The forest was quiet again.

  Too quiet.

  He sat on the dirt, staring at the wolf’s lifeless body, breath shallow, limbs trembling. The spear—what was left of it—y beside him, its point bloodied and cracked. A bitter wind whispered through the trees, brushing against his sweat-soaked skin.

  His shoulder burned where the wolf’s teeth had found flesh. The wound was ragged, messy. Blood still oozed down his arm in slow streams. His ribs throbbed, one side swollen and tender. He could barely move without a jolt of pain.

  He needed rest.

  He needed somewhere safe.

  But safety felt like a myth.

  He forced himself up. Staggered toward the river, where the fire still crackled, low and flickering. He dropped beside it with a groan, grabbing one of the wide leaves he’d used before and pressing it to his shoulder.

  He hissed through clenched teeth.

  "God… this hurts…"

  He tore some of the leftover fabric from his ruined shirt and tied the leaf into pce as a makeshift bandage. Not tight—just enough to hold it there.

  His vision blurred briefly as a wave of exhaustion washed over him. He didn’t know how long he sat there. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. The constant, pale light overhead never shifted.

  Eventually, the pain dulled. Not vanished. Just… numbed.

  Enough to think.

  Enough to move.

  "I need a pce to sleep. Somewhere high. Somewhere beasts won’t follow."

  That’s when he saw it.

  The tree.

  It stood not far from the river’s edge, looming tall and solitary like a titan. Easily fifty meters high, its trunk was impossibly wide—thicker than any tree he’d seen in his life. No other trees dared grow near it, as if its roots demanded solitude.

  Its bark was ancient, split with age, textured like wrinkled stone. Moss grew in long strips around its base, and thick limbs branched high above, some wide enough to lie ft upon.

  More importantly—he saw it. Near the base, about ten feet up, a hollow. Large enough to crawl into.

  "That… could work."

  With a shaky breath, he approached the tree and pced a hand against its bark. It pulsed with warmth, faint and strange. Not like the heat of fire. Not like the cold of stone. Something else entirely. Alive.

  He climbed slowly, teeth gritted against the pain in his shoulder and side. Fingers dug into grooves in the bark, feet pressed into natural holds. Each movement sent fresh agony through his muscles.

  But he reached it.

  The hollow yawned open, dark and deep. He couldn’t see inside—but it was dry, shaded, and narrow enough that nothing rge could follow him in.

  He ducked his head and crawled in, inch by inch, until he found space to turn and lie down.

  Cool air drifted around him. The sound of the river was distant but calming. The darkness was complete.

  Safe.

  He curled into himself, arms crossed, breath slowing.

  And for the first time since waking in that cave… he let go.

  Sleep took him like a wave, deep and silent.

  He didn’t dream.

  Or if he did, they vanished the moment his eyes opened.

  His body was stiff. Sore. But something was… different.

  He sat up inside the hollow, expecting sharp pain to tear through his shoulder. Instead—just a dull throb. He blinked, touched the bandaged leaf wrap.

  It was damp, but not with blood.

  Confused, he peeled it back.

  The wound beneath was still raw, still red—but smaller. Tightened. As if days had passed, not hours. The edges had begun to close, scabbing with surprising speed. Even the gouges in his side felt less angry, less swollen.

  "Huh… must’ve been the leaf…?"

  He rubbed his arm cautiously. His skin felt warm. Not feverish—just warmer than the air around him.

  "I’ll take it," he muttered, dragging himself toward the hollow’s mouth.

  Outside, the pale light of the sky remained unchanged. Timeless. Dreamlike. The river still flowed with that calm, eternal sound. The forest was quiet—but not dead. Birds called to each other in distant trees. Insects hummed unseen in the grass. Leaves swayed in the wind.

  But there was something else beneath it all—a tension.

  The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful. The kind that waited.

  He climbed down the tree with less effort than the night before. His legs still ached, his body still heavy, but he moved smoother. More in control.

  He nded near his small fire pit, now cold and dead. Ash stained the stones bck. The bones of the fish he'd eaten were picked clean, scattered by some scavenger in the night.

  He needed more food.

  More supplies.

  And something better than a broken spear.

  He took one st look at the river and began walking into the forest, following no path. Just instinct. Caution. And need.

  The deeper he went, the stranger things became.

  The trees grew taller, their bark spiraled like twisted rope. Leaves shimmered with faint colors—blue, violet, even silver. Some branches reached toward the ground, curling like cws, while others reached toward the sky like spears.

  And the air itself felt… thicker.

  He passed by a tree that was covered in glowing mushrooms. Pale blue caps, growing in clusters like blooming fungi flowers. He didn’t touch them.

  Another tree had bark that moved slightly when he got close. Almost like it was breathing.

  The forest pulsed with life, but not the kind he understood.

  He crouched at one point to examine a trail of footprints—small, cwed, bipedal. Not human. Not wolf.

  Something else lived here.

  Many things.

  "I need a weapon."

  And not just a sharpened stick.

  He followed the trail, weaving through dense ferns and hanging vines, until something massive broke through the canopy in the distance.

  A structure.

  Stone.

  Walls.

  A building?

  He stopped, crouched behind a bush, eyes wide.

  It wasn’t ruins—it was a mansion. Or maybe a castle. Stone walls lined with wooden beams, towers rising above the trees. Ivy crept along the sides, but the pce looked… maintained. Preserved. Not ancient, but untouched by time.

  The forest ended in a perfect circle around the structure, as if the nd itself had pulled back to make space.

  He stared in disbelief.

  "What… is this pce?"

  A single, massive gate stood at the front. Wood reinforced with bck metal. Strange markings carved into the frame.

  He stepped forward, slowly, spear-grip tightened. His gut twisted with tension. The st time he saw something this out of pce… it had nearly killed him.

  But this time, he didn’t run.

  He walked.

  Because whatever y inside—might finally have the answers.

  He stepped into the clearing.

  The air felt different the moment he crossed the treeline. Cooler. Heavier. The breeze that had followed him through the forest stopped abruptly—as if it wasn’t allowed here.

  The ground beneath his feet was unnaturally smooth. Grass, but trimmed perfectly, not a single bde out of pce. It wasn’t wild. It wasn’t natural. It was curated.

  Maintained.

  He looked around warily.

  A garden spread out before the mansion—manicured rows of flowers, paths of crushed white stone, and statues. Dozens of statues. They stood like silent watchers among the flora: men and women frozen in mid-stride, arms outstretched or faces contorted in emotion.

  None of them looked peaceful.

  Most were terrified.

  Some had their hands up in defense, as if shielding themselves. Others knelt, faces twisted in agony. One near the center of the path was reaching toward the door, mouth open in a scream that would never finish.

  "What the hell…?"

  He tightened his grip on what was left of his spear and walked slower now, more deliberately, trying not to step too loudly on the stone path.

  The flowers were vibrant—too vibrant. Reds and oranges that looked painted, blues that shimmered unnaturally in the light. Their petals were perfect, like wax. Untouched by insects. Untouched by decay.

  Every sense in his body screamed at him.

  But he kept moving.

  Curiosity cwed at his caution.

  The mansion loomed ahead, its architecture precise and alien in its beauty. Smooth stone walls lined with timber. Polished metal inys that caught the sky’s pale light and refracted it back in soft glints. Windows—dark, unbroken, all closed. Not a speck of dust or dirt on them.

  It looked less like a building and more like a painting brought to life.

  Too perfect.

  Unreal.

  He stood before the front door. A massive wooden sb bound in iron, with a rge knocker shaped like a serpent devouring its own tail.

  Strange symbols were carved into the iron frame—sharp, angur, unlike any writing he’d ever seen. The longer he looked at them, the more they seemed to shift slightly, as if they didn’t want to be understood.

  He raised a hand, hesitating.

  Then knocked.

  Hello…? Silence.

  He waited.

  No movement. No voices. No shift in the garden behind him.

  He knocked again, harder.

  Is anyone there?! Still nothing.

  Frustrated, he pushed at the door—and it moved. Not stuck, not heavy. It opened on its own, slowly, without a sound.

  A gust of wind rushed outward, catching him in the chest.

  But it wasn’t warm.

  It was cold. Musty. And carried with it the scent of dust and abandonment.

  He stepped back instinctively. His eyes squinted against the sudden glow.

  Inside, past the open doorway, was a hall of light.

  Not sunlight.

  Not torchlight.

  Something else.

  It glowed from somewhere unseen—pure white, pulsing softly like a heartbeat.

  He turned his head away, rubbed his eyes.

  And when he looked back—the glow was gone.

  Only darkness remained beyond the threshold.

  He hesitated.

  Every part of him said to turn around.

  But he’d come too far.

  And some part of him… needed to know.

  Fuck it… He crossed the threshold.

  The door smmed shut behind him.

  Darkness swallowed him.

  The door smmed shut with a finality that echoed through the hallway like a judgment. The sound bounced from wall to wall, rolling into silence as quickly as it had come.

  He stood still for a long moment.

  Let his eyes adjust.

  No more glowing light. Just a cold, dust-choked gloom.

  The interior smelled old—like mold and forgotten years. The kind of scent that clings to skin and seeps into lungs. But unlike the cave, this wasn’t damp. It was dry. Still. Dead.

  He took a step forward. Then another.

  Wood groaned beneath his feet.

  The floor was made of polished pnks, once fine, now dulled and scuffed. Faded rugs stretched beneath his boots—still intact, but thin and fragile. The walls were lined with portraits, their details obscured by yers of dust and grime. Faint shapes of people, their eyes long since faded into shadow.

  It looked like no one had been here in decades.

  Yet the outside… was pristine.

  That thought hung in his mind like a weight.

  He walked slowly, passing broken furniture and empty sconces. Every room he passed looked the same—abandoned. Empty firepces, couches covered in white cloths, shattered picture frames on the floor.

  But there was no dust on the doorknobs.

  And no spiderwebs in the corners.

  As if someone had been here. Watching. Waiting. Cleaning—just not living.

  Eventually, he found a hallway that curved into a wider space—a study.

  The door here creaked open on old hinges.

  Inside, the air was thicker, like whatever had been left here hadn’t wanted to be disturbed.

  Bookshelves lined the walls, full of tomes aged to near ruin. Their spines were warped, their pages yellowed and curling. A long wooden desk sat at the far end of the room, scattered with documents and parchment.

  He stepped inside.

  Dust puffed up under his boots.

  He reached the desk and began to examine the papers. Most were damaged—edges torn, ink faded to smudges. He could barely make out the text:

  "Subject... failed... test inconclusive..."

  "Another failure... report #104849... neutralized..."

  More like this followed—notes, test results, strange numbered reports. Some were marked with red ink. Some had deep sshes through them, as if someone had tried to erase them with a bde.

  "What the hell were they doing here…?"

  He searched the drawers. Found mostly empty space.

  Until one bottom drawer slid open with resistance.

  Inside—a letter.

  Wrapped in a leather cover, nearly pristine. And next to it… a knife.

  Small. Elegant. Ornamental. Its hilt was white, lined with golden filigree, and a faintly glowing crystal sat embedded in the pommel.

  He picked it up. The bance was perfect. The bde sharp. Not ceremonial, despite its beauty.

  "A letter opener…? No. This is better than my spear ever was."

  He pocketed it.

  Then opened the letter.

  The writing was clean, flowing, and unsettling in its calmness:

  “Report #190487: It has been over three hundred years since the st subject. Raising the standards was meant to bring results. But I am out of time. This will be my final attempt. The next subject will meet the highest criteria— Even if it takes a thousand years. When they arrive, they’ll be stronger than all the rest. Or they’ll die like the others. End report.”

  He read it again.

  And again.

  It made no sense. Or maybe it made too much.

  "Experiment…?"

  His fingers tightened around the paper. His mind swirled.

  "Am I…?"

  He didn’t want to finish that thought.

  But the unease spread like poison in his chest.

  He backed away from the desk, gripping the letter knife tightly. Eyes scanning the study as if something might emerge from the shadows.

  But nothing came.

  Just silence.

  Stillness.

  Emptiness.

  He stepped back into the hallway.

  And pressed on.