Blessed Visor

The sky above Oakhaven was a bruised plum, heavy with the fat, pregnant bellies of rain clouds. A perpetual twilight clung to the village, the cobblestones slick with a pre-rain sheen, reflecting the gloom like a thousand miniature mirrors. The air bit with a sharp, pre-winter chill that seeped through David's worn coat, raising gooseflesh on his arms. He'd arrived at the imposing wooden gate just as the first fat drops began to fall, a dismal welcome to this unsettling place. The wood of the gate was dark and gnarled, etched with strange symbols that seemed to writhe in the dim light.

Perched atop one of the gate's moss-covered stone pillars, a lone stork, stark white against the oppressive grey, preened its feathers with an almost unsettling nonchalance. It seemed utterly unconcerned by the oppressive atmosphere.

Then, as David reached the gate, a sound ripped through the oppressive quiet – a distorted, echoing cry that resonated not just in the air, but deep within his skull. A figure emerged from the shadowed recess of the gatehouse. He was cloaked in thick, rough-spun robes the color of dried blood, the fabric stiff and unyielding, like cured leather armor. A grotesque mask, fashioned like the elongated beak of some predatory bird, concealed his face – a plague doctor's mask, David realized with a shiver, the dark glass eyes staring blankly ahead. He clutched a wickedly curved scythe in one gauntleted hand.

"The Archdemon… has… awakened!" the figure rasped, the words themselves clear enough, but the sound of them utterly alien. It was as if the man was speaking with a broken, malfunctioning instrument. Vowels stretched into guttural moans, consonants clicked and hissed like insects skittering across dry leaves. It was a language that bypassed David's ears, translating directly into raw sensation in his mind, a jarring, visceral experience.

David, thoroughly disoriented, offered a hesitant wave. The masked man remained impassive. Realizing verbal communication was impossible, the Watcher performed a sudden, shocking act. He drew a wickedly sharp, bone-handled knife and swiftly stabbed the back of his own hand. Then, with a grimace, he seized David's hand, pressing the bleeding wound against it, mingling their blood. "Stranger no more," he intoned, his voice now miraculously clear and understandable. "Brothers in a hand. Spirit of tongue appease our ears."

The moment the blood mingled, the distorted echoes ceased. David could understand him perfectly. As if summoned by the ritual, a trio of enormous raven-like creatures, their feathers as black as pitch, wheeled overhead, their harsh cries echoing through the darkening sky. David's eyes widened as he realized the creatures were not natural, but conjured from thin air, wisps of dark smoke still curling from their wings.

"Leave this place," the Watcher said, his voice now laced with urgency. "It's not safe for you. It's rare for someone from another country to find themselves here." He paused, considering David's bewildered expression. "What land do you hail from?"

"America," David replied, still reeling from the blood ritual.

The Watcher shook his masked head dismissively. "You wouldn't know America. Some backwards country, no doubt." He turned and strode into Oakhaven, his scythe clicking against the cobblestones. David, utterly bewildered, instinctively followed.

They entered a dimly lit tavern, the air thick with the smell of stale ale and damp wool. Inside, a group of men huddled around a rough-hewn table, their voices low and worried. "The rearing's getting harder," one grumbled. "Higher decay rate, I tell you."

"It's the winters," another countered, swirling the dregs of his drink. "They become sluggish, less prone to rot."

"Then why are even my giant bees more aggressive?" the first man retorted, slamming his fist on the table. "It's those blasted rumors of an archdemon's return."

The man spoke of undead noticed David and commented with a frown "that man has a nice shirt."

David turned to the Watcher. "This must be destiny," he said, attempting a nervous laugh. "You're the side character who's going to help me, right? Like in any manga."

The Watcher stopped dead, his masked head swiveling towards David. "Do you have a pathway?"

"A pathway?"

"Nonsense," the Watcher scoffed. "If you don't have a pathway, what guarantees your fate?" He muttered under his breath, "Some backwards country he came from." He turned back to David, his tone sharp. "You'll need to protect yourself. What spells are you proficient in?"

"Spells?" David's brow furrowed.

"Monkey," the Watcher sighed, pinching the bridge of his masked nose. "You know neither spells nor a pathway. What land spawned you? Do you even know where you are?"

"No," David confessed. "I crossed a gate… and just appeared here."

"A world door?" The Watcher's masked head snapped up. "By the ancestors… Peter died millennia ago with that door. Everyone knows that! Even your backwards nation. Are you a demon? From the sealed world? You seem human…"

A deep, resonant voice cut through the tavern's din. "My blessings detect no lie. What if he simply suffers from memory loss? A wise man once said, 'My instincts are never wrong.'"

David turned to see a striking figure enter the tavern. He was tall and powerfully built, with yellow bangs framing a face that was normally handsome, but now streaked with blood. His long blonde hair was matted and darkened, but his eyelashes remained a startling, almost unnatural yellow. His eyes were a piercing golden amber, and his right hand was encased in intricately crafted golden armor. He carried a gleaming silver spear.

David stared, speechless. "Yeah… sure… of course," he managed, feeling utterly out of his depth.

"Hmm," the Watcher murmured, tilting his masked head. "That… would explain much." He gestured to David. "Follow me."

He led them to the back of the tavern, to a door so small it seemed more like a cupboard. He produced a key and unlocked it, revealing not a storage space, but a swirling vortex of light. They stepped through, and suddenly they were standing in a grassy field, the air noticeably warmer, the sound of rushing water nearby. A natural hot spring bubbled a few feet away.

"So, this is a world door?" David asked, still trying to process the sudden transition.

"Not quite," the Watcher corrected. "It's no more than a pseudo-illusion, a pact I forged with the reality of this room. A pathway is a true ritual, a how, depending on the guarantor you choose. Or you can choose randomly, but whoever you choose becomes the guarantor of your pathway. Guarantors are usually gods, due to their… persistence. Their concept is eternal, even after their physical demise. The quality of the sacrifice given during the ritual also plays a part. A pathway guarantees a certain fate, as long as the guarantor endures. Less sacrifice means a harsher, more difficult path to that fate. Pathways are binding, unbreakable unless the guarantor is destroyed. There have been… incidents."

"But if you can't die until you reach that fate," David interrupted, "isn't that enough?"

The Watcher finally removed his mask, revealing a face framed by tightly bound black hair, woven into intricate braids. His eyes were dark and intense. A grim smile touched his lips. "Haven't you heard of undead?" he asked.