The vision of the villagers blurred as their breaths tightened in their chests while witnessing the final farewell. Jumanji—the mountain that had never once bowed—collapsed while holding the body of his innocent little daughter, whom the illness had not allowed to reach her sixth spring. It was an embrace that carried the pain of the entire world, an embrace in which the little girl seemed to melt into her father’s chest for the very last time.

  Jumanji swallowed his rage and clenched his teeth until they nearly shattered, trying to suppress a scream that, if released, might have shaken the very walls of the house. A solemn funeral silence filled the air, broken only by the cries of his small son, trembling in terror in the arms of one of the village women.

  With steps heavy with grief, Jumanji walked forward, took his little son, and pulled him tightly to his chest as if trying to shield him from the poisoned air of the room. He buried his face in the boy’s neck and whispered in a faint, hoarse voice, as though it rose from a deep well:

  “A part of you, my son… a part of you has left us.”

  That bleak morning witnessed the burial of twenty-three villagers. The graves stood in rows like silent witnesses to the collapse of their world. Jumanji’s little daughter was buried beside her late grandfather beneath the shade of a lush green tree—the only thing in the village that refused to wither amidst all this death.

  After the ceremony ended, Jumanji turned and walked away with lost, unsteady steps, his loyal red dog silently following behind him. The animal did not understand where its master was going, but it followed the slow rhythm of his broken heart, as if its instincts had already told it that Jumanji was no longer the same man.

  Before long, their wandering steps led them to that lonely cave, where the faint glow of a small fire pierced the darkness and revealed the silent corners of the place.

  There, the boy was still lying in his eternal stillness.

  Nothing about him had changed.

  His jet-black robe remained untouched, and his flawless face looked terrifyingly perfect. Years had passed, seasons had come and gone, yet he remained exactly the same—as if challenging time itself with marble-like beauty and an innocence untouched by corruption.

  Only his eyes were different.

  They were wide open, filled with a deep and dignified darkness that carried an unsettling mystery.

  Jumanji sat beside him, bent beneath the weight of his grief. Tears gathered in his eyes as he stared at the silent boy for a long time. In a suffocated voice, he began telling him everything that had happened, pouring his pain into the ears of the boy who looked no older than fourteen.

  It was something Jumanji had always done.

  He had long treated this strange boy as the keeper of his secrets. Whenever happiness filled his heart, he would come here to speak with him. And today, he came carrying the shattered remains of a man destroyed by tragedy.

  After emptying his heart, Jumanji returned to the village with broken steps.

  The days passed quickly.

  With every sunrise, the shadow of death devoured another home. Villagers began disappearing one by one, as though the earth itself was swallowing them silently.

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  Mayrumi’s parents died.

  Then Jumanji’s mother followed.

  Before the pain of one loss could settle, another would ignite within their chests.

  At some point, a bitter belief spread among the survivors—that the first person to die had been the luckiest of them all. They had left peacefully before tasting the torment of waiting for their turn… before their hearts were shattered again and again by endless loss.

  Soon, only twenty people remained in the village, standing face to face with death.

  Then came the darkest day for Jumanji.

  His little son, Jaimon, passed away—joining his sister Jomana beneath that same green tree.

  After burying his son beside his daughter, a heavy silence settled over the village. It was broken only by the sound of wooden wheels approaching from afar.

  A strange carriage emerged through the dusty road—something the exhausted villagers had never seen before. Four travelers sat upon it, their clothing unusual, carrying the scent of distant lands.

  Among them was an old physician whose face bore the deep lines of wisdom and experience. He had been traveling through these lands searching for rare herbs that grew only in the mountains.

  When the survivors told him of the disaster that had befallen their village, the old man did not panic. Instead, a calm expression appeared on his face.

  In a confident voice, he assured them that their illness was strange—but not impossible to cure.

  And he promised them that tomorrow’s dawn would bring the medicine that would end this nightmare.

  That night, hope returned to the hearts of the remaining villagers for the first time in ages. The old man and his three companions became the fragile lifeline that drowning souls desperately clung to.

  They stayed in one of the abandoned houses while the villagers waited anxiously for morning.

  But death was faster than hope.

  Before the sun could even set, it came for Mayrumi.

  Jumanji watched as she left this world, a fire burning inside his chest that would never fade. And she was not the only one.

  The remaining villagers began falling one after another in a horrifying, surreal scene.

  While they waited for the cure, the disease struck with terrifying ferocity, snatching their lives with the speed of a predator diving upon helpless prey.

  Soon, Jumanji stood alone in a village filled only with the silence of graves.

  The old man stood quietly beside him as Jumanji’s trembling hands dropped the final handfuls of dirt onto Mayrumi’s grave.

  At that moment, Jumanji felt as though he was not burying his wife alone—every handful of soil felt as if it was being thrown upon his own back.

  The weight became unbearable.

  His body bent forward as if he carried the mountains of the earth upon his shattered shoulders.

  The three other travelers approached him with sorrowful expressions to offer their condolences. The old man then spoke with a heavy voice filled with regret.

  “My son… accept my deepest apologies. I never intended to plant false hope in your hearts. I did not realize the disease moved with such speed.”

  Jumanji replied weakly:

  “It’s alright, wise one… perhaps the earth simply longed for its children and wanted to embrace them quickly. You are not responsible for a fate written before you arrived.”

  Silence followed.

  Then Jumanji added quietly:

  “Do not trouble yourself creating medicine for people who no longer have a reason to be healed. I am content with the life I lived… after losing them all, there is no meaning left in staying.”

  He then walked back toward his house.

  At the doorstep, he found his loyal dog lying lifeless on the ground, surrounded by the same black liquid.

  Even the last companion who had followed him faithfully had fallen.

  The village was now nothing but death and memories.

  The next morning, Jumanji awoke slowly. When he looked at his hands, he saw the wax-like sickness spreading across his skin. Black liquid dripped from his fingers just as it had from his daughter’s.

  A strange relief filled his voice.

  “So… this disease spares no one. At last… I will join you.”

  But suddenly he remembered the four strangers—the only people who did not belong to the village.

  With what strength he had left, he rushed to warn them.

  Before he could knock on their door, he froze.

  Laughter echoed from inside.

  Cruel. Mocking laughter.

  “Hahaha! Just as we planned. Everyone is dead… only that boy remains.”

  Another voice answered coldly:

  “He won’t last long. Today will be his last breath.”

  The old man then spoke calmly:

  “Our mission here is complete. We have harvested what we came for.”

  Outside the door, Jumanji’s heart trembled with horror.

  “Were… they the ones behind this?”

  Before he could process the thought, the door suddenly opened.

  A violent gust of wind slammed into him, throwing his frail body like a feather against a wall.

  Darkness swallowed his consciousness.

  “Ninan! What are you doing?” the old man shouted.

  Ninan smirked.

  “We both know what he would ask, grandfather. Why waste time explaining?”

  He formed a sharp blade of wind between his fingers and walked toward Jumanji.

  But the old man stopped him.

  “Leave the boy. The disease will finish him soon enough.”

  Moments later, the four strangers departed, leaving only betrayal and silence behind.

  When Jumanji regained consciousness, he realized the truth.

  The villagers had not died by fate.

  They had been nothing more than experiments.

  He collapsed to his knees, crying bitterly—not for death itself, but for the cruelty behind it.

  With what little strength remained, he walked to the cave one final time.

  He sat beside the mysterious boy.

  “Goodbye… my friend.”

  His body could no longer move.

  He collapsed beside the silent boy.

  And there, in the cold darkness of the cave, Jumanji breathed his last breath.

  He died alone…

  leaving behind a secret yet to be revealed.

  End of Chapter