The world outside the forest was vast and open. For the first few days, Ren's journey was marked by a quiet, steady rhythm. He rose with the sun, drank from the cool, clear river, and walked. The land here was still gentle, with rolling hills and fertile earth, but the looming shapes of the Stone-Fang mountains were a constant presence on the northern horizon, a destination that seemed to draw no closer.
Life became a simple pattern of walking, resting, and eating. His new skills, honed in the magical glade, now found practical purpose. The farmer in him knew which wild vegetables were safe, but the guardian in him could now coax a nearby spring to bubble up from the earth with a gentle nudge of his will. Hunting became a silent partnership with Shiro. The snake, now incredibly alert, would spot the flash of a fish near the river's edge. Ren, instead of using a spear, would focus, sending a compressed jet of water to stun the fish and guide it to the bank. It was efficient, clean, and felt like a natural extension of the river's own flow.
At night, he would sit by a small, crackling fire, Shiro coiled on a warm stone nearby. He would study the stars, so much clearer here, away from the village lights, and feel the immense weight of his task settle upon him. He was truly alone now, with only the river's constant murmur and Shiro's silent companionship for comfort. The blessing from the glade was a quiet reassurance; small cuts from thorns or rocks would close overnight, and a persistent ache in his muscles would vanish after he bathed his feet in the river, focusing on the pure magic within him.
Around the fifth day of his journey, the landscape began to change. The grass lost some of its vibrant green, and the trees grew more sparse and hardy. The river, his constant guide, seemed to flow with less energy, its cheerful song quieting to a more somber tone.
It was Shiro who sensed the wrongness first. The snake, who had been resting on Ren's shoulder, suddenly lifted its head, its tongue flicking rapidly. It let out a low, guttural hiss and flattened itself against Ren's neck, its body rigid with alarm.
Ren stopped, scanning his surroundings. To his left, a small patch of woods near the riverbank was unnaturally dark. The leaves on the trees were not green, but a sickly, blackened colour, as if coated in oil. The ground beneath them was barren, cracked, and grey. No birds sang from those branches. An oppressive silence hung over the area, and Ren could feel a repulsive, twisted magic in the air—a discordant thrum that grated against the pure energy of his Serpent's Mark.
"The blight," he whispered, his hand instinctively going to Shiro.
Curiosity warred with a primal instinct to flee. He needed to understand what he was up against. Cautiously, he took a few steps closer to the edge of the corrupted grove. The air grew colder, smelling of decay and stagnant magic.
A rustling sound came from within the blackened trees. Out stumbled a deer. But it was horribly wrong. Patches of its fur were missing, revealing raw, irritated skin beneath. Its normally gentle brown eyes glowed with a faint, sickly purple light. It moved with a jerky, unnatural gait, its head twitching as if plagued by unseen terrors. It saw Ren and, instead of bolting in fear as a normal deer would, it let out a horrifying sound—a rasping, pained cry—and charged.
Ren reacted instantly, his training taking over. He sidestepped the clumsy attack, the deer's antlers gouging the air where he had just been. He had no desire to harm the creature; he could see it was a victim, maddened by the blight that consumed it. He thrust his hands towards the river, pulling a curtain of water up between them. The deer crashed into the liquid wall, which slowed it but didn't stop it.
He could feel the pain radiating from the animal, the sickness in its very spirit. The whispers from his final trial echoed in his memory, the taunts of failure. This was the darkness made real, a corruption of life itself.
An idea sparked in his mind—a desperate hope. The blessing of the glade. The pure, silver-white light of courage. Could it fight this?
As the deer shook its head and prepared for another charge, Ren stood his ground. He closed his eyes and focused not on the river's power, but on the calm, pure reservoir of magic the spirits had gifted him. He remembered his defiance in the face of absolute despair. He called upon that feeling, that choice to hold onto hope.
The Serpent's Mark on his hand began to glow, emitting the same soft, silver-white light. He opened his eyes and extended his hand toward the maddened deer. "Be at peace," he murmured.
A beam of gentle light shot from his palm and enveloped the creature. It did not strike like a weapon, but washed over it like calm water. The deer screamed, a terrible, unearthly sound, as two opposing magics warred within its body. The purple glow in its eyes flared violently, fighting against the silver light. Black, smoky tendrils of energy seemed to peel away from its body, dissolving as they touched the light.
Ren poured more energy into the cleansing, but he could feel the blight was too deep, a cancer rooted in the creature's soul. He wasn't strong enough yet. With a final, agonized cry, the deer tore itself free from the beam of light and bolted into the dark woods, the faint purple glow in its eyes still visible as it vanished.
Ren was left panting, his arm trembling from the effort. The corrupted grove remained, a scar on the land. The threat was no longer a story. It was real, it was ugly, and it was spreading. Looking north at the distant, unyielding mountains, he felt the last vestiges of boyish adventure fall away, replaced by the grim and heavy resolve of a Guardian. His journey had just truly begun.