Chapter 3

When Nihilo woke, he found himself tied down, his hands and feet bound by something rough—likely rope made from jungle fibers.

He couldn't see anything; something was covering his eyes. He couldn't tell what it was, but if he had to guess, it might be a long leaf secured by rope to his face. It was a clever way to blindfold someone, really.

He tried to move, to rise, but then he heard a voice nearby—an old voice.

"It was about time you woke up."

As someone removed the leaf-and-rope blindfold, Nihilo's surroundings came into view. He was inside a tent, filled with various items. Dried herbs hung to one side, and pots of mud held liquid—some kind of concoction. A small fireplace, also made of mud, had a chimney extending outside the tent.

An old man stood nearby—the shaman, if Nihilo was right. His face was deeply wrinkled, yet his gaze was sharp and intense, not the look of someone who spent his life chanting spells, but someone capable of taking life.

"Hania told me you were possessed by some demon, but you don't look possessed," the old man said, his gaze scrutinizing Nihilo.

Nihilo studied the old man, intrigued. He tilted his head slightly and asked, "How can you tell I'm not a demon?"

The old man grinned, a smile so unsettling it could have sent a grown man running for cover. "Look down, child."

Following the old man's gaze, Nihilo noticed that his body was covered in strange patterns—dried red paint, likely blood, though it lacked the usual metallic scent of iron.

"What is this?" Nihilo asked, his voice calm as he examined the markings. He was only wearing a loincloth, his skin painted with bloodstained symbols. His limbs, still bound, ached slightly. It had been a long time since he had felt any real pain.

"This, child, is a ritual to kill demons," the old man said, his tone matter-of-fact. "I performed it while you were unconscious. If you had been a demon, the marks on your body would have killed you."

From the look in the old man's eyes, Nihilo sensed that he wished for him to die.

"I see," Nihilo replied, his voice still as impassive and emotionless as it had been. "Can you set me free now that you've seen I'm not a demon?"

"Not yet, child. We're waiting for someone," the old man answered. He stepped back, moving to the herbs hanging nearby. With deliberate movements, he began adding them to a bowl, mashing them together with a small rock.

As the old man worked, Nihilo decided to sit up. He struggled against the bindings, the ropes digging deeper into his skin, leaving painful bruises beneath due to the ropes. 

 After a minute or two, the old man approached Nihilo, holding the bowl in front of his mouth.

"Drink this," he commanded, his voice firm.

"What is this?" Nihilo asked, glancing down at the paste. It looked like green-colored ketchup but smelled nothing like it.

"You'll know once you drink it," the old man replied, his grin unsettling. "If you don't, I'll force it down your throat."

"Alright," Nihilo muttered, not wanting to be fed by the old man. He'd rather drink it himself.

The taste was terrible—like drinking sand mixed with water. Nihilo wasn't sure how he knew that, but he was certain this was exactly what it would taste like.

As the mixture settled in his stomach, a strange sensation washed over him. His head began to spin, everything around him twisting and warping. It felt like he was being stretched, the colors bleeding outside their usual boundaries. The old man's grin stretched too, distorting, as if he had been pulled like a rubber band. Nihilo found himself wondering if the old man had something in common with a certain boy who wanted to be king of the sea or something like that.

"What did you feed me?" Nihilo tried to ask, but all that escaped his mouth was a garbled sound, an unintelligible noise.

After this he passed out, 

As Nihilo started to wake from his slumber, he heard distant voices—arguing. But the words were muffled, as if someone had placed a noise dampener around him.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself back in the same tent where he had passed out. "What had the old man fed me?" he wondered, scanning the tent. . The old shaman was nowhere to be seen. The hearth was still burning, casting a faint glow, and his hands and feet were still bound, just as they had been before.

The only difference now was that the pain had faded. His limbs had grown numb from the restricted blood flow, leaving him unable to feel much of anything.

He tested the restraints, trying to move his hands and feet, but they didn't budge. The ropes held tight, unmoving.

As Nihilo continued struggling to loosen his restraints, the flap at the entrance of the tent opened. The old shaman entered, followed by the man with three pairs of wings and Hania.

Nihilo tried to speak but his voice faltered, "-don't want to?" Before he could finish, their eyes landed on him. They stared for a long moment.

"He's all yours," the man with the three-wing tattoo said to Hania, as he moved toward Nihilo, drawing a knife from his belt. The knife looked crude, made from sharpened bone with a rope wrapped around its handle.

The man cut through Nihilo's restraints with swift precision. Once the ropes were severed, he stepped back and turned toward the flap, but Nihilo's voice called out from behind him.

"You could have just untied the rope."

The man with the three-wing tattoo smiled, glancing over at Hania.

"I like him," he said, placing a hand on Hania's shoulder before leaving the tent.

The old shaman remained silent, his eyes gleaming with something unsettling, before he flashed Nihilo a manic grin.

Nihilo knew what that grin wanted to convey however he ignored it as he tried to stand however his feet were numb, even so he pushed through the pain and walked towards Hania.

Hania paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on Nihilo before he signaled for him to follow. Without a word, he stepped out of the tent.

Nihilo rose to his feet, his movements stiff and uneven. His numb limbs gave his gait a noticeable limp, but he followed without hesitation.

"What now?" Nihilo asked, his tone flat as his eyes fixed on Hania's back.

Hania didn't respond immediately, his steps deliberate and measured. The sunlight glinted off his two pairs of wing tattoos, making them seem almost alive, shifting subtly as though they might lift off his skin at any moment.

"You will join the hunting party," Hania said, glancing at Nihilo from the corner of his eye.

"Why?" Nihilo asked flatly, his tone betraying neither curiosity nor resistance. He rubbed at the red, bruised marks on his wrists, attempting to coax blood back into his numb hands.

"The Shaman wants me to keep an eye on you," Hania said, his face impassive. But as he added, "And who knows what might happen while we hunt," a sharp, predatory grin tugged at his lips, like a predator teasing its prey.

Nihilo met his gaze without flinching. Fear of death wasn't something he carried. Still, he wondered—if he did die, what would happen? Would his consciousness drift away from his body, returning to the void where his soul had been imprisoned, or would death bring a final, absolute end?

The thought didn't terrify him, but it didn't appeal either. After all, it had been far too long since anything truly interesting had happened. The void, with its endless monotony, had been his eternal prison—a place where nothing changed, nothing intrigued. Nihilo wasn't eager to return, especially now that things were finally starting to get... entertaining.

Hania clicked his tongue in annoyance, the sharp _tsk_ breaking the silence. Unsatisfied with Nihilo's lack of reaction, he motioned for him to follow.

They moved through the bustling tribe, the ambient noise fading as they ventured deeper into the forest. Soon, they arrived before an enormous tree with gnarled roots and a hollow opening near its base. Without hesitation, Hania crouched and disappeared into the dark entrance.

Nihilo paused, studying the massive tree before following. The interior surprised him—a vast hollow space large enough to hold forty, perhaps fifty people. Sunlight filtered through unseen openings above, casting fragmented beams onto a central campfire.

Around the walls, makeshift platforms of bamboo and rope clung to the tree's interior. Ladders led to these elevated spaces, which served as storage for food, weapons, and other necessities. The air carried the earthy scent of wood and smoke, mingled with the faint tang of dried meat.

It was a cool place. If he were a few hundred thousand years younger, he might have loved to claim this hollow tree as his lair.

 The hunting party, who had been busy talking amongst themselves, turned their attention to him and Hania. Their gazes, sharp and evaluating, lingered on Nihilo curiosity 

Hania glanced at him briefly before stepping further into the space, his expression neutral.