In Verdant Wilds, strange things stirred at the stroke of midnight. The villagers whispered of a headless gene…
In Verdant Wilds, strange things stirred at the stroke of midnight. The villagers whispered of a headless general, sword in hand, dancing silently within the General's Shrine. His blade, they said, gleamed like frost in the moonlight. Some claimed they heard the crash of pottery from deep inside the shrine. And in the morning, wine jars would appear within the shrine as if conjured from the air.
The shrine had once been a sacred place, built to honor a general who had stood his ground against the Khitan. It should have echoed with solemn prayers, a place of reverence and remembrance. But ever since the statue within lost its head, whispers of spirits and curses had only grown louder.
Drawn by curiosity or perhaps mere foolishness, a villager from nearby began sneaking out at night, hoping to uncover the truth for himself. He claimed to have seen flickering shadows, more than one, dancing just beyond reach. But by the time he rushed inside, the shrine was empty, silent as a tomb. In time, his story was dismissed. Some said he had imagined it all, too frightened to even step past the gates. Like so many others, his tale was swallowed by doubt, its truth blurred beyond recognition. Now the shrine, worn by time and left to decay, stands alone in the wilderness.