Rain poured down relentlessly, its heavy patter echoing through the forest. It cascaded along the vibrant leaves of spring, tracing the muddy imprints left by Ben's hurried footsteps and coating the beast's coarse black fur. A crackling bolt of purple lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the vast expanse. Its electric brilliance only intensified the downpour, making it even more relentless.
The Werewolf, a creature of nightmares, fixated its scarlet eyes on the edge of the forest. It effortlessly followed Oliver's scent, mingled with the scent of his blood, carried by the rain. But the boy was clever. He understood the power of mud to mask his scent, and the relentless rain added to his advantage. Still, the beast persisted in its hunt, driven by an otherworldly compulsion to track down and kill Oliver. A strange and unyielding directive flowed through its primal veins, impossible to ignore.
Yet, the creature remained blind to Oliver's presence. As it ventured deeper into the forest, it failed to notice the hidden alcoves and secret niches. Amidst the shadowed foliage, a fallen oak tree lay in wait, its size and shape defying expectations. Nestled within its darkness, the only source of feeble light was the intermittent brilliance of lightning, momentarily piercing the sky. Oliver huddled within that darkness, his hands gripping the fractured remnants of a sword, his wounds still searing with pain.
Silent as death, he watched as the beast drew near. A sigh of relief escaped his lips when the monster abruptly turned away, retreating into the night, vanishing like a wisp of smoke. Blacking out, Oliver's legs carried him far from that perilous encounter. Somehow, he managed to elude the monster and find this sanctuary. His knuckles grazed the rough bark of the fallen tree. This was his refuge, the one place where he could elude the beast's relentless pursuit. But if he failed... his mind recoiled at the memory of the dying animal, its final breaths mingling with the scent of blood-soaked fur.
His breathing grew labored, his heart pounding in his chest, in sync with the thunderous cracks of lightning in the distance. The beast had lost his trail, deceived by the combined forces of rain and mud. But he couldn't be certain how long this reprieve would last, or when the creature might stumble upon him once again.
His thoughts turned to the Witch, the orchestrator of this trial. The rock, a familiar monument, was meant to guide him towards a deeper understanding of this world. But how could he conquer this imposing challenge, this insurmountable mountain that lay before him?
He had unleashed countless blows upon the beast, his sword striking its flesh with relentless fury. A piece had even broken off, embedding itself in the monster's side, yet it remained undeterred. Closing his eyes, he attempted to find solace, to calm his racing mind. But the gruesome symphony of muscles squelching, bones snapping and reforming echoed in his ears, a haunting reminder of the beast's terrifying transformation.
How could he ever hope to slay such a monstrosity?
He strained to recall his knowledge of werewolves, but it proved futile. There were no silver bullets at his disposal, no conveniently placed weapon arranged by the Witch. This trial, this monument, held more secrets, he was certain of it. There had to be another way, another path yet undiscovered, to overcome this seemingly insurmountable challenge.
His mind gravitated toward his last resort, contemplating the possibility that reaching the monument could trigger a momentary respite, akin to a video game cutscene, where the advancing monster would cease its pursuit. Perhaps the ultimate goal all along was to attain that understanding, then simply flee rather than engage in a battle. "Live to fight another day," his father's words echoed in his head. However, he dismissed the notion, doubting it could be that straightforward. He couldn't afford to take the risk. Who knew what reaching the monument might do? It could make the beast even more desperate, more relentless.
He recognized the presence of a beast within the forest, but he also sensed that the Witch played a role in its creation. During her storytelling, during her explanations, there was an eerie familiarity that eluded his comprehension. He despised it, and he knew deep down that placing trust in the witch would only bring him grief.
His gaze dropped to his abdomen as another flash of light illuminated his surroundings. Three deep gashes marred his flesh, oozing slender rivulets of blood. If he remained in this condition for a few more hours, he would succumb to blood loss. Yet, he acknowledged his luck, knowing that had the wounds been just slightly deeper, he would have bled out like a helpless pig.
Yet, his thoughts wandered farther, deeper into the forest—or rather, beyond it. His eyes narrowed, a steely glint reflecting his resolve. How far could he run? He had managed to outrun the beast before. What if he were to partially bandage his wounds and make a daring escape? What if he simply left it all behind? True, he possessed no knowledge of the outside world, but he was an Imposter, a person of immense strength. The Witch's words resonated within his mind. He could abandon this place, leave behind the tribal life, and seek sponsorship from a kingdom.
He envisioned himself dwelling in a noble's opulent chambers, clad in the finest silk, treated like an aristocrat. His life could be one of grandeur, his every whim catered to by dutiful servants. He could live as a king, a god. Why, then, was he out here in the muck, bearing numerous bleeding wounds? Why did he linger in the forest as if driven by an insatiable need to prove himself?
Deep down, he knew the Witch was untrustworthy. A strange sensation, an unsettling blister in his soul, urged him to flee. But was this an instinctual fear, or a gnawing awareness of the truth? There existed the possibility that the Witch had set him up, that this challenge was designed to ensure his failure in the end. He clenched his teeth, attempting to dissect the predicament from various angles, desperately searching for the right course of action.
He had already repaid his debt to Dozia and The Lost Ones. He had saved them from the clutches of slavers, shedding blood in the process. They revered him like a deity, a savior. He never asked for this burden, never desired it for them. But what other choice did he have?
His gaze pierced through the fog and the never-ending expanse ahead. He could flee now, vanish into the depths of the forest and pretend this ordeal never transpired. He could just...
His attention shifted to the jagged edge of the sword, the broken piece still possessing a shard of sharpness despite its fractured state. Tears threatened to well up in his eyes, a heaviness pressing upon him as he grappled with his emotions. At least he had an option, a grim one, if the creature were to close in on him. He didn't want to meet his end in the same gruesome manner as that hapless animal. Yet, the solace of an alternative didn't offer true comfort. Swapping a painful death for a painless one was still a death. Whichever path he chose, survival hung by a slender thread. Would anything truly change if he simply fled?
Thoughts of The Lost Ones surfaced once more, lingering at the periphery of his mind. He had considered leaving the safety of their caverns behind. But could they truly find a place to call home? They were a band of young ones thrust into the harsh realities of this world, struggling to navigate its treacherous terrain. Could they truly endure?
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Another thought emerged, unbidden, during his battle with the monstrous creature. What lay beyond this confrontation? What awaited him after he emerged victorious? All he could envision was a dark, foreboding path. One plagued by a harsh existence, dictated by tribal principles and the enigmatic Deus Imperator. He could foresee it—a life consumed by war and conflict. The Lost Ones, they would rally under his banner, the symbol etched upon his left hand. It would become a war to reclaim magic, with him as their messiah, their true emperor—a godlike figure in this world.
He had heard tales of warfare from his father and grandfather, but never had they spoken of a Holy War, a conflict that could potentially unleash unprecedented chaos upon the people of this world. Bereft of their magic, they believed in him—a twelve-year-old middle schooler—as their savior, their deity. He winced, his hand running through his disheveled hair. What now?
Two options loomed before him, demanding a decision. He could engage in a fierce battle against this formidable monster, a colossal beast that seemed impervious to the wounds he inflicted. Alternatively, he could turn his back on this life, this dark purpose that bound him, and pretend it had never happened. He was human, an imposter. His powers may not be formidable, but the words of the Witch echoed in his mind—Sponsored Imposters. He felt a flicker of confidence that he could secure employment as a mercenary or a lone wanderer. Who knows? The odds of survival seemed greater than they did here.
He inhaled deeply, his mind inundated with images of Dozia and The Lost Ones. Why am I thinking of them? He had known them for only a few short days, having fulfilled his debt to Dozia and The Lost Ones by rescuing her from the clutches of slavers. A life for a life—the terms had been fair. Yet, as he drew that breath, his thoughts lingered on the diverging paths ahead, particularly the path of the Imposter. If he were to tread that road, he remained ignorant of the perils that awaited him, perhaps more so than the dangers lurking within the confines of the tribe.
From the Witch's description of sponsored Imposters, it became apparent that a kingdom-endorsed Imposter would gain notoriety across the realm. His very identity, his power, and every aspect of his being would be laid bare before the world. He would become a target for assassinations and countless other perils that would haunt his every step. Tribal warfare seemed a simpler alternative, a realm devoid of the intricate politics and other forms of warfare that would entangle a man intertwined with a kingdom.
But that raised another question—was he truly free from war's grasp? His gaze fixated on his left hand once more, the brand etched upon his arm pulsating with a vibrant purple light. The power of an Imposter may be feeble at its inception, but with the passing of years, they could ascend to godlike heights. He would be thrust into battles and wars, ensnared within the intricate web of a kingdom's delicate military might. Perhaps he would even be ensnared by the realm's political machinations. But he would forever be controlled, restrained, and should he ever dare to stray from the path dictated by his puppeteers...
He clenched his teeth, for he had no other recourse. He could take his chances amidst the unforgiving wilderness and hope to survive. If he managed to survive and find his way into the kingdom's embrace, his identity, his existence, and everything he held dear would be subject to the whims of kings and queens. He would likely be haunted by the constant specter of assassinations or other political ploys to keep him obediently in check.
Yet, the path of the Deus Imperator was veiled in profound darkness and relentless violence. He knew not what malevolence lurked along that road, but it was a necessary evil, a choice between two dire fates. And yet, his thoughts drifted once more to The Lost Ones, to Dozia.
Though their acquaintance had been brief, a bond had begun to form between them and the others. In his previous world, even in Aidan's company, he had felt a pervasive loneliness. Initially, he had believed that things would change once high school or college arrived. But, much like The Lost Ones' path, that road too was shrouded in darkness. Friends, his future—none of it beckoned to him. He had felt as if his life in his previous world were merely a ticking clock, passing through time with little change.
Since his mother's demise. No, he slowly shook his head. His mind drifted back to the frozen Arctic, where snow blanketed everything in a blinding white. He could almost see his breath there, the memory of his father's blood staining his jacket as he gazed upon the bleeding figure before him.
He had always been an outsider, observing places that appeared inviting but never delving deeper. His father used to say that they were kindred spirits in that regard. He reminisced, casting his mind back to the time his mother took him away after the incident. Wasn't it ironic that even in another world, his father's shadow loomed large, suffocating him?
Therapy sessions, medications—the facade of improvement. For a time, he had convinced himself that he was getting better. But deep down, he hadn't truly changed, had he? Antisocial, withdrawn into himself, he simply didn't know what lay ahead in his future. He had grown up enveloped by his father's plans and ideologies for so long that he had forgotten what he truly desired.
His gaze lowered to the hand grasping the blade. Whether wielding a sword or a gun, it mattered not. There was a strange simplicity to it all. He knew he had to slay this monster, and somehow, it felt easier than embarking on the path of college or studying for a test.
He recalled the forest, the rustic log cabin, and the drills orchestrated by his father and the militia. Order, structure, and rules had defined his existence back then. Life had been so uncomplicated, devoid of relationships and hobbies that might have distracted him. It was his comrades, his brothers-in-arms, who stood beside him, offering their unwavering support. The memories of mountain hikes, the drills designed to mold him into a true soldier, and the exhilarating war games flooded his mind.
A shiver coursed through his body, yet his lips curved into a smile. Oh, how he had relished those war games. Outmaneuvering opponents, devising cunning strategies, launching decisive strikes from the shadows—it was an intoxicating thrill. In those moments, he and his father had truly connected and played together. It was the only time he had ever felt like his father's equal.
He loved his mother and his grandparents, but an inexplicable void had always haunted his life, leaving him with an unsettling emptiness. His thoughts turned to Dozia and The Lost Ones, their ability to adapt and kill with such ease. He had overheard Dozia's contemplation on his initial aversion to taking lives. Had the modern life he had led—the life of his grandparents and mother—weakened him?
He had rejected his father's teachings, dismissing them as worthless. Yet, in this moment, he realized how much they could have served him, far more than the superficial knowledge imparted in school. Tears welled up, tracing down his cheeks, while the echoes of his father's voice resonated within his chest. The scent of smoke and rolled-up tobacco clung to his jacket, triggering a surge of memories.
Despite his animosity toward his father, the old man had proven useful. "My little soldier," he would say, recognizing the warrior within him. He had already claimed his first kill, a grim achievement. "A good kill," Dozia's voice echoed. Yes, there was honor in killing, in facing formidable adversaries and honing one's skills. His father had conveyed a similar sentiment.
Fevered anger surged within him, feeding off his wounds, intensifying the pain. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, dispelling fatigue, and gradually eroding his fear. "I will never run away again, Mom," he declared through gritted teeth, his smile resolute. "The last time I fled, you died. So, I promise I won't make the same mistake..."
Wraith, a boiling sin brewing deep within. Dozia was right; killing held honor, and strength was defined by the ability to survive and conquer mightier foes. His father had once uttered those words. He propelled himself from the tree, discarding his boots, their splash mingling with the muddy ground. They were of no use now. Likewise, he wanted the monster to be aware of his presence.
His mind raced, drawing upon the recollections of the old war games he had played with his father, for there lay truth within them. He harnessed everything he knew about the Werewolf, realizing he lacked any specialized sword or silver bullets. Isolating the creature seemed an impossible feat. But...
His eyes widened in a sudden realization, his lips stretching into a broad, triumphant smile. "Got you," he muttered under his breath. His head snapped toward the direction of the beast, a surge of purpose coursing through his veins. The plan, meticulously formed in his mind, began to unfurl. Now, it was time.Top of Form