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In the desert, where boundless sands piled high and no windbreak existed, sandstorms were nothing unusual. Unlike the stony deserts, the fine and light grains of a true sand desert meant storms came more often and lasted far longer. Records even spoke of one vast sandstorm that raged for fifty days straight, earning its own name: the Khamsin.
Once it began, a sandstorm swept across the land, climbing up to the undersides of clouds and blotting out the sun. It wasn’t darkness like night, but in the desert at midday it still cast a heavy shadow.
And in that shadow, Evil stirred.
“Gaaahhh!”
“L-Lord Rahmu! Aaaagh!”
With their death cries, two men vanished. It was no figure of speech—they vanished in the literal sense. Where a wave of pitch-black swept past, nothing remained. Not even a drop of blood.
The black was beetles, glistening black like obsidian. Anything their mandibles bit, armor or flesh alike, rotted away, reducing the living to a handful of dirt.
“Ermud! Rahim!”
Calling the names of his fallen men, Rahmu swung his sword with all his might. The reddish Aura along its blade forced the beetles back for a moment.
The crimson blaze of his scimitar could wound even those beetles with its Scorching Aura. Yet Rahmu’s face remained pale.
“Anyone who’s still alive, answer my call! Is no one there!?”
Barely thirty minutes since he’d...
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