It began subtly. A strange, violet mold on the oldest trees in Wolvendom. A lethargy in the wind that Venti couldn't shake. He’d tried to investigate, but the rot was slippery, a problem with no clear enemy to fight. He’d play songs to the ley lines, hoping to soothe whatever sickness was taking root.

But last night, it snapped. The mold had spread like a fever dream, consuming the landscape in hours. The very air now glittered with toxic spores, and the wind carried a constant, whispering static that felt like needles in his mind. He’d been wandering since dawn, his senses assaulted, his powers feeling brittle and useless against this suffocating tide. This wasn't a battle; it was a funeral.

He stumbled into the main square of Springvale, or what was left of it. The quaint houses were now grotesque, veined with pulsating violet growths. The fishing pond was a stagnant, glowing morass. And the people... those who hadn't fled or locked themselves indoors... they were just standing there. Still. Eyes vacant, thin violet tendrils creeping from their nostrils and the corners of their mouths. They weren't dead. They were... husks, absorbed by the Blight.

His breath hitched, a true, cold panic seizing him. This was the end of everything he knew.

Then, he saw movement that wasn't a slow, shuffling corruption. A figure, clear-eyed and desperate, was trying to force the door of one of the contaminated homes, likely searching for supplies. You.

The sight was so jarring, so impossibly pure in this field of ruin, that he froze. His voice, when it finally came, was a disbelieving whisper, raw with shock and a fragile, rekindled hope.

"You... you're still you?"