Walk It Off
Desan walked through the forest, trailing a few steps behind Mire.
They'd left the camp and whatever supplies were still useful behind near the mansion. No real explanation. Just moved on. Typical.
Desan figured it was just Mire being… Mire. Efficient. Cold. Annoying.
The mansion was still in view if you squinted. Just barely. Black smoke still rising.
No one spoke during the walk. Not for the last three hours. Just the sound of boots pressing into wet earth, leaves crunching, wind threading through the trees like a whisper too tired to scream.
Unlike Velcrith.
Velcrith had a lot to say.
"That's the third different species of rot fungus we've passed, by the way. See how it curls around the bark? That's necrotic bonding. Not natural. Someone cursed this place years ago."
Pause.
"Oh, and that bird? Yeah, it's dead. You can tell because it's not flying. Brilliant deduction, I know."
Desan rolled his eyes but didn't speak.
The trees groaned, bark peeling as the echo of something barreling through the woods reached them.
Both Mire and Desan turned at the same time.
"Wild boars," Velcrith muttered. "Big ones."
A wild boar appeared, running towards them.
They were huge.
Massive, gnarled things with thick brown fur, soaked in streaks of red blood that wasn't theirs. Wood jutted out of their sides like broken spears, splinters embedded in muscle and bone.
Desan stepped back, slipping behind a tree for cover.
He didn't move. Just watched.
Something was wrong.
The way they ran—it wasn't rage. It wasn't hunting.
They were running from something.
And whatever made them run?
Was coming this way.
A roar—animal, guttural, laced with the sound of air being violently displaced.
Desan ducked by instinct. Dirt kicked up. His heart hammered.
He looked up.
About fifty meters ahead, trees had been shredded like wet parchment. The massive boars?
Cut in half.
Their steaming bodies lay twitching near Mire, who stood calm, blade drawn, not a scratch on him. Not even winded.
Desan stared, caught in silent awe.
Every movement from Mire was precise. Logical. Clean. His swordsmanship wasn't just trained—it was calculated. Efficient.
But under it… Desan saw it.
Cockiness.
Buried deep, hidden behind perfect footwork and mechanical grace—but it was there.
And Desan watched it all. Studied it. Memorized it.
Every pivot. Every swing. Every moment, he could steal and file away for later for survival.
But it wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
From the woods, more of them came. Crawling, snarling, crashing.
Boars—wrong ones.
Half-eaten.
Flesh torn. Fused. Mangled.
Some had extra limbs. Others had parts of wolves, deer, other boars jutting out of their backs. Like something had glued monsters together with spite.
Velcrith growled in his head. "Oh great. Frankenpigs."
Desan's grip tightened on his sword.
A wounded boar charged at him
A wounded boar thundered toward him, snorting blood, half its face torn off, still charging like it had something to prove.
Desan side-jumped, boots skidding on wet roots, and twisted with all his weight, shoving his sword through the damn thing's ear, straight into its brain. It collapsed mid-scream.
But the blade stuck.
He yanked.
Once. Twice. It squelched free.
"LOOK OUT—OTHER ONE!" Velcrith screamed.
It slammed into Desan—hard, lifting him off his feet and sending him flying.
He hit the ground like a ragdoll, skidding through dirt and bone shards, only stopping himself by stabbing his sword into the earth.
Didn't matter.
The boar was already on him.
Its jaw yawned wide, then split in two, grotesque and gurgling, ready to swallow him whole.
Desan kicked back, boots slipping. In the same motion, he twisted, dragging his sword in a brutal sideways arc—slicing straight across its face, tearing one of its eyes open like rotten fruit.
It screamed. Blood sprayed.
He tried to swing again—get the blade into the damn thing's skull—but a wolf head, jutting out from the boar's shoulder, snapped its jaws around his sword mid-swing.
It yanked, wild and erratic, the pain making the mutated beast thrash like a cornered animal.
Desan held on, barely. The sword was caught in its fangs, and now he was the one being swung around like a ragdoll.
With a grunt and bleeding palms, he shifted his grip, left hand, backward. Risky. Pain bloomed as the wolf head bit down, cutting into his hand—but it was enough. Desan twisted, jammed the blade deep through the back of the beast's thick neck.
Thunk.
He barely had time to breathe.
A stampede hit the clearing. Other beasts—wild, malformed—slammed into the downed boar, ramming it and Desan across the dirt like a thrown doll. They were running from something.
He didn't move. Couldn't. By some dumb luck, the boar's massive corpse had fallen over him, shielding him from the pack's trampling hooves.
The air reeked of panic and blood.
Desan rolled free, coughing. The boar was still breathing—barely. Its side rose in ragged, dying gasps, a massive wooden spike jutting from its ribs.
Desan walked to it. Stared down at the thing.
Then, slowly, pressed his boot into the wound—hard.
"Mercy," he muttered.
And paused.
Why? Why did he do it like that? Why make it suffer? Why not end it clean?
A part of him… didn't feel anything. No guilt. No rage. Just a cold, dull echo.
That's not me, he told himself.
But was it?
"Do you know what made this?" he asked aloud, more to distract himself than anything.
"Such mutations typically occur around demonic ritual," Velcrith replied.
Ding.
A sound like a massive bell echoed through the forest, rattling Desan's skull.
He looked up—just in time to see a huge fireball descend from the clouds, black flames crashing to the east.
Something was wrong.
The fire was black.
Then came the rumble.
The ground shook, like the whole forest was being rearranged. Like the land itself was breaking to make room for something new.
Cracks tore open. Monolithic pillars erupted from the earth all around the forest, splitting the soil and trees like paper.
The fog—the ever-present fog—shifted. Not just in shape, but in weight. It pressed against his skin. Thick. Heavy. Evil.
The scent of moss, bark, and dirt turned sour. Rot. Like a dead dog baking in the sun.
The pillars glowed red, etched with twisted demonic script, their bases surrounded by skulls and upside-down corpses, crucified in grotesque reverence.
And the forest began to die.
Trees shriveled.
Not burned. Not snapped. Withered.
Bark turned grey, then black. Leaves curled in on themselves like they were ashamed to be seen. The green bled out of the world in seconds.
The grass under Desan's boots cracked—not from dryness, but like it was rotting beneath him.
Every breath he took now tasted wrong. Like smoke. Like rusted copper left out in the rain.
The air itself smelled of death, and Desan knew that scent well enough to want to puke.
Desan moved, instinctively, like a frightened child seeking safety—toward Mire.
Mire was standing still, staring at his palm. Or more specifically—
A black gem embedded in his gauntlet. Almost invisible against the armor, but now glowing… faintly.
It pulsed. In and out. Like it was blinking.
Desan squinted. Was it—communicating?