The moment Ren stepped into the blighted section of the Redwood Weald, it was like stepping into a different world, one where life was a distant memory. The air grew thick and heavy, carrying the stench of rot and something else, a sharp, chemical odor like ozone and decay. A sickly, purple-grey haze filtered the light, casting everything in the colours of a bruise.
The colossal redwoods, which should have been monuments to life, were here transformed into skeletal specters. Their bark was peeling away in leprous sheets, and their mighty branches were bare, twisted claws reaching for a sky they could no longer see. The ground beneath his feet was not soil, but a black, sucking mire that tried to pull at his boots with every step. The silence was the most unnerving part. There were no birds, no insects, no rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth. There was only the squelch of his own footsteps and a low, almost subsonic hum that seemed to vibrate up through the soles of his feet—the pulse of the Blight Heart.
His scar was a torment. The dull ache had become a sharp, insistent throbbing, a cold fire that seemed to resonate with the corrupted energy of the forest. It was a painful but unerring compass, pulling him deeper into the rot.
He moved with a slow, deliberate caution he hadn't needed in the open plains. Shiro, deeply distressed by the oppressive atmosphere, had retreated into the warmth of Ren's tunic, only his small head poking out, his tongue constantly tasting the foul air. It wasn't long before they faced their first obstacle. A carpet of what looked like dark moss blocked their path, but as Ren approached, it writhed, and a swarm of thumb-sized, iridescent beetles with glowing purple eyes rose into the air. He reacted instantly, not with a powerful roar, but with a focused, spinning sheet of water that swept the swarm aside, conserving every drop of his energy. He could feel the blight all around him, a constant, passive drain on his own life force.
Hours crept by. The rhythmic, low-frequency hum grew steadily louder. Ren was picking his way across a fallen redwood, its trunk slick with foul-smelling ooze, when Shiro suddenly hissed a sharp warning and ducked back into his tunic. Ren froze, dropping silently behind the log.
Seconds later, three grey-robed Hollow moved through the clearing below. Their movements were silent and fluid, their forms indistinct in the gloom. Ren held his breath, his heart hammering. He could hear their thin, scraping voices.
"…the Guardian-spirit is strong," one said. "Its will resists."
"It will break, like all the others," a second replied coolly. "The Heart is almost at peak resonance. By the next full moon, the Weald will be ours, and Olthann will be our greatest puppet."
"The Master is pleased with our progress," the first added, and then they were gone, melting back into the purple haze.
Ren remained hidden for a long time after they passed, his mind reeling. The next full moon. He didn't know how many days that was, but it wasn't long. Time was running out. Olthann was still fighting. There was still a chance.
He pressed on, the information lending a desperate fire to his steps. He was moving through a particularly dense patch of skeletal trees when his scar flared with such intense, sharp cold that he gasped and stumbled. Shiro hissed again, this time with more urgency. Ren stopped, scanning the area. He could feel it now—a web of magical energy crisscrossing the path ahead, a ward designed to alert or ensnare. He couldn't risk trying to disable it. He would have to go around. This cost him another precious hour, forcing him through a swampy, vine-choked detour that drained his strength further.
As he finally cleared the detour and found his path again, a sound suddenly ripped through the oppressive silence. It was a roar, a real one this time, that shook the very ground. But it was not a roar of dominance or anger. It was a sound of pure, soul-shattering agony. Olthann.
The sound acted as a final beacon. Ren broke into a run, ignoring the burning in his lungs and the mire that tried to claim his boots. He followed the terrible sound and the now-deafening hum of the Heart, until he burst through a final screen of dying trees and onto a ridge overlooking a vast, bowl-shaped clearing.
He dropped to his stomach, his breath catching in his throat. The scene below was the vision from the Sanctuary made horrifyingly real.
In the center of the clearing, the Blight Heart pulsed, a monstrous crystal of jagged, dark violet that shed a sickening light. Dozens of robed Hollow were arranged around it, their hands outstretched, their low, guttural chant a physical force that warped the air. And in the very middle, chained to the ground by thick, shadowy tendrils of energy that grew from the base of the crystal, was the great bear, Olthann.
He was a mountain of muscle and matted, earth-coloured fur, but he was struggling weakly, his colossal form wracked with violent shudders. Creeping veins of violet corruption crawled over his body, pulsing in time with the Heart. Every few moments, his great head would lift, and he would unleash another of those heart-rending roars of pain and defiance.
Ren had found the battlefield. He was one boy, looking down upon an army of his enemies and the very source of their power, with their tormented captive chained at its center. The scale of the task was overwhelming, and for a moment, he felt utterly, hopelessly alone.