那是从喉咙深处发出的、野兽般的咆哮，然后，他奋不顾身地冲进了血腥的战场，拳头紧握，感官变得异常敏锐，仿佛整个世界都消失了，只剩下眼前这惨烈的一幕。他以一种他自己都难以置信的速度和敏捷，奔跑着，跳跃着，躲闪着，迂回着。

他猛地撞向一个黑衣人，肩膀狠狠地撞在对方的胸口，将他撞得踉踉跄跄地向后退去，对方发出一声闷哼。还没等那个袭击者站稳脚跟，艾尔文就挥舞着拳头，雨点般地砸向对方的脸和身体。袭击者被打得摇摇晃晃，最后重重地摔倒在地上，发出一声痛苦的呻吟，他那把锋利的弯刀也当啷一声掉在地上，滚到了一旁。

艾尔文猛地转过身，目光在混乱的人群中搜寻着，寻找着下一个目标，下一个需要他保护的人。他看到另一个黑衣人正朝玛莎逼近，手中的弯刀高高举起，眼看就要落下。他猛地扑了过去，用自己的身体挡在了玛莎和那把致命的刀刃之间。他大喊着，把玛莎推到一边。

锋利的刀刃在空中划过一道寒光，狠狠地砍在了艾尔文的手臂上，划破了他那件单薄的外衣，深深地嵌入了他的皮肉之中，鲜血喷涌而出。一阵剧痛，瞬间传遍了他的全身，让他忍不住发出了一声痛苦的尖叫。他踉跄着向后退去，紧紧地捂住受伤的手臂，一阵晕眩袭来，让他眼前一阵发黑。他踉跄了一下，喘着粗气，站立不稳。

玛莎，她那张平时沉着冷静的脸上此刻沾满了泥土和鲜血，她猛地转过身来，看到艾尔文受伤的手臂，她那双锐利的眼睛里充满了惊恐。“孩子！艾尔文！快跑！” 她喊道，声音嘶哑，充满了恐惧和绝望。“快跑，傻瓜！快跑！他们…他们不是人，孩子！快跑，趁你还能跑！”她的眼睛惊恐地四处张望着，恳求他快点逃走。

艾尔文没有理会她的警告，他咬紧牙关，忍受着手臂上传来的剧痛，目光死死地盯着那个砍伤他的袭击者。那个黑衣人一动不动地站在那里，兜帽下的脑袋微微歪向一边，仿佛在打量着艾尔文，评估着他的实力。然后，他缓缓地逼近，手中的刀刃在灯光下闪烁着寒光，像是在跳着一支死亡之舞。他一步步地靠近，带着某种威胁。

艾尔文低下身子，左右躲闪，试图避开袭击者那快如闪电的攻击，他的动作完全是出于本能，出于求生的欲望。他突然抬起一脚，狠狠地踢在袭击者的小腿上，将他踢得一个趔趄，打乱了他的节奏。他紧接着挥出一拳，狠狠地砸在袭击者的脸上，然后又是一拳，又一拳，他的拳头像雨点般落在那个袭击者身上。他不停地击打着，攻击着。

那个袭击者被打得连连后退，本能地举起胳膊护住头部，他那原本流畅的动作也变得笨拙起来，慌乱而绝望。艾尔文步步紧逼，将那个袭击者逼到了集市广场的边缘，逼到了那些黑黢黢的、像迷宫一样的小巷里，那里既是逃生的希望，也可能隐藏着更大的危险。

突然，就在艾尔文的最后一拳狠狠地砸在袭击者的胸口时，那个家伙突然踉跄了一下，然后…就凭空消失了。前一秒他还站在那里，实实在在地存在着，下一秒，他就消失得无影无踪，仿佛被黑暗吞噬了一般。艾尔文难以置信地瞪大了眼睛，挥舞的拳头停在了半空中，急促的呼吸哽在了喉咙里。他眨了眨眼睛，使劲揉了揉眼睛，又四处张望，试图找到那个袭击者的踪迹。什么都没有。只有空荡荡的、血迹斑斑的地面，摇曳的灯光，以及笼罩在广场上那令人窒息的寂静。他打了个寒战，摇摇晃晃地站着，感到一阵眩晕。

他缓缓地放下拳头，心脏在耳边怦怦直跳，震耳欲聋，他那颗惊魂未定的心，还在试图理解刚才发生的一切。他确信自己没有看错，他的脑海中依旧清晰地回放着那不可能的一幕。那个黑衣人，就这样凭空消失了，没有声音，没有踪迹，就这样消失在稀薄的空气中。仿佛黑暗伸出了无形的手，将他吞噬。他咽了口唾沫，喉咙干涩无比。

他低下头，看着自己受伤的手臂，鲜血依旧不停地涌出，将他那件早已沾满血迹的外衣染成了更深的红色。他感到一阵彻骨的寒意，比寒冷的夜风还要冷，比袭击者那锋利的刀刃还要冷。这些人，绝不是普通的强盗，不是趁火打劫的暴徒。他们是某种…不寻常的东西，某种邪恶的东西。玛莎那惊恐的声音在他脑海中回荡：“他们不是人！”他摇了摇头，轻声重复着她的话。

他缓缓地环顾四周，目光扫过这片狼藉的广场，扫过那些倒在血泊中的尸体。其余的黑衣人，也许是意识到他们的偷袭计划已经失败，也许是已经完成了他们那未知的任务，此刻正悄无声息地撤退，像来时一样，悄无声息地消失在黑暗之中。他无助地看着他们离去，那些黑色的身影迅速消失在黑暗之中，只留下那些受伤的人、垂死的人和死去的人，作为他们残暴的见证。他站在那里，颤抖着，充满了绝望。

当最后一个黑衣人消失在视线中时，艾尔文突然注意到，在刚才那个袭击者消失的地方，地面上有一个闪闪发光的东西。他拖着沉重的脚步走了过去，忍着手臂上那钻心的疼痛，弯下腰，小心翼翼地将那个闪闪发光的东西捡了起来。他举起它，借着灯光仔细地端详着。

那是一块黑曜石碎片，只有他的指甲盖那么大，出乎意料的光滑，摸起来冰凉冰凉的。在它的表面，刻着一个图案，在昏暗的灯光下几乎看不清，那是一条盘绕着的毒蛇，毒牙呲出，眼睛里闪烁着邪恶的光芒。艾尔文立刻认出了这个标志，一股寒意瞬间传遍了他的全身。他曾经见过它，刻在镇外那些古老遗迹的残垣断壁上，在老亨洛克那些关于厄运的预言中，也曾提到过它。盘绕的毒蛇。这是那个令人闻风丧胆的暗影议会的标志。他低声说出了这个名字，声音几乎微不可闻。

他低下头，看着手中紧握着的这块碎片，指关节因为用力而发白，仿佛要将它捏碎，将它摧毁，将它从这个世界上抹去。那不可能的、不祥的夜空，那些无法解读的天空符文，黎明石那令人不安的觉醒，以及现在…这场对他平静小镇的、令人费解的袭击，这些不可能的、如影子般的身影，这代表着纯粹邪恶的标志。这一切，一定是有联系的，他内心深处有一个声音在告诉他，而且这种感觉无比的确信，仿佛要将他的血液都冻结。埃雷希亚所面临的，绝不仅仅是普通的强盗或趁火打劫的暴徒，不仅仅是局部的动荡。某种更加黑暗、更加邪恶的力量，正在暗中蠢蠢欲动，向光明发起进攻，而橡木镇，这个毫不起眼的小镇，却不知何故，深深地、无可挽回地卷入了这张巨大的、黑暗的网中。他缓缓地抬起头，望向悬挂在夜空中的那一弯冷月，那张年轻的脸上，此刻却带着一种与年龄不符的坚定。他在心中默默地发誓，为了那些倒下的邻居，为了祖母的回忆，他一定要找到答案，不惜一切代价。他要揭开这场袭击背后的真相，揭露暗影议会那邪恶的阴谋，解读那些不祥的征兆，为了橡木镇，为了祖母的回忆，也为了那块此刻正在他口袋里微微发热的、神秘的黎明石，那是一个关于巨大潜能的承诺，也是一个关于即将到来的、不可想象的黑暗的威胁，两者密不可分。他慢慢地点了点头，握紧了拳头，下定了决心。

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