After Noxeea vanished into the shadow like mist fading at dawn, Dirga stood there for a moment—silent.
What a strange creature.
Weird, yes. But not untouchable.
He had felt it when his blade touched shadow. Noxeea could be hurt. Could be reached. Could be killed.
The Apex Nine weren't gods.
Not to him.
Not anymore.
Their mythos meant nothing now. They bled like everything else—if you struck the right chord. If you hit with purpose. With gravity.
With that thought simmering in his mind, he turned and began walking through the forest. The burnt-black leaves rustled overhead as crimson light filtered between the canopy.
Three days had passed since he buried his backpack—he found the landmark, a crooked tree with two trunks—and began digging.
He retrieved the gear, brushed off the dirt, and slung it over his shoulder.
Time to head back.
The return trek through the Dusk Forest took him three days.
Silent nights.
Stalking shadows.
