Chapter 12: The Darkest Shadows

The forest lay silent, its depths cloaked in a strange, eerie tranquility as the night descended. Sparse starlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting fragmented shadows that seemed to watch the travelers with hidden eyes.

Gawain and his group moved cautiously through the forest, their steps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves beneath them. As darkness deepened, the temperature dropped, a chill pressing against them, urging them to quicken their pace.

"There's something wrong with this place," Amber murmured, her voice low. Her sharp elven senses were alert, her eyes scanning their surroundings with a cautious gleam. "It feels like… something's watching us."

Gawain nodded, his gaze sweeping the shadows, his every sense tuned to the slightest hint of danger. He had noticed the peculiar energy within the forest, a faint oppressive force that stirred the instincts of even the most seasoned warrior. "Stay vigilant. It seems this forest has little warmth for strangers."

Hetty stepped closer, her face serious. "Ancestor, I'm sensing magic nearby. This isn't a natural aura—it feels like the presence of a magical creature."

"A magical creature?" Gawain's brows furrowed as he looked into the dim woods. Encountering magical creatures would increase the danger they faced, especially since many of them were already fatigued from the journey.

At that moment, a low, guttural growl echoed from somewhere ahead. Amber's hand tightened on her dagger, her posture tense as she whispered, "The sound is coming from up ahead. Looks like we'll have to face it."

Gawain nodded, his tone calm but firm as he addressed the group, "Prepare for a fight. This forest may resist our presence, but we must make it clear we won't back down easily."

At his command, the group entered a battle-ready state. Hetty gripped her staff, chanting softly as a faint magical glow began to gather around her, ready to unleash a spell at any moment. Rebecca, although visibly nervous, held her staff firmly, her determination evident.

The shadows around them seemed to thicken, and in the dimness ahead, a pair of red eyes flickered ominously.

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**The Nameless Forest**

This untamed region lay far from the centers of civilization, where vast, undeveloped lands were common. While every piece of land technically belonged to a lord, not all territories had the manpower or resources to tame the wilderness.

The kingdom had no extra resources to manage areas close to the borders of the Gandor wastelands, and thanks to the towering wall of sentinel towers—constructed with the aid of the elves—that encircled the wastelands, there was little need to station large armies here. But this security had bred neglect, and so the borderlands had fallen into a steady decline.

There were other paths from the Cecil lands to Tanzan in the north, but passing through the forest to reach the main road was by far the shortest. Other routes would either require a long detour or traversing even more dangerous, lawless lands—neither was an appealing choice.

The deeper they ventured into the forest, the dimmer the daylight became. Thick layers of decayed leaves lay underfoot, dampening their steps as they wound their way forward. Although Hetty was a refined noblewoman accustomed to society's challenges, the hardships of the wilderness were another matter entirely.

As for Rebecca, Gawain was mildly surprised by her resilience. This young lady, with her demeanor reminiscent of a high school girl, kept up without faltering and navigated the dense undergrowth as skillfully as the soldiers. Curious, Gawain asked, to which Rebecca replied with a hint of embarrassment, "I was a bit of a wild child. When I was younger, I used to run around like the boys, exploring the forests in the territory. Before I showed magical talent, my father even thought I might make a good knight…though I didn't quite live up to that dream. Still, I kept up my training because, well, the family motto says that a lord should be fit enough to protect their people…"

Gawain nodded thoughtfully. Despite her occasional eccentricities, his N+1 generation granddaughter was rather earnest—a rarity among nobility.

"Take notes from her," he thought, glancing over at his other descendant, Hetty, who was nearly out of breath.

Byron, observing the forest around them, commented, "There may be some magical creatures in the depths of these woods, but they shouldn't be powerful." He nudged at a dark, formless lump on the ground with his sword, watching as it began to dissolve into the air. "The shadow element is dense here. There's probably a weak magical focus point somewhere in the heart of the forest."

"Oh, definitely a weak one," Amber added, twirling her dagger as she scanned their surroundings. "If it were anything of quality, the Mage Guild or Astronomers' Association would've already claimed it. And look around—no mutated plants or anything. The magic here isn't even strong enough to influence the local flora."

Gawain looked at them both in surprise. "You two seem pretty knowledgeable."

Rebecca smiled, glancing at Byron. "Before he served my father, Uncle Byron used to be a mercenary."

Byron looked uncomfortable. "That was a long time ago, miss."

Amber spun her dagger with even more flair, grinning. "Oh, don't be so cryptic. Everyone's got a past."

Her face practically radiated the expression, *"Ask me about mine."* But Gawain had no intention of playing along with her theatrics. From just one day of traveling with her, he'd already figured out much of her nature. She likely knew so much about survival because she was often on the run, hiding in forests to escape guards. If he asked, she'd probably spin some grand tale—like crossing the continent and befriending the Elven King.

Their journey took them deeper still, where trees grew denser and the sunlight filtering through the branches grew scarce.

Gawain looked up. The enormous "sun" now appeared as scattered fragments of light filtering through the leaves, like a vast shattered plate suspended above. The sunlight seemed colder, lending an unsettling chill to the air.

Betty, the weakest among them, shivered and nearly dropped her beloved frying pan. She sniffed, rubbing her cold hands together.

Amber stopped fiddling with her dagger and crouched low, her light-colored eyes flashing with caution. She glanced over at Gawain, a puff of white breath escaping her lips. "Don't you think… it's gotten colder than it should be?"

Hetty's eyes sharpened. Shaking off her earlier fatigue, she planted her staff firmly on the ground and muttered a spell: "Detect Distortion."

A versatile mage spell, *Detect Distortion* allowed a caster to sense hidden energy fluctuations in their surroundings, from concealed magic traps to unseen energy fields. Properly cast, it could even detect energy traces one level above the caster's ability—and Hetty was a Level 3 mage.

Suddenly, Gawain noticed that mist was forming around them.

No—it wasn't mist, but a dense, previously invisible spiritual energy that had grown strong enough to manifest in the material world.

The haze grew thicker, obscuring visibility beyond a few meters. Within its swirling depths, shadowy figures flickered in and out of sight.

Betty's eyes widened in terror, and just as she was about to scream, Gawain clamped a hand over her mouth. "Shh. Don't make a sound—you'll draw them to us."

Betty nodded, her wide eyes welling up with tears as she clutched her frying pan tighter.

"Some people fear strange things," Gawain thought, slightly amused. "Not even dragons scared her, yet here she is, terrified."

"What… are these things?" Rebecca asked, her voice trembling as she tightened her grip on her staff, tiny sparks dancing around its tip. "When… when did we get surrounded?"

"Wraith Mist," Hetty muttered through gritted teeth, "Damn it. How is there Wraith Mist here?"

Gawain quickly searched his memory. *Wraith Mist* could form naturally in places dense with shadow energy where the dead roamed. Once created, it remained invisible in the material realm, affecting only those who unwittingly stumbled too far within.

Unless one detected it before entering too deep, they'd slowly succumb to its effects—its chill would sap their strength, and its illusions would drive them mad. Those unfortunate enough to die within it wouldn't even realize what had killed them. The mist only became visible once it claimed a life, forever staining the victim's final memory.

While it was possible to create Wraith Mist artificially, the method was both complex and inefficient, making it an unlikely choice even for necromancers.

Gawain drew his sword, but held off attacking. Wraith Mist was unique in that it didn't inherently assault its victims; the damage came from its aura rather than aggression. Only when disturbed did the mist lash out with lethal force.

Uncertain if the mist had been disturbed, Gawain focused on finding a thinner area to escape. But just then, a soft, eerie laugh echoed from somewhere within the fog, seeming to drift from every direction.

A flicker of irritation crossed Gawain's face. *Mocked by a cloud?* He raised his sword, swinging it toward the source of the sound, a dark red flame bursting forth from his blade and cutting a ghostly figure in two.

"Focus your attacks on that ghost flitting through the mist in white!"