GameDev Reincarnated into His Own Creation

Vol 2 - Chapter 27: Remote Occurrence

As suddenly as it began, the convulsions stopped. The man lay still on the ground, his limbs splayed at awkward angles. For a terrifying moment, Landre thought he had died—but then she noticed his chest rising and falling. The rhythm was slow, measured, unnaturally even. With a chill, she realized it matched perfectly with the breathing sound emanating from the mine.

"Sir? Can you hear me?" Landre asked, leaning closer despite Sarvin's warning hand on her shoulder.

The man's eyes snapped open. Landre recoiled instinctively. Something fundamental had changed in his gaze. The clarity, the recognition, the very humanity that had been there just minutes before was gone. His eyes were empty, unfocused, like clouded glass reflecting nothing.

With unnatural fluidity, the withered man sat up. His movements were eerily smooth for someone who had been so frail. His head turned toward Landre with the deliberate motion of a predator sighting prey. A low, guttural sound emerged from his throat—not words, not even a groan, but something primal and deeply wrong.

He tilted his head as if recognizing an old acquaintance, studying her with those empty eyes.

Without warning, he lunged at Landre, withered hands outstretched toward her throat.

Sarvin moved with practiced speed, pulling Landre back while drawing his sword in a single fluid motion. The blade came to rest at the man's throat, stopping him mid-lunge.

"Don't hurt him!" Landre cried out, her heart racing. "He's still a victim!"

Landre's heart clenched as Sarvin used the flat of his blade to block the withered man's attack, keeping him at bay without causing harm. The crusader's movements were precise—protective rather than aggressive.

The man's eyes remained fixed on Landre despite Sarvin's intervention. Those vacant eyes held no recognition, no humanity, yet they tracked her with unnerving focus. His withered arms flailed wildly, ignoring Sarvin completely as if the armored crusader were merely an obstacle between him and his target.

"Something's controlling him," Landre whispered, backing away slightly. "This isn't him anymore."

A sound cut through her thoughts—the unmistakable scrape of footsteps on stone echoing from the mine entrance. Not just one set of footsteps, but many. Landre turned slowly toward the darkness, dread pooling in her stomach like ice water.

Shapes began to emerge from the shadows—first one, then three, then dozens. The missing villagers appeared from the mine's depths, their features distorted by the same unnatural aging that had afflicted the man before them. Gray-haired elders who had once been middle-aged, children with unnaturally lined faces, all moving with the same eerie coordination.

"Shizka preserve us," Imelda whispered, backing away as she took in the horror.

The world seemed to narrow to the shuffling figures, their vacant eyes a void that threatened to swallow her whole. Her training screamed at her to act, but her limbs felt heavy as stone. But beneath that fear burned something stronger—the responsibility of her position, the oath she had taken when accepting Shizka's blessing. These people needed her light now more than ever.

With deliberate calm, Landre raised her hand and summoned a sphere of radiant light. The orb grew in her palm, pulsing with warm, golden energy before rising above her head, illuminating the entire area with its divine glow.

The transformed villagers flinched collectively, shrinking back from the brightness. Some raised hands to shield their eyes, while others retreated deeper into the mine's shadows.