The climb down was harder than going up.
His hands slipped more than once, bark scraping raw lines into his palms. But he gritted his teeth and pushed through. The moment his feet touched the mossy ground again, he didn't rest.
He turned toward the smoke.
Toward the unknown.
And started walking.
The trees stretched endlessly around him, their trunks tall and unbroken like pillars of a forgotten temple. The black vines curled around his ankles now and then, pulling at his torn clothes like they wanted him to stay.
He did not stop.
His legs were weak. Every step felt like dragging stone. His breath came rough, and the pain in his ribs told him something inside might be bruised—or worse. But he kept moving.
The forest was quieter here. No corpses. No pits.
Just trees.
Trees and silence.
And yet… not all of it was silent.
Somewhere in the distance, the cry of a crow echoed once. It startled him. Not because it was loud—but because it was the first sound he'd heard that belonged to something alive.
Maybe that meant he was close.
Maybe.
Hours passed. Time felt strange.
But the smoke stayed in view, curling just behind that distant hill.
He pulled himself up the hill, hands digging into soil and roots. Each movement sent a dull ache through his arms, but he didn't stop.
Then—he reached the top.
And there it was.
Nestled between the trees at the forest's edge, a small village rested quietly in the afternoon haze. Stone chimneys, wooden rooftops, faint smoke drifting from homes. It looked… normal. Peaceful, even.
For the first time since he woke up in that pit, a small curve tugged at the corner of his lips.
A smile.
It felt strange on his face.
He didn't stop to savor it. With renewed energy in his steps, he climbed down the hill and pushed through the brush, making his way closer to the village.
But when he got near—something made him freeze.
His body tensed. He stayed just behind the treeline, eyes locked on the houses ahead.
Something felt off.
He glanced down at himself.
"…Right."
He was a mess—dirt caked into every crease of his skin, dried blood on his arms, his shirt little more than tattered cloth. He looked like something dragged out of a grave.
No wonder his body kept warning him to stay hidden.
So, instead of walking in, he slipped through the trees—circling quietly around the outer edge of the village. He moved low, careful, keeping to the shadows until he reached the backside of a small house near the edge of the settlement.
It looked empty.
The windows were shut. No lights inside. No movement.
He waited. Listened.
Still nothing.
Then, as quietly as he could, he crept closer.
He found a well behind the small house—half-covered in moss, the wood old but sturdy. A rope hung from the beam above, and with effort, he pulled the bucket up.
The water was cold. Icy.
He splashed it on his face, wiping away blood and dirt in slow, deliberate motions. His fingers trembled, but he kept going. The cold bit at his skin, but he didn't stop until the surface of the water cleared enough to show his reflection.
He paused.
A pale face stared back at him. Sharp cheekbones. Hollow eyes. Gray hair, tangled and damp, clinging to his forehead. His eyes—also gray—felt distant, like they belonged to someone else.
"…What a weird-looking dude," he muttered under his breath.
There was something slightly handsome about the face—but not in any conventional way. He looked... fragile. Haunted. Foreign. Like someone from nowhere.
Not that he had anything to compare it to.
Most faces in his head were for random people he had no idea who were they.
But he couldn't say he was ugly at least.
He let the thought fade and kept scrubbing the dirt away, until his skin looked clean enough to pass for a living person.
Not perfect. But human.
His clothes, though, were a lost cause—ripped, stained, barely hanging on. He needed to do something about them.
He looked at the house again.
Wooden. Simple. Curtains drawn, chimney cold.
"I'll pay them back later," he muttered.
He didn't believe it. Not really.
But it made him feel less like a thief and more like a survivor.
He crept closer to the cabin, staying low as he approached the side wall. The wooden boards were old, slightly damp, and cool to the touch. He crouched near the window, slowly rising just enough to peer inside.
And froze.
His eyes widened.
A woman and a child.
At least… that's what he thought they were.
They were slumped against the wall, their clothes stained dark. The room was dim, but he could see enough.
Their skin was pale, drained. Their bodies twisted unnaturally. Deep, clean gashes ran across their chests—like something sharp had sliced through bone and flesh in a single swing.
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
He just stared.
He blinked, unable to tear his eyes away.
His foot stepped back on instinct, the earth crunching softly beneath him. The shock ran through his chest like a cold wave, but strangely—his mind stayed clear. No scream. No trembling. Just a cold, tight stillness inside him.
Too calm. Again.
He didn't question it.
Not now.
His heart pounded.
Not from fear of the bodies.
But from something else.
Someone or something had done this.
Maybe not to long ago...
And then—
A sound.
Footsteps.
Crunching leaves. Drawing closer. Approaching the house from the other side.
Slow and Heavy.
His thoughts snapped into motion.
Move.
His body moved before his mind caught up. He turned silently, crouching low, and began to step backward through the brush—careful, slow, placing each foot like glass beneath it.
He reached the old well, and he dropped fast—just behind the well. He pressed his back to the stone and held his breath, eyes wide, body still.
He held his breath.
Waiting. Listening.
Every nerve in his body was screaming to run.
But he didn't.
'What ever this is a human or not, if he sees me, I am done for'
He know he had no chance in out running this thing if was seen.
The footsteps entered the house.
Floorboards creaked.
A man stepped through the doorway, clad in simple leather armor, worn but well-kept. A sword hung at his side, stained faintly at the edge. His brown hair was tied loosely behind his head, and his face—though young—carried the look of someone used to small burdens. His features were soft, but his eyes were alert.
He let out a sigh.
"Why do I always have to be the one checking every time that crazy woman feels something..." he muttered, voice clear, calm. He wandered deeper into the house, gaze shifting between the rooms with a practiced ease. "I know we're supposed to listen to people like her now—gifted and all—but it always leads to trouble…"
The boy could understand most of the talking even with the wired language.
The man looked around and suddenly stopped.
He looked at the two bodies.
But only for a brief moment then kept moving.
Outside, just behind the well, the boy crouched low—his back pressed hard to the stone. His hands trembled slightly, one covering his mouth, as if sheer silence might cloak him from sight. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Only listened as the man's boots tapped against the wooden floor inside.
A pause.
A creak.
Then—footsteps again, coming closer.
The man stepped outside once more.
He stood in front of the doorway, squinting toward the trees with a strange expression on his face. His brows drew together, and his lips parted slightly—like he was listening for something he couldn't quite place.
The boy's heart raced.
Keep walking. Just keep walking…
But the man didn't leave.
Instead, he turned… and walked toward the well.
Each step was slow. Measured. Suspicious.
The boy pressed tighter against the stone, clutching the mossy edge with white knuckles, his entire body tense. He could hear the man's boots in the grass now. Just a few feet away.
Don't breathe. Don't move.
Then—
The man stopped.
Right on the other side of the well.
And without warning, the man drew his sword.
The hiss of metal cut through the still air.
In a blink, he stepped around the well, fast—faster than the boy expected. His arm raised, ready to swing.
But—
A cloud of dust burst upward, catching him in the face.
The boy didn't hesitate.
He lunged—straight into the man's chest. His thin arms clung tight, not out of strength, but out of desperation. He had no plan, no training—only instinct and panic.
The two stumbled back, and the boy's eyes caught something.
A knife. Strapped to the man's hip.
Without thinking, his hand shot down, fingers brushing the worn leather grip.
But the man reacted quickly.
A sharp grunt—then a kick to the chest.
The boy flew backward, hitting the ground hard and skidding across the grass.
The knife clattered, falling with him—landing just within reach.
He coughed, gasping for breath.
The man didn't move.
Not right away.
He stood still, staring at the boy.
Sword still raised, breathing heavy—but not from effort.
From surprise.
His expression twisted—not with anger, but confusion.
He didn't look like someone who was about to strike again.
He looked… confused.
"I can't believe the Royal Guard missed you," the man muttered, voice low.
The man tilted his head slightly, frowning.
"How did you hide from them?"
There was no mockery in his voice.
Only genuine disbelief.
The boy didn't answer right away. He didn't really care about what the man was saying, and the he wasn't really used to the language.
His chest rose and fell—fast, uneven—but his voice came out steady. Strained, yes, but calm in a way that surprised even him.
"I… I'm not from this village," he said, voice rough. "I was just passing."
The man narrowed his eyes, blade still lowered but ready.
"Passing?" he echoed, a trace of disbelief in his tone.
The boy swallowed hard, "Yeah," he said, forcing the words out, trying to make them sound like they belonged to someone who had a reason to be here. "I saw smoke. I thought maybe… there were people here"
The man's gaze lingered on the boy, scanning his face with a strange focus—as if searching for something.
Then, he blinked. "It doesn't matter."
He raised his sword again and began walking—slow, deliberate steps crunching softly on the dirt.
The boy's eyes darted from the blade to the knife lying just in front of him.
There was still time.
He could grab it—thanks to the man throwing him aside moments ago.
But then what?
Fight him?
Run?
'I can't run… not in this status…'
His ribs ached with every breath. Pain pulsed down his side like something was cracked.I think he broke something…
But the man wasn't stopping.
'He's going to kill me.'
'I can't just sit here and watch it happen.'
His fingers twitched. He reached for the knife—slowly, shaking—gripping it with his right hand.
The man clearly know about it, but what if? that could give him a chance.
The second his fingers wrapped around the hilt, his world tilted.A wave of weakness crashed through him.
His vision tilted. The trees blurred. The world spun.
His limbs turned to water.
He collapsed sideways, gasping, eyes wide in disbelief.
What…?
The man was still approaching, calm and silent, like nothing had changed, but when he looked at the boy's hand he looked... uncertain.
'Why… why is the knife poisoned…?'
That was the boy's last thought before the darkness took him.