The Dark Mage Of The Magus World-Chapter 75 - 76: The Valley Town

Hutson’s gaze followed Robert’s finger, settling on the entrance of the narrow gorge, the point where One Line Sky opened into the valley.

"Why did he die here?"

He pondered the question but did not immediately step forward.

Something about the squirrel’s frantic chatter earlier unsettled him. Animals had sharp instincts—often, their cries served as warnings.

Of course, it could have simply been alerting its kind to the presence of strangers.

Still, Hutson chose caution.

"AI chip, scan the surroundings for anomalies."

A silent moment passed as his mystical interface processed the command.

"No anomalies detected."

"No magical energy detected."

"No residual mana traces."

...

Hutson reviewed the findings.

Everything appeared normal.

His gaze lingered on the mountain pass before he finally stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the gorge.

Nothing happened.

No shift in energy. No sudden movement.

Even the surrounding ambient energy particles remained stable—no unusual flows or disturbances.

The rock walls of One Line Sky loomed on either side, the dim passage slick with moisture, with thin streams of water trickling down from the cliffs above.

As they pressed forward, the narrow canyon gradually widened, revealing a valley town resting on a distant hillside.

Wooden houses nestled against the slopes, silent and still. A handful of figures moved through the streets, their silhouettes flickering against the fading light.

At the town’s entrance stood a small tavern, its doors ajar, the soft glow of lanterns spilling onto the road.

Inside, the tavern was nearly empty. Only three patrons occupied two tables, their drinks set before them—mugs of buttered ale, frothy and full.

The moment Hutson and Robert crossed the threshold, conversation ceased.

The two men seated together—hunters, judging by their garb—exchanged wary glances before downing the remainder of their drinks in one swift gulp. Without a word, they stood, swiftly exiting the tavern.

Only one man remained.

Seated alone at the far table was a burly, bearded blacksmith, his calloused hands wrapped around his half-finished ale.

He looked them over, chuckled, then took another sip, seemingly unbothered by their presence.

Hutson approached with a casual smile. "Mind if we share a table?"

The blacksmith grinned, his thick beard shifting with the movement. "Not at all. You two are new faces—here on business?"

Hutson pulled out a chair, motioning to the bartender. "Two buttered ales."

As the drinks were being prepared, he turned back to the blacksmith.

"I won’t waste your time," Hutson said smoothly. "I wanted to ask if you’ve heard anything about a dead man found on the mountain path about two months ago."

The blacksmith furrowed his brow, scratching his beard in thought. "Two months ago?"

A pause.

Then, he shook his head. "No. If someone died out there, we’d know. This is a small town—news travels fast. But I’ve never heard anything about a body."

Taking another sip of ale, he continued, "This place is peaceful. We don’t get many crimes here. With so few people, there’s hardly anyone who holds a grudge deep enough for murder."

Hutson leaned back slightly as their drinks arrived—two large mugs, frothing with thick foam.

Taking a sip, he found himself indifferent to the taste. He hadn’t liked it at first, but after drinking it so often, he had grown accustomed to it—not that there were many other options.

"We only heard rumors," Hutson said, "so we came to see for ourselves."

The blacksmith let out a booming laugh. "That explains it. Well, it must have been misinformation.

You know how rumors spread—the further they travel, the more twisted they become."

Hutson nodded. "We’ll ask around some more."

The blacksmith smirked. "You two must be with Stormhold’s investigation unit. Heard about a murder and came to check?"

Robert interjected, shaking his head. "Stormhold hasn’t had an ’investigation unit’ for years. These days, the Adventurers’ Association handles matters like this."

The blacksmith raised an eyebrow. "Adventurers’ Association? Guess I’m behind the times." He let out another hearty chuckle before taking a long swig of his ale.

Hutson chatted with him a bit longer, but no valuable information surfaced. Eventually, he paid for the drinks—including the blacksmith’s—before rising from his seat.

As they stepped toward the exit, the blacksmith called after them. "Thanks for the drink!"

Hutson gave a brief wave before pushing open the tavern door—

And stepping into darkness.

Outside, the sky had turned black.

No lamps illuminated the roads. The only light came from distant houses, their windows glowing like scattered embers in the night.

Hutson frowned. "Robert... how long were we inside?"

He distinctly remembered entering during the afternoon.

There was no way it should be nightfall already.

Silence.

Hutson turned.

Robert was gone.

His eyes narrowed. "Where did he—?"

Stepping back into the tavern, he expected to find Robert at their table, finishing his drink.

Instead, the tavern was completely empty.

The lanterns still burned, their soft glow flickering over the wooden walls.

The mugs of buttered ale remained untouched on the table, still fresh, still bubbling with foam.

But not a single person was left inside.

The blacksmith was gone.

The bartender was gone.

The hunters had never returned.

The room was silent. Too silent.

Hutson’s eyes flickered.

"AI chip, scan the tavern."

As his magic probed the space, he reached for Robert’s untouched drink, lifting it to his nose.

No strange scent. No trace of poison.

Nothing seemed out of place—except for the fact that everyone had disappeared.

Hutson set the mug down.

Something unnatural was at work here.

And he had just stepped into its web.

Hutson took a deep breath and stepped out of the empty tavern.

Beyond, the town remained eerily unchanged.

The distant houses still glowed with warm candlelight, their windows revealing faint silhouettes of people moving inside.

Yet, despite the illusion of normalcy, something felt wrong.

Hutson moved cautiously through the darkened streets, his eyes locked onto one particular house—its windows lit, voices murmuring within.

It wasn’t empty.

At least, not yet.

He stopped at the threshold, straining to listen.

Inside, a man and a woman spoke in hushed tones. Their voices carried a soft intimacy, followed by the occasional light-hearted laughter—the kind exchanged between an old couple reminiscing in the quiet of the night.

Hutson knocked on the door.

Silence.

A deep, unnatural silence.

The warm, living voices were snuffed out instantly—as if time itself had been frozen.

No footsteps approached. No one called out to ask who was there.

Nothing.

Hutson’s knock had become a trigger.

A pause.

Then—a sound.

Something dragged across the floor, slow and heavy.

A low, grating scrape followed, as if a blade was being pulled against stone.

Hutson’s eyes narrowed. Something was moving inside.

Then—

THUD.

A single, dull impact, like an axe cleaving into flesh.

THUD.

Again.

The sound carried a deliberate rhythm, not hurried, not frantic.

A butcher’s stroke.

Hutson’s mind conjured images of meat being carved, of flesh being stripped from bone.

THUD.

Then—

BANG.

The door shuddered violently.

Something had slammed into it from the other side.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The entire house began to shake.

Whatever was behind the door was trying to break free.

And it was getting faster.

More frantic.

More desperate.

But the door held.

Hutson’s gaze flickered. Strange.

The house trembled with every strike, yet the door remained unmoved.

For any ordinary wooden door, two or three hits would have splintered it apart—but this one didn’t even crack.

That was wrong.

Hutson’s instincts screamed at him.

Get away.

Now.

A shadow of cold realization crawled down his spine.

He turned sharply and walked away—fast.

Whatever was behind that door...

It wanted out.

And he had no intention of meeting it.