The morang now and then

Enough!" Zellrid roared, bloodied but not beaten. His gaze was fierce, holding them captive in their places. "I won't kill you, not now. Not unless you force my hand again."

The three survivors exchanged glances, the threat in Zellrid's voice making their decision for them. They backed off, their hostility giving way to fear.

Zellrid moved away from them, towards the innkeeper lying on the floor. He could see it in his eyes - the man was terrified yet stubborn.

"You had your chance," he said, a hard edge to his voice as he bent down and grabbed the innkeeper by his collar, lifting him up with clear effort.

"I have no desire for your blood, but I won't tolerate blind foolishness either."

His grip tightened, and the innkeeper whimpered, his eyes darting towards his fallen men.

"Now tell me what I came here for!"

The innkeeper's throat tightened as he looked at Zellrid, fear written all over his face.

"You want names?" "Yes," Zellrid barked, his grip tightening around the man's collar.

"The names of those who have immunity." "I-I can't give them to you." "Then you'll suffer the same consequences as your accomplices,"

Zellrid growled, a fire burning in his pupils.

"But-"

The innkeeper hesitated, swallowing hard. "There are three survivors in Lemoyne with immunity. They are... Jane, Tom, and... Robert."

"And where can I find them?" Zellrid demanded, his eyes glowing with a fierce intensity.

"They're hiding in the old church at the edge of town," the innkeeper revealed, voice barely audible.

"You were useful for your last moments, be proud."

Crack

With a loud crack, Zellrid grabbed the innkeeper's neck and twisted, snapping it in an instant.

He quickly made his way to the door and retrieved his gear from the bowl where he had left it earlier.

As he put on his coat and slung his sword over his back, he gave one last glance at the now lifeless body of the innkeeper before swiftly exiting the bar.

Outside, Zellrid took a deep breath to calm himself, before setting off towards the old church in Lemoyne.

Zellrid pushed open the creaky wooden door of the church and stepped inside.

The air was thick with dust and the musty scent of old wood and forgotten memories. He could hear the faint sound of whispered voices coming from the back of the church.

Moving silently, he cautiously made his way towards the source of the noise.

He pushed open the door leading to a small, dimly lit room, where he saw the three kids huddled together, their faces pale and filled with fear.

"Wait... kids, what are you doing here?" Zellrid inquired, his voice a low rumble that echoed through the room. The children looked up at him, wide-eyed and trembling.

"We were just... hiding," Jane, the oldest of the three, stammered. She looked up at Zellrid with tears in her eyes.

"From the others," Tom added, still shaking. "They are calling us the children of devil."

"Children of devil?" Zellrid raised an eyebrow, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "What do you know about that?"

Robert, the youngest of the three, spoke up hesitantly. "They say our parents were involved in dark magic, and that we are cursed. But it's bullshit. Mom was a healer. They hated her just because she was a Larian like us."

Zellrid frowned at the children's words, his expression sobering. He could see the pain and fear in their eyes, and something in him wanted to protect them.

Zellrid let out a heavy sigh, his face softening slightly as he looked at the frightened children.

He knew all too well the pain of being labeled as different and persecuted for it.

He tried to reassure them, "I'm not going to harm you. I am also a Larian, just like you." He attempted to sound as reassuring as he could.

"We are not descendants of the devil; we are special beings. It seems that your mutated blood has made you immune, just like me. We were born for something greater. Would you like to come to the Nightstalkers School and see for yourself?"

The children exchanged glances, their eyes widening with intrigue and hope.

"Nightstalkers School?" Tom asked, his voice cautious.

"Yes," Zellrid nodded. "A place where those like us can learn and grow. A place where we are not feared or hated. Where we can use our abilities for good. Would you like to learn more about it?"

Jane hesitated for a moment, then turned to her brothers. "What do you think?"

Tom and Robert nodded, their fear starting to ebb away.

"Then let's go," Jane decided.

Exiting the church, Zellrid guided the children through the dusty, cobblestone streets of Lemoyne.

"Uncle, can you tell us about the history of the Nightstalkers?" Tom asked eagerly as they walked.

Zellrid grinned softly and rubbed the back of his neck, taking a moment to think about their request.

"Alright, I don't see any harm in telling some stories before Tay Tay returns. Let me start with the basics," he replied.

As they continued their walk, Zellrid began to share tales of the Nightstalkers - their origins and their purpose. The children listened intently, fascinated by the lore of their kind.

"The Nightstalkers were an organization formed in the first era many centuries ago. They were initially a group of individuals like ourselves, those descended from the ancient Larian bloodline, who possessed extraordinary abilities due to their mixed heritage.

We were born with powers beyond those of our fellow races, gifts that often made us feared and hunted."

"But now, let me tell you the story in more detail. In the beginning, there were three races: the graceful elves, the fierce Morang, and the ordinary humans.

They coexisted peacefully until one fateful day when the Morang inexplicably turned on the humans, sparing the elves. The humans were enslaved and toiled like beasts under cruel conditions.

One woman among the slaves defied the laws and bore a child with an elf. This child, named Varla, was cast into a pit at the tender age of 12 to fend for himself against monstrous creatures.

The elves were divided in their opinions about Varla – some saw him as one of their own and wished to stand against the Morang who had betrayed them, while others preferred to turn a blind eye.

To everyone's surprise, Varla not only survived but thrived in the pit, becoming a fearsome hunter who wielded fire with deadly precision.

He struck terror into those who dared challenge him, earning a reputation as the monster who conquered all foes in his fiery domain."