The Scenic Route

 A survivor.

Although, the man was barely alive, slumped in a pool of mud, blood, and leaves, his face contorted in pain and fear, with an unmistakable tear near his chin. His clothing was torn, his body marked with deep, savage wounds that bespoke of a struggle far beyond human cruelty.

Tristan knelt beside him, his voice barely a whisper.

"Hey… can you hear me?" The man's eyes fluttered for a brief moment, then stayed closed again.

His eyes were full of terror. A weak, ragged groan escaped his lips before he fell silent once more. Tristan's stomach tightened with a sickening mix of sorrow and disgust. Here was proof of the creature's brutality—someone had been attacked, left to suffer in the cold silence of the forest.

He knew he had little time to linger. Even as he studied the dying man's wounds, his mind screamed that he must move on. The creature was still out there, and if it had been drawn by the commotion, it might return at any moment. Reluctantly, Tristan pressed himself to his feet, leaving the dying soul behind in a tangle of broken leaves and blood. The loss stung, but the forest offered no solace—only a reminder that hope was fleeting on Gehenna.

Alone again.

With the weight of the night's horrors pressing down upon him, Tristan continued his journey. The forest was alive with subtle movements. Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of a shifting shadow at the edge of his vision—a flicker of pale, abnormal light or the glint of eyes that vanished as quickly as they appeared. Each time, his heart raced, and he forced himself to move forward, unwilling to be paralyzed by fear.

Every so often, he paused to listen. The darkness was filled with small sounds: the drip of water from leaf to stone, the soft rustle of undergrowth, and, most importantly, a low rhythmic scraping that seemed to follow him. 

As the hours passed in that endless night, Tristan's exhaustion deepened. His limbs felt sluggish, and hunger gnawed at his insides, yet he dared not stop. The forest seemed to stretch on forever, a shifting maze of shadows and whispered threats. Every noise became a potential threat—a snapped twig that might signal the approach of the creature or a rustle that might be nothing more than the wind. But the wind no longer soothed him; it only reminded him of the terror that lurked in every corner.

Then, as the night began its slow retreat and the first hints of a new day crept in, Tristan's heart sank further. He found himself at a narrow ridge, a precarious path rising above the forest floor. The ridge offered a faint view of the land beyond—a desolate expanse of dark, undulating shapes, with no clear sign of civilization or sanctuary. Yet even from this vantage, he sensed that the creature was near. 

In the dim light, a pair of eyes, bright and unblinking, seemed to watch him from the distance, disappearing just as Tristan noticed them.

A fresh wave of dread surged through him. Alone and exposed on that narrow ridge, Tristan knew that the creature was stalking him still—a relentless, patient hunter who would not be discouraged by the rising light. With trembling resolve, he began to descend the ridge, hoping to find a man made path through the forest. Every step was heavy with the memories of the night's terror and the grim evidence of violence that lay scattered in his wake.

The forest around him was transforming with the impending arrival of dawn. The oppressive black of night was giving way to a cold, pale glow that filtered weakly through the forest ceiling. Yet, the morning offered little comfort. Instead, it revealed more clearly the scars of the night—the broken branches, the disturbed ground, the subtle signs that something had passed through here with purposeful ruthlessness.

Tristan's eyes, strained and sore from hours of attention, caught sight of another clue: a torn scrap of fabric caught on a low branch, fluttering in the early breeze. It was similar to what he had seen near the dying man. The fabric's edges were ragged, and dark stains soiled its surface. He picked it up, his fingers trembling as he tried to piece together a story from these silent, violent messages.

Now, as the first solid light of dawn began to declare itself, Tristan found himself alone in a forest that was both familiar and completely unknown. The air was cool but heavy with the scent of earth and decay, and the soft mumble of the waking forest did little to relieve the tension that still pulsed in every shadow. The creature—whatever it was—had left its mark on this place. And Tristan, alone with nothing but the echoes of the night and the evidence of violence, knew that the hunt wasn't over.

With no clear path forward beside the trail of chaos caused by the beast, he pressed on. Each step was a silent prayer for answers, for any sign of survivors, for a way out of this living nightmare. The forest's old trees seemed to lean in closer as he moved, their branches forming outlandish shapes in the growing light. Now and then, Tristan paused to listen, straining to detect the softest hint of movement. But all he heard was the steady, constant rhythm of his heartbeat and the distant, almost indistinguishable sounds of a forest that was as much a predator as it was a tomb.

As the sun climbed higher, the oppressive night finally began to loosen its grip, but not its hold on Tristan's mind. The scars of the night were etched into the forest and his soul. The creature's presence was a constant shadow, a promise that the horrors of the night were only a prelude to what lay ahead. With every cautious step along the narrow, winding path, Tristan could not shake the feeling that he was being watched—observed by intelligence as old and relentless as the forest itself.

And so, in the pale glow of the new day, with the broken remnants of the night scattered behind him and the forest stretching out in an endless maze of dread and mystery, Tristan pressed onward. Alone in the wake of terror, he moved through the labyrinth of ancient trees, the thought of the creature's stalking gaze haunting him with every step.