Chapter 2 Whispers from the Void
I never understood people. Maybe I wasn’t meant to. From the moment I was old enough to notice the world, I felt this hollow ache in my chest, a sinking emptiness that nothing could fill. It wasn’t hunger, not in the way people talk about it. No, this was something deeper—an insatiable craving for a connection I could never grasp, for a place I could never find. I tried to fill it the only way I knew how: by pretending, by lying. To them. To myself.
I lied because it was easier than facing the truth. Easier than admitting that I didn’t belong. That no matter how hard I tried, I was always on the outside looking in. I built myself a comfortable little shell of falsehoods, and for a time, it worked. I blended in. I fit. But it was fragile—those lies were like paper, and the weight of them was enough to break me, or worse, break the people around me. Every time.
So, I did what I thought was the only thing left to do. I pulled away. Isolated myself, hoping that in the silence, in the solitude, that gnawing emptiness would finally be quieted. I thought if I stayed still long enough, the hunger would fade. But it didn’t.
It never did.
The hole inside me grew deeper, darker, and in the quiet of my isolation, something else began to stir. A voice. A presence. A call, as if something is taking advantage of my vulnerability. At first, I thought it was just a passing thought, a trick of the mind. But it came back. Over and over again, pulling me, whispering to me from the deepest corners of that empty space. Not just a hunger for connection anymore—no. This was something... else. Something older. Something more primal.
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“Hunger…”
A feeling of falling jolted the man to consciousness barely remembering the dream he had, this time, something feels off. The air is thick, suffocating—a stifling emptiness that presses down on his chest. He tries to open his eyes, but there's nothing. The pitch blackness is absolute, deeper than any darkness he’s ever known. No shadows, no depth. Just endless, suffocating black.
"I’m... still alive? How?"
He tries to move, to feel his surroundings, but there’s nothing. His body feels wrong. No limbs. No shape. No weight. Panic claws at him from the inside as he desperately tries to grasp at reality. He strains to open his eyes, but then he realizes... he doesn’t have eyes. Not even the remnants of them. He cannot see. He cannot feel. He cannot exist in the way he remembers. A feeling of familiar loneliness and isolation washed over him.
Suddenly, a violent jolt of pain rips through him. It's more than pain—it is anguish. His mind explodes with it, as though his very essence is being torn apart from the inside. His thoughts fracture, scatter like glass.
"It hurts!" he tries to scream, but there is no sound. There is no mouth. His body is... gone. There’s nothing left but the brittle, crooked framework of his skeleton, a hollow echo of the man he used to be.
"How am I still alive?!" he thinks in pure, mind-shattering terror. But no answer comes. He is alone in the dark, trapped in an existence that has no meaning, no hope. Just pain.
His mind flings itself into the past, memories crashing over him like waves of bitter ice. His miserable childhood—a home of cruelty, of violence hidden behind the masks of "love" and "discipline." The false smiles he had worn, even as they crushed him from the inside out. The kind words he had offered to others when his own soul was bleeding. The loneliness. The silent suffering.
And then… the end. The tight panful finality of the rope. The cold, grasp of death.
Suicide.
"I… I killed myself."
The realization is like a stone sinking into the pit of his stomach, heavy and unforgiving. So… this is it?
"Am I in hell?"
A laugh, bitter and hollow, echoes in his thoughts. What else could this be? This is a punishment. This agony. This endless nothingness. He had escaped his torment only to find a worse fate—a never-ending eternity of suffering.
"It’s not fair."
His mind spins out of control, consumed by the ache of the world he left behind and the world he finds himself in now. How could this be fair? Wasn't he punished enough in life? Wasn't it enough that he had to endure the abuse, the lies, the rejection of everyone who was supposed to love him?
He had kept the façade of kindness, of warmth, even as his heart was shredded from the inside. And now, he is here, trapped in a nightmare of his own making, punished for escaping the pain that had consumed him.
"Why? Why would God do this? Why would He let me suffer like this? Doesn’t He love His children? Doesn’t He care?"
The pain mounts, unbearable and all-consuming.
"It hurts. It hurts! It hurts so much!"
Hours stretch into days. Days into weeks. The pain is unrelenting. His thoughts become nothing but fragments of agony, lost in the void. Time is a blur. A cruel, endless cycle of suffering.
But then… a strange stillness.
"Huh? It… doesn’t hurt anymore?"
A calm descends, as if the world itself has taken a deep, impossible breath. And then, the impossible happens.
His body begins to reform. His organs. His muscles. His skin. Slowly, agonizingly, piece by piece, he regenerates.
"What is this?" he thinks, his mind too clouded with disbelief to fully grasp the miracle—or curse—of his body’s return. But as his lungs fill with air, a sharp, suffocating pain takes its place. His chest tightens. He cannot breathe.
Panic surges once more. No, no, no! He is not ready for this. He needs to get out. He needs to escape. The place—this... this coffin—it’s too small. Too soft.
"Urk! Gragh!"
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He claws at the walls of his prison, feeling his hands break as they scrape against the soft, pliable walls. He bites, his teeth fracturing, but he must get out. Please, let me out!
"AH!" he gasps, choking on the air that is just out of reach. His body thrashes against the walls of his new tomb, relentless and desperate. The pain in his chest only grows worse. It’s like being reborn through a thousand razor blades.
After what feels like an eternity of struggle—of clawing and biting and shrieking in silence—he finally breaks free.
"Haaaah..."
His first breath is one of sheer relief, and yet, even as the air fills his lungs, something inside him feels… different. He looks up at the sky, and the first thing he notices is not the relief of being free, but the strangeness of the world around him.
"Two moons?" His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. Two moons? The sight of them—a pale, distant glow in the sky—feels unnatural, as if mocking him. The weight of the unfamiliar presses down on him.
He looks down, eyes widening in shock at what lies beneath him: a creature unlike anything from his world, its body twisted and strange, with six legs, dark fur, and crystalline black spikes sprouting from its back. It is still—dead. It must have been dead for days.
"What… is this?" he wonders, his heart pounding in his chest as he examines the creature with a growing sense of unease. It’s almost like a honey badger, but far too large. Too… wrong.
He lingers in disbelief, trying to piece together the nightmare of his new reality. The two moons. The monstrous creature. His own regenerating body. No. He is not in hell.
"This… this isn’t hell. I’m… I’m in another world."
A deep, guttural laugh escapes him—bitter and hollow at first, then building, the sound growing frantic as his mind races. His heart beats erratically in his chest, as if trying to catch up with the realization. He is in another world, another life.
It’s too much. Too much to comprehend.
But for the first time, in this new reality, he laughs. He laughs like a child who has just been given a birthday present they never expected.
And in that moment, as he stands there, laughing in the strange wilderness beneath twin moons, the sky suddenly darkens. A shadow passes overhead, massive and ominous. A gargantuan flying creature descends, its claws sinking into his body, pulling him from the earth.
The last thing he feels before unconsciousness claims him again is the cruel, cold grip of fate, wrapping him in its wings.
-Break-
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Two hours had passed since the two adventurer parties had set off, the silence growing thick with the stillness of the open road. Millea, the kind-hearted priestess, cast a glance over the group, her eyes lingering on each member for a moment before she decided to break the silence.
"So…" she began softly, hesitating just a little, "you all heard the rumor about 'Regras the Savage' working with the bandits, right?"
There was a brief pause. The air seemed to hold its breath. Then, with a grunt, the dwarf beside Mava spoke up, his voice thick with a mix of weariness and suspicion. "Regras the Savage, huh? Yeah, the quest banner mentioned him. Used to be a mercenary for Legulia, they say. Slain a dragon once—tossed a spear at it, with a chain tied to it. Brought the damn thing down by sheer muscle. Got himself almost killed in the process, but he's tough. Don’t underestimate him." Gundine paused for a moment, brow furrowed. "Still, I’m curious how the scouts found their base of operations in such a dangerous place," he muttered, his voice trailing off into thought.
Mava snorted dismissively, her arms crossed and a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Old man Gundine, are you getting scared, or just going senile? All those ales catching up to you?" She puffed out her chest with exaggerated pride. "You forget, I’m Mava the Berserker. Hero of Deinsfield. I’ve slain more dragons than I can count. Regras wouldn’t even get close if my hands were tied. Hah!"
The elf archer, Elanora, who had been watching the conversation unfold quietly, raised an eyebrow and spoke with calm deliberation. "Mava’s right, in a way. You can’t underestimate anyone, but it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious. Those bandits may not be much on their own, but they’ve managed to raid two villages near Halletheas—despite the kingdom’s strong military presence. That tells you something about their strength." He glanced over at the others, his tone growing more serious. "What’s worrying is where they’ve taken refuge—in the inner border of the Forest of the Poisoned Oasis. You all know what’s there, right? Powerful monsters, barely anything living in the soil."
Mava’s eyes glinted as she leaned back in her seat, clearly unfazed by Elanora’s concern. "Well that place is a perfect place to hide anything since only few people dare to enter the forest, or Maybe... they’re after the blood of the Divine Beast of Hunger," she said casually, as if discussing the weather.
"The Divine Beast of Hunger?" Elanora’s interest piqued, her posture straightening.
Mava nodded, a grin forming on her face as she recited the old tale. "Yeah, you know the one. During the ‘War of Heaven,’ when The Witch of the End fell, it’s said the beast got injured. Its blood spilled across the land, and many believe it still lingers around the Poisoned Oasis."
The group fell quiet for a moment, the weight of Mava’s words settling in. Millea shivered slightly, her voice soft. "The Witch of the End… I remember the stories. She was the one who birthed the Beasts of the Night and spread the miasma that still haunts the undead. To think that a forest soaked in her ‘poison’ still exists… It’s terrifying."
Finrod, who had been quietly watching the exchange, scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Sounds like a lovely place," he muttered dryly.
"Not exactly a vacation spot," Mava replied, her grin widening. "But the blood of the Divine Beast, they say it grants incredible power. Strength like no other, eternal youth… the kind of thing that could turn a man into a legend, that's why people still try and look for it."
For a moment, they all let the conversation hang in the air, each of them considering the implications.
The sudden jolt of the carriage breaking to a halt snapped everyone out of their thoughts. Finrod stuck his head out the window, brow furrowing. "What’s going on? Why are we stopping?"
The coachman’s voice called back, his tone cautious. "There’s a man and a young lady asking for a ride."
Mava squinted out the window, her sharp eyes taking in the scene. A bandaged injured man wearing a mask, standing next to a young woman who appeared to be in her late teens, both of them looking desperate.
"Please, sir!" the young woman called out, her voice trembling. "You’re headed toward Thornhaven, right? That’s where our relatives lives. Please, we need your help."
The coachman hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. "Thornhaven, yes, but I can’t make that decision alone."
Mava turned to the group, her expression thoughtful. "What do you think? Doesn’t hurt to take a few more passengers, right? Especially with all the bandit activity. No sense leaving them out here."
Rodrick, who had been absentmindedly flipping through his pack, shrugged with a casual smile. "I don’t mind. They look harmless enough. And hey, there are worse things than bandits lurking out here."
Elanora crossed her arms, her voice low as she muttered, "Yeah, and we all know what happens when you leave people like this out in the open."
Mava gave a brief nod, her eyes flickering toward the others. "Alright then. Let’s make room." She waved for the two strangers to approach.
The girl and the tattered man exchanged a look—something fleeting, almost imperceptible. A shared glance that felt more like a question than an answer. Then, the man took a slow step forward, his expression hidden behind the mask, his eyes dark and unreadable. The young woman, pale and nervous, clutched at his sleeve and stepped into the carriage behind him.
As they settled into the seats, Millea felt a chill creep up her spine. The man’s mask was no ordinary disguise; it seemed to shimmer in the light, almost alive, as if it were made of something other than just clay and leather. And the girl… her eyes, though soft, seemed to hold a burden far beyond her years.
The atmosphere inside the carriage shifted. Even Mava—normally brimming with confidence—seemed unnerved, her gaze occasionally darting to the masked man, her posture a little more guarded.
Then, just as the carriage began to move again, the man’s voice broke the silence—a low, gravelly whisper that sent an unnatural shiver through the air. "You’re all headed for Thornhaven, yes? That’s… convenient." He paused, as if considering his next words carefully. "I wonder, though… how many of you will make it there."
Millea froze, her heart skipping a beat. The words were too casual, too deliberate. And then the girl spoke, her voice barely above a whisper: "It’s not safe… none of us are."
The carriage rumbled on, but Millea couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong—like the road ahead was not just filled with bandits, but something much darker, something waiting to be uncovered. The tension in the air thickened, and outside the carriage, the world seemed to watch them with unseen eyes.