The sky above Mudbrook Village was red, as if thin blood had seeped into the gray clouds. A distant rumble of thunder heralded the coming rain, but no drops had yet fallen—only the damp air and the suffocating smell of wet earth. At the edge of the village, among the old mossy gravestones, a gaping hole awaited its final covering. Gareth Eldrean, the gravedigger who had never been far from the ground all his life, now lay beneath a pile of cheap planks, waiting to be buried by someone else.
Ren stood stiffly by the side of the hole, his black clothes soaked with sweat. He was young—only eighteen—but his shoulders seemed to carry an unnecessary burden. There were no mourners other than a handful of villagers, and even those came not out of pity; they wanted to make sure that death truly closed Gareth's unlucky chapter.
The village priest recited a short prayer, his voice bland, like he was reading a shopping receipt. When the plank was lowered, the only real sound that could be heard came from Ren's chest—a forced, steady thump, even as anger and grief pounded against him like a hammer.
In his left hand, Ren held something: an old shovel that had belonged to his late father. The wood of the handle was rough, cracked in several places. The blade—rusty black—reflected the gloomy light of the afternoon sun. Between the cracks, Ren could see a faint carving that he had never noticed before: a small circle, inside which were carved two ancient words—Miran Vale—an ancient language that was nearly extinct.
"Useless inheritance."
The words were clear even when whispered. Ren turned. Three village men stood nearby, laughing softly. One of them—Rufus Holt—even spat on the ground, as if his spittle was worthy of adorning Gareth's grave.
"A grave boy gets a garbage shovel. Fitting," Rufus said with a chuckle.
Ren clenched his fists, feeling splinters of wood sticking into his palms. He wanted to slam the shovel into their faces, but the memory of his father's debt held back his anger. The debt was now his—another burden buried with Gareth, but it still haunted the living.
The procession ended without poetry or flowers. The earth was quickly piled up; the priest went first, leaving the air growing heavy. The people dispersed, but not without casting one last contemptuous glance at Ren. They believed that curses always passed from the dead to the living, and now it belonged to Ren.
When the last footsteps faded, Ren dropped to his knees. His right hand felt the wet earth above his father's grave. The earth was still warm, as if holding Gareth's last breath.
"I swear, Father," he whispered, his voice breaking. "This shovel... will be proof that you are not a failure."
The rain finally fell, harsh drizzles hitting the leaves. Ren stood unsteadily, shovel slung over his shoulder. He walked past the cemetery fence, toward the ramshackle house on the outskirts—another inheritance that was about to collapse from age and debt.
Night fell quickly, bringing a torturous silence. Inside the house, only a small candle lit the main room. The cracked wooden walls let the wind creep, screaming through the cracks like a curious spirit. Ren set the shovel on the table, staring at it for a long time, as if waiting for an answer.
A childhood memory came to him: his father, Gareth, digging graves during a rainstorm, his face covered in mud but his eyes shining warmly when he saw Ren carrying warm soup. "The land is honest, my son," his father had said then. "It gives, but you must know how to ask."
Ren pushed the memory aside and sat down, opening a worn notebook in his drawer. On the first page was a figure—the family's total debt: one hundred gold. An impossible sum for a young man from the village. With no land of his own, no trade, just an old shovel.
Ren closed the book, staring at the shovel. He lifted it, feeling a strange weight—heavier than his physical size. Like holding a door to a place not of this world.
"If I must live or die, I will decide it with you," Ren murmured.
He grabbed his coat and stepped out into the night. The rain had eased, leaving a low mist in the trees. Ren walked east of the village, to a clearing where large stones lay—the remains of an ancient tower. No one had come here since lightning struck the tower decades ago.
Ren stopped in the middle of the ruins. The moon was hidden behind clouds, but distant lightning occasionally lit up the rocky terrain, casting giant shadows. He dug his shovel into the dark clay and began to dig.
With each thrust, the smell of metal and wet earth was strong. The ground here was hard, as if hiding something. Ren gasped, but his determination held him back. He dug deeper, two feet… three… until the blade of the shovel hit something hard.
A loud clang sounded. Ren stopped, breathing heavily. He knelt down, brushing the dirt with his hands, uncovering the edge of a large metal object. The surface was cool, smooth, though covered in moss and rust.
Lightning struck again, a flash revealing a carving in the metal: a swirling pattern that culminated in the symbol of a closed eye. Ren held his breath. He set the shovel down, slid his fingers through the gaps in the metal, and tried to lift it.
With great effort, the metal lid lifted a few inches. An ancient stench wafted out, like rotting meat mixed with sulfur. Ren held back a gasp, but his curiosity was stronger. He dug further into the dirt, finally managing to pry the lid open completely.
Below him, a narrow cavity appeared, just wide enough for one person to climb down. Ren took the remaining candle from his pocket, lit it, and then descended the smooth stone steps tucked into the hole. The candle flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
The stairs ended in a circular stone room. In the center stood a weathered wooden pole, and hanging from it—a small iron chest, held by chains. The chest's surface was carved with the same markings as the shovel: Miran Vale.
Ren approached slowly. The chains reflected the candle flame, as if alive. Suddenly, the shovel in his hand vibrated softly—a warm vibration that spread to his bones. Ren yelped, almost dropping the shovel. The vibrations stopped as he tightened his grip.
He touched the chest, his fingers trembling. The metal was cold, but it seemed to be pulsing softly. On the side of the chest, there was a strangely shaped keyhole—two overlapping circles. Ren lifted the shovel; its blade turned out to have a similar shape at the base, as if the missing part of a key.
At that moment, footsteps echoed above. A heavy voice descended the stairs. Ren extinguished the candle, embracing the darkness. He held the shovel tightly, his heart beating wildly.
From the shadows of the stairs emerged a tall, broad-shouldered figure, wearing a dark leather coat. The lightning in the stairwell reflected the silver of the iron mask that covered his face.
The figure spoke, his voice hoarse like a grinder grinding on stone. "I have found you at last… heir to the filth."
Ren stepped back, banging his back against the post. The chains creaked. The shovel in his hand suddenly heated up, green light seeping through the rust.
The masked figure stepped in, blocking the only exit.
Ren gritted his teeth. In his heart, he whispered: Father, if this land is honest, then let me borrow its courage now.
The shovel glowed brighter, the carved lines of MiranVale glowing green. The air vibrated, the stones of the walls rattled.
The masked figure looked up, looking shocked. Ren raised his shovel, light engulfing the room. The stone cracked, the floor shook violently, and a crazy idea struck Ren—dig, or die.
He plunged the shovel into the stone floor.
A burst of green light erupted, deafening. The floor collapsed, swallowing Ren and the masked figure at once. Ren's body was thrown into the dark abyss, the cold air cutting into his skin, his ears ringing.
All around him, only the sound of crumbling stone and the faint echo of laughter that did not belong to humans….