He ran into the accursed forest, for he knew that no sane man would dare tread within. And it had not failed him, as his pursuers stopped short in their tracks hesitant to move forth beyond the line of trees. He felt elated, but he knew that it was just a moment respite, for it will not be long until they continued their chase. He had to move, far from the edges of the trees; their fear of the forest would not be enough to keep them at bay. He rushed forth into the darkest depths, rumored to be the place where none of the living had returned from.

He cursed the Gods in his thoughts as he tried to stifle the blood flow from the wound he just had. It leeched him away, feeling exhaustion slowly creeping in. He needed to stop and treat the wound lest he succumbed to a slow death but it dawned on him that it would only mean giving his pursuers ample time to reach him. Hence, he continued forth, enduring the agonizing pain.

Twigs snapped, and branches clawed at him as he passed by. Shallow cuts began to ooze blood, making him in a sorrowful and sorry state. But he had to push forth even if he was in great pain. He wanted to live, and let him be damned if the Gods thought otherwise.

He mingled himself through the forest until he saw a wall of undulating and billowing white. It was an otherwordly fog, and within it were glimpses of a dead world.

He stopped inches away from the wall. His body started to shake, and his face twisted and turned pale. Thoughts instinctively formed in him, trying to convince him to turn back. It told him that what was in the fog will be the end of him. That was why he had to turn back. Voices that only he could hear spoke at him to turn back.

He had to turn back.

He stepped back in recoil and his legs almost gave way, but at that moment, he heard somebody shout, “Stop him!” The shout filled him with dread; his pursuers were on him.

He hesitated; should he risked it and head back, and use the trees as cover to escape? Or head into the dark depths, where they would be too frightened to pursue further?

He had to make a choice, and it had to be now.

If he went back, he might be able to escape but the exhaustion that followed afterwards would kill him as he bleed to death. But if he head into the dark depths, where he had no knowledge of, his fate would be resigned to the Gods he just cursed. The thought made him bitter with grief; to him, his fate should be his to control.

His pondering ended when he heard another shout, this time closer than before.

I have no choice, he thought. To be more precise, this is the only choice I have! It will be a gamble, but better that than to die like a dog.

Convinced of his choice, he stepped forward into the fog and disappeared within.

A moment after, the pursuers stood outside the fog and hesitated to cross. They waited for a few moments more to see if it was nothing but a ruse in his part. But after awhile, they finally went away with expressions of pity and regret; pity for the poor soul who had went in, and regret for a wasted hunt.

*

What stood before his eyes was an odd world.

The trees were dead and the land devoid of life. It was quiet, too, almost solemn, that it felt like he was isolated from the outside world. And fog, which he had never seen anything like it before, seemed to limit his sight to a few meters at most.

When he stepped into this world, the paralyzing fear he felt before was no more. It disappeared like a puff of smoke, as if the sensation that rooted him was fabricated. He was calm, unnaturally so. But before he could delve deeper on the thought, it was immediately pushed back into the recesses of his mind for he was in excruciating pain.

Drenched in sweat, he trotted to a dead tree and sat down by its side. Panting heavily, he leaned on it to rest. Gathering himself after a moment, he grabbed a worn-out bag and positioned it to his side. He shuffled through, searching for something he could use for his wound. After awhile, he brought out a selection of items.

First, he doused his wound in alcohol from his bag. The sharp pain forced him to grit his teeth. Immediately after, he grabbed a spare cloth and cleaned the wound. He then discarded the used cloth and reached out for a roll of gauze, and dressed the wound. It was not the most optimal solution, but it should be enough to last until he got back to a town or any human contact.

Breathing deeply, his nerves relaxed. He had avoided death, but only for now, and his safety was yet to be confirmed as he had stumbled himself into the fog.

He leaned there for a moment, and then stood up with shaky legs, still drained from both the escape and the wound. He needed to get himself to a suitable place that could treat him.

With his back at the tree, he looked around then walked off, intending to get away from the fog. He retraced his steps back to where he came from and slowly walked away. The fog swayed with each step he made.

He continued on until the fog finally dispersed but before he could revel in delight, he saw something strange. His face turned to doubt, for he could see further ahead where a tree stood, beneath it was a patch of ground wet with blood.

Realization dawned on him. “How!?” he shouted, and made a swift turn. His body suddenly became nimble and free, even though he was injured still. He avoided the claw-like branches with ease but the bandage on his side began to change to a shade of red.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

He retraced his steps once more, but just as the same as before, as soon as he reached the end, the fog began to cover him and obstruct his view. After a few steps more, the fog started to recede back and what he saw was the same tree he had leaned on.

He despaired as he begun to understand that he was trapped here in the forest. But before it could fester and take hold, he proceeded once more back into the fog hoping that his conjecture was wrong.

He ran out in hastened steps and what greeted him was the same as before: ground wet with his blood and same tree. His despair was now palpable, but refusing to cave in, he rushed into the fog again, now with the vigor of a caged beast. He did so many times but each time, it brought him back to the same place as if to spite and mock him.

It was midday before, but now, hints of orange suffused itself into the fog-covered sky. The sun was about to set.

The fog dispersed for the last time to reveal a battered young man. His expression was weary and in pain, and his movement sluggish and stiff. He dragged himself to the familiar tree and slumped down by the roots.

No wonder... he thought as he stared with empty eyes at the fog. His face was ashen and his breathing labored and heavy; his strength was slowly sapped away. The bandage on his wound was now dark-red and it trickled drops of blood.

His eyes flickered like a lonely ember in the wind. His body numbed and it took all he had just to pry his eyes open for a moment more. He was on the verge of losing himself to a deep sleep.

He mused to himself, “It really is useless...” and weakly laughed.

It was truly a laughable chain of events. After all, he only went here to make something out of his life, and did not expect to die on his first day outside. He only wanted to make a name for himself, and solving the reason of the Accursed Woods gave him a way in accomplishing his goal. With this, he thought, he would finally have a use for the only thing he was good at: an inquisitive mind.

But he was naive; naive to think that everything would fall nicely into place.

I’m worthless... I should have never left. He berated himself.

Even if my intellect is better than most, it still won’t amount to anything if I can’t even fight properly. What a joke. To think… that I’d be able to make… a name for myself.

At that moment, the sun had finally set.

He breathed no more and his body was still. Beneath him was blood finding its way into the cracks of the dried and dead world. He was alone with nothing but the dull moonlight of the mist-covered sky.

His journey towards fulfilling his trifling aspiration was abruptly cut short; a cruel but common fate. And with his journey ended, his weak life too followed along. He would only be discussed in passing as another pitiful soul who lost himself in the Accursed Woods. 

Discal, the aspiring scholar was no more...

But when a moment had passed, the peaceful fog suddenly roiled and undulated about. It churned like the tumultuous waves of a raging sea. In its violent wake, a vortex was made and in the center was his corpse. It whirled for a time then it stopped, with the vortex eerily stiff in place.

Everything went silent as if the river of time had ceased flowing.

Then, the fog moved but it was minute and faint as if it was gradually making way for something moving within. A soft thud echoed out from afar. Everything went silent once more and the fog again froze in place.

The fog moved again, and another soft thud. A pathway in the fog seemed to be opening up.

The process repeated itself until the silhouette of a figure could be seen. It was built like a man, but its height was the sum of two. The soft thud at this point transformed into a reverberating note, akin to the sound metal makes when struck.

With another step and an ensuing deep, metallic thud, the figure had finally stepped out of the fog and into the eye of the vortex. His person was fully covered in obsidian armor, and by his waist was a decrepit sword with a size relative to his height. His armor, once majestic and overbearing was now worn and cracked.

One could see tendrils of fog leaking out from the gaps as if it was holding the entire thing in place. And where his face should have been, was nothing more but a roiling white mass shaped slightly the face of a skull.

At this point, the armor and the sword seemed more like relics of the past than weapons of war. Clearly, it was only a matter of time that the fog-like being would succumb to the passage of time.

The fog-like being then swept his gaze and it landed on a corpse by a tree. He let his gaze linger as if he was in deep thought. He then walked over to the corpse and kneeled on one leg.

His face roiled, and spoke in a hoarse voice, “You will be the last.” He hoisted Discal up by the head, and stood on his feet. Discal’s corpse hanged in the air. He then grabbed his sword from the sheath by his side, and readied his weapon with a firm grip. He stabbed his sword forth and pierced the scholar in the heart, embedding his corpse onto the tree. “And hopefully... you will be the first to succeed.”