"Hm, what's that?"

He stopped —Ah!

He shouldn’t have done that. The stinging pain, the shifting sky, the punted grass-covered goopy brown smacking him on the face, reminded him that he was still on a mud-filled ground. Thank goodness his feet didn't sprain. What was he thinking? How ironic it'd be for him to be injured here. Especially after finding a clue of possible survival. He could imagine his epitaph, inscribed on some cheap faux-granite, jeering at him. Here lay Euca, died as he was alive: slipping toward oblivion.

Sighing, he heaved himself up. Slowly this time. Step by step, leg by leg before turning his head in a ninety to the left. Might as well—

—what? W—was that real?

"T-that shouldn't be right..."

A purple, almost blackish vine was wrapped around on one of the birches, it sucked the life of the poor wooden high until the the tree lack even a single sprout of leaf. Cracked, bare branches, the fragile trunk unable to support its own leaden weight. And it wasn't just that. The vine — the vine spread its decay. Like a plague, like a wrongness, the birch become the central — the epicenter of rot. The ground around the sickening pair was bare. Devoid of any grass, bushes, flowers — anything that might indicated life. Instead what lay there was a carpet of gray, dusty ashes; crumbled to the slightest touch.

Then the other birches. While not as bad as the infested one, all of those who was unfortunate enough to grow around the said birch also showed signs of death, withers. Their leaves, few that remained, were yellow and veiny. Their roots, ripped from the ground; brittle, cracked.

Yet... that wasn't what drew his eyes, even by all measure, it should be. Instead, his eyes were drawn by something more sinister, more disturbing, more...unbelievable. A flower. Sprouted from the vine's white-purple radicles, the flower ...glowed. He'd be fine if it just normal glow. But no, it was not a glow that was the result of having its petals made from mirror-like material, nor it glowed green and teal as if it was phosporus-lit. No. The flower glowed black.

"Is—is this real?" Rubbing his eyes, he found that the flower was still there, very much there. It didn't blink, didn't evaporate, didn't disappear. It just stood. Menacingly, staringly.

His feet teetered backward, almost slipping again before he acceded to himself and to his heart that the flower was indeed real. Real, real. Not some figment of his hunger-induced imagination.

With careful, dreadful trot, he inched a bit. Just a bit. Closer look. And true to his far-away glance, there was no light abnormality, no optical illusions playing their tricks. The flower was indeed black. No. Not black. Dark. Like a starless night. Like his ceiling when it blackout, the flower was dark.

And not just any dark. It was a two-dimensional dark. A cut in space. A vantablack made real. Still, unlike vantablack which was merely absorbing the length of visible light and consequently only affected the sight on the area it was painted on, the flower's 'dark' affected its surrounding. Like dead pixel on monochrome TV, the darkness crawled in gradience. It started dark, then black, then black with a tinge of white, then grey, ashen grey. The darkness was a progressive, darkening dark. The surrounding light was getting dimmer and dimmer the closer it was to the flower.

Pretty sure that was not how vantablack worked.

How he knew that it was a flower was even more bizarre; the flower had an outline. Yes, an outline. An outline that was made from light. Purplish neon light. Circling its five petals with seldom buzz.

"... not to discount polarization effect like chirality. But that only applies when viewing light from a certain angle, and I mean, it's... there's no wind!" Fumbling. He swung around his hand feeling for a breeze. Any breeze. None. The wind that had blown since he woke up was nowhere to be felt.

He took a step closer. Taking a look down, left, and right of the birch. And to his surprise, there was no difference on its shape. No light bend, no twisted angle, the flower still dark just the same.

"A true black body..."

"This makes no sense. If only I brought my scissors... No!"

"Bad Euca! No scissors!" he chastised himself. "...it's an unknown specimen for god sake."

"Phone! Yes!" he scrambled. Patting down both of his khaki's pocket with fervor. A video. No! Even a photo would be all the proof he needed to... "Ah." he remembered. He had been robbed clean.

Damn!

"I wonder..." before he knew it, his hand already gripped a stick. Not too long, just a half meter give or take ten centimeters. Saying he was tempted would be an understatement. This was huge. Twenty on his h-index huge. His left hand, the stick it gripped, moved. Ever so slowly, reaching for the flow—

SLAP.

His right hand, the one with good sense smacked his overenthusiastic left, leaving the latter red and the stick fallen to the ground.

What was he doing?!!

He almost touched a specimen of unknown properties! Unknown danger!

"...let just note the place and came back la—"

—POOF!

"*COUGH!* *UGHK!* My eyes! What the HEC-!"

"Ehe."

"Heh. Hehe..."

"HehehEhEehe..."

"EheHEHE!"

W—what? W—why was he laughing like crazy? No! The flower! The flower must be toxi—

"muAhahAHhahAHHA HA! HA... HA... HA! I CAN DO ANYTHING!"

Hey! Hey!

"I'M ON TOP OF THE WORLD!"

STOP! STOP IT!

"WHO CARES AM I LOST IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE! THE GREAT AMAZING ME, MUST BE ABLE TO FIND DESTINATION BY JUST POINTING MY FINGER!"

NO! H—he, he should...

SPLASH!!

"Phew!! What the hell? Who ARE YOU...help... PEOPLE!"

Who the heck did they think they were? Splashing water at him? How dare they?! He should kill them! What...?

Splash.

"Keep splashing. Aim to his face."

"S—STOP, STOP!!"

Didn't they hear what he said? ENGLISH, PEOPLE! How could you not understand it? Listen... he'd even spell it if it so hard to understand. Stop. Splashing. Water. At. Him! Cont...Continue...

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Aargh!"

Stop it!

"Hold him still."

Wha—what now?

His eyes, his still closed eyes, bulged; realizing what had happened to him. "GET OFF ME!" he screamed. A body, cold and heavy had landed on top of him, he could feel two lithe hands pressing against his neck; elbows against his shoulder blade, pining him down. A woman, he managed to steal a glance.

How dare she touched the great him? Didn’t she knew who he was?? Curling his fist, he tried to punch her. It was no use though. His poorly positioned limbs only managed to flail upward in useless motion, not even reaching the place she sat herself on. He tried to heave himself. Pushing against her body weight. He could do this. He could do this! Just like a pushup, one, two, one, two, thr—"Argh!!!!"

Her grip! Her grip was too strong. The moment he tried to push himself up, the woman slammed him down. His chest bruised, flared in pain.

Drawing his breath, shallow now, he tried to prop himself again. But then ...nothing. He couldn't move. Heaving himself, he realized that somehow — someway, the woman had quadrupled in weight. If before she was a ten-kilo bag of flour, now she weighed like his old spring bed when it slipped on him.

"Hrrk..."

"Don't move, boy!"

"Hwwhat dho you whant?'

He could barely breath. With all the hate he could muster he stared at the man in front of him. Old and bald, a fading scar ran across his cheek. The mafia, huh. So this what they looked like. The ones who trapped him here. And it wasn't enough to rob and kidnap him apparently, they decided to play a game with him. Torturing him. Sick people. If he wasn't grasping for breath, he'd spit on the man's stupid face.

The mafia old man yanked his hair, pulling it upward, his hand pressing against his neck while the woman still holding his back to the ground.

"D—dhamn yhou."

"Splash him again."

Splash.

"Aah!"

"I said don't move, boy."

He froze. What? What the freaking hell? Was—was that a ...machete?

Releasing his neck the man brought the machete to him, brandishing it to the front of his nose. "Now tell me where's your company?"

"M-my what?" his eyes caught on the machete tips. It was ironic that even under the sparse light of the flower's darkness, the machete still shone bright with all of its silvery gleam.

"Wrong answer."

Flicking his big, muscled hand, the old man lowered the machete. Bit by bit. To his nose, down his chin, disappeared, then cold.

His neck.

The machete was on his neck!

"Your company, boy! Don't lie to me!"

“Hiii!”

"Tell me where they are! Or..." The man left the last part unsaid. Not that he needed to say it. The meaning was as clear as the warm, spreading gash on his neck.

"I—I don't know! I don't know! P-please, Sir, I'm alone!"

"He's useless, Sir."

"Bah! If you don't talk...” He gulped. The machete had been drawn from his neck. Was—was it finished? Blinking his eyes he was shook. The machete returned to his vision, but this time instead being brandished against his neck, the man pulled it back, arced it backward. No! He could see his life flashing before his eyes as the machete arced downward.

“...you might as well die."

He closed his eyes...

S—so this was it. This was it, right. This was how he died. Heh. At least it was unique. How many people could say they died to a freaking machete? He supposed it a tad less cool than those who died by artillery firing, drone bombing, or god forbid, nuclear explosion. But it—it enough. It was enough. He'd take it...

Better this than died alone in some nowhere retirement home.

What the hell? What was happening?! Amusement and acceptance? He was going to die for God sake! Had he gone insane, had he died yet?

No. His rapidly whirring brain could still hear the whoosh, the wind that smushed to side by the blade killing slash.

Still, knowing that, a part of him, a part he didn't know he had, seized that train of thought, that very warped amusement and acceptance and glee and all of its unholy companions with so much force that it frightened him.

So this what it called? Being a human? A contradiction even in death? He always imagined himself die kicking and screaming. Those 'don't go gentle into that good night' kind of thing.

He wanted to do those. Wanted to kick. Wanted to scream. But that seized thought, sprawled its influence. Succumbing its being unto him, becaming him. His anger, his fear—his horror. All were blunted.

The monkey had stopped their drum banging. The nagging, snarky part he hoped to silence all this time, fell quiet. What remained was a hush, a peace, and him. Him alone. Him alone in the dark and empty nothing, waiting for his final ending.

A breath passed.

Then the next.

Then the other next.

Slowly opening his eyes, he was struck silly. The old man god knew why, had sheathed his machete; the woman, gone. His body was left lying. Lying, sprawling, alone on the forest floor.

"W—why?" he managed to say. The exposed edge of his left ankle, the one which touched the muddy ground, was itchy, asking to be scratched. He let it be though. Staring at the open sky, he repeated his question once more. "Why?"

"He seems all right, Sir."

"Is your mind clear now, boy?"

"W—what?"

"Is your mind clear now?"

"Of course my mind is clear!" he screamed. "It's always clear! Who are you, people—"

—wait! His mind! That flower's pollen! H—How? His head snapped upward, turning to the old man, to the woman, to the old man again.

"W—were you helping me?"

"Looks the boy all right."

"T—thank you... Thank you! Thank you!"

"...what happened to me?"

"You, boy, got a bad case of Verdi."

"V—verdi?"

"Verdi. Fool's bravery. See those?" He pointed to the flower. "That is Eperti. Its damned pollen was born from dark malice of —grace us with your light of day— Kraa himself."

"Give it an hour and you will challenge kobold chieftain with your bare hand."

Kobold? Was he hearing that right? He meant he had his suspicion. The moment he stepped in to his bathroom. That he didn't feel woozy when he arrived on this forest. That there was no headache. The ...flowers. Was he?

Was he??

"The only cure is a depressing thought. Terrible, terrible depressing thought."

"...or spirits."

"Yes, or five pints of spirits, Amy. Five damn pints... Hadn't I taught you better?"

"Sorry, Sir."

"...never waste your wares. You have a good heart. But not all people decent. And not all those decent have money."

"Yes, Sir."

"Err..." he trailed, suppressing the disbelief and the reality that now waging war inside his mind. "Thanks you, Ms. Amy, Mr..."

"Terence. Call me Terence, boy."

"Mr. Terence."

"Why are you here boy? Are you lost?"

W—what should he say?

"Y-yes. I just on my way to ...the nearest town."

Would that be enough? He could just pretend to be confused from those V-whatever. Yes! Yes! That should do it!

"Ar'endal? Just half day away then. Come. Amy will lend you a new shirt while we dry yo—"

"UNCLE, What's taking you so long?"

As he was standing up, propping himself by his knees. A miffed young boy not more than thirteen, perhaps fourteen shouted, running toward them.

Behind him was a frazzled-looking man, struggling between keeping the boy in line and placating his ...horses? No. Not horses. Normal horses didn't have cracked stone scales as skin, did they?

And were those old wild west style's carriages?

"—urs. Don't interrupt me Besnik. I'll be there shortly."

"Eh... who's this weirdo?"

"Have you finish practicing your letters?"

"Eeeh."

"Besnik, when I agreed to let you join this—"

"Okay, okay, I'll finish it. Sheesh..."

"That brat! I thought my older brother was exaggerating. Not one peaceful day since — Hah! Forget it!"

"Right, I haven't got your name. What is your name again, boy?" The old man — Mr. Terence turned toward him.

"Boy?"

"A-ah Euca, my name is Euca."