The silence after the fall was the first thing that greeted him. It was a deep, damp silence, broken only by the distant roar of a waterfall and the dripping of water from the leaves above. Then, the pain came—not as a sharp assault, but as a slow, crushing awareness, as if every cell in his body was simultaneously reporting its damage to his rattled brain.
The root of the giant tree that had been his lifeline had given way with a wet, final tear. For a moment that felt infinite, Devon was once again a helpless passenger on an unwanted vertical journey. This time, there was no miraculously snagged backpack. This time, there was only him and the brutal, unforgiving law of gravity.
He fell freely, the world a blur of green, brown, and stone gray. He didn't scream. His throat seemed to have frozen, and his mind, now fortified by the cold indifference of Corvus's black ring, merely processed the fall as a series of unpleasant data points. 'Velocity increasing. Potential impact: fatal. Probability of survival: low.'
He didn't hit the bottom of the ravine. Instead, he hit the forest itself. He crashed through the first layer of the canopy like a meteor of flesh, tearing through it with a deafening rip of branches and shredding leaves. Every branch he struck was a sledgehammer blow. One thick limb slammed into his ribs, and he felt a sickening cracking sensation radiate through his entire side. Another, sharper branch gouged his back, ripping through his leather jacket and shirt, carving a deep, hot furrow in his skin. His clothes, already tattered from the giant bird's grip, were now utterly destroyed, torn into fluttering ribbons of fabric, leaving him nearly naked.
His fall was slowed by this series of brutal impacts, turning what should have been an instantaneous end into a prolonged agony as he bounced from one level of vegetation to the next. Finally, after breaking through a last layer of wet, giant ferns, he landed with a soggy, heavy THUMP on the thick moss of the forest floor.
He lay there, face down, in a new kind of silence. For a moment, he didn't move, letting his concussed mind process the tsunami of pain that had just washed over him. He could feel warm blood seeping from dozens of gashes, and the deep, throbbing ache of what were likely broken or fractured bones.
Then, the warmth began its work. The green magic stone on his chest, hidden beneath the remnants of his torn shirt, began to glow with a soft, emerald light. The warmth spread through his body like a soothing balm. He could feel the bizarre sensation of his ribs vibrating and knitting themselves back together, the torn skin on his back itching as it wove itself whole again. The pain didn't vanish—the memory of the impacts was still there, a phantom echo in every nerve—but the structural damage was being repaired at a divine speed.
With a groan that was more of annoyance than pain, he pushed himself into a sitting position. He stretched his entire body. Arms, legs, back. A series of unpleasant cracks and pops sounded as his skeleton realigned itself. "Ouch... that hurts," he complained to the silent trees, his voice hoarse. He checked his egg. Somehow, in the most impossible miracle of physics, the giant egg strapped to his back, nestled in his now-shredded backpack, hadn't broken. There were only a few new hairline cracks on its shell. "Phew... thank goodness," he sighed, his relief genuine. Priorities.
He checked his weapons. His first Magnum was still in its holster, slightly dented but functional. The second was gone, likely torn away during the fall. He patted his back; the Kar98k rifle was still there, its stock a little scratched. He checked his pouches. The ammo boxes were secure. "Yeah, still good for a few dozen shots," he muttered, ejecting the cylinder from the remaining Magnum. He reloaded it with heavy, silver bullets from one of his boxes, his movements methodical and calm, as if he'd just finished a slightly bumpy ride, not a fatal plunge.
He got to his feet, wiping blood and mud from his face with the back of his hand. He straightened his fedora, which was now slightly bent. He looked down at the tatters of his clothing, which now barely covered anything. He just shrugged. "I don't give a damn."
Then, the realization hit him. He had no idea where he was. The forest around him looked the same in every direction—towering trees, thick moss, and an oppressive silence. "Uhh... the way back to the cabin... which way was that again?"
As he stood there, turning slowly, trying to find some sort of landmark in the green chaos, something emerged from behind a nearby thicket of giant ferns. Something pale and round. It was a head. A woman's head, with long, pale white hair that hung down, partially covering her delicate face.
'Huh? A human?' Devon thought, his eyes widening in surprise. 'That's… that's a person!'
A strange, almost forgotten surge of emotion—hope? excitement?—flickered for a moment in his mind, before being obliterated by what happened next.
The creature stepped out from the bushes, revealing its full form. And the surprised look on Devon's face melted away, replaced by an expression of utter confusion, which then morphed into one of pure, unadulterated absurdity.
It was a Poultry Woman. Its body was that of a giant ostrich, covered in soft gray and white feathers, standing on two long, thin legs with sharp talons. And atop that long, skinny bird's neck, perched the beautiful human head, staring at Devon with an oddly blank expression. The contrast between the elegance of the human face and the absurdity of the avian body was so vast, so unexpected, so… stupid.
Devon stared at it. The creature stared back at him. Silence fell.
Then, Devon began to laugh.
It wasn't a chuckle or a nervous giggle. It was a full-throated, gut-busting laugh that erupted from his belly—deep, hoarse, and completely uncontrollable. He laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach, which had just been healed minutes before. Tears started streaming down his cheeks, not from sorrow or relief, but from the sheer, joyful absurdity of his existence.
He had fought nightmare wolves, giant leeches, cunning goblins, a horrific Human Chimera, and a bird of prey the size of a small plane. He had tortured himself to the brink of death. And now, the world threw a chicken with a human head at him. It was the punchline to the cosmic joke. It was just too funny.
"AHAHAHAHAHA! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!" he roared between fits of laughter.
As Devon was howling, a second Poultry Woman emerged from the bushes. This one was slightly larger, and the expression on its human face wasn't blank. It was one of pure rage. Perhaps because Devon was laughing at its friend.
With a shrill, discordant shriek—half woman's scream, half bird's squawk—the angry Poultry Woman charged at Devon.
Devon, still wiping tears from his eyes, didn't even bother to aim. He just pointed the Magnum in his hand in the general direction of the approaching threat and pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The roar of the pistol filled the forest, and the avian body of the angry Poultry Woman exploded in a cloud of gray feathers, blood, and chunks of flesh. Its beautiful head flew through the air in a bizarre arc, its furious expression still frozen on its face, before landing with a wet plop on the moss.
Devon didn't even watch it land. He was still laughing. "AHAHAHA... SERIOUSLY... WHAT AN UNEXPECTED CREATURE!"
The first Poultry Woman could only freeze in place, staring blankly at the splattered remains of its companion.
Devon finally managed to get his laughter under control, wiping it away until only a wide, amused grin remained on his face. He looked at the surviving Poultry Woman, which was now trembling, whether from fear or confusion. He smiled at it, a smile that was not at all reassuring.
He started walking closer. The creature didn't move, paralyzed by terror or stupidity. Devon circled it, inspecting it from every angle like a prospective car buyer.
"Hmm... strong legs. A reasonably broad back."
And then, with an idea born of pure boredom and absurdity, he did the next thing. He jumped. He landed squarely on the creature's back, his legs straddling its feathery body. He grabbed two small, horn-like protrusions on its back, which turned out to be perfect handholds.
"GO!" he yelled, kicking the creature's sides with his heels.
The Poultry Woman shrieked in panic and started to run. And Devon rode it. He was a cowboy on a giant chicken. He laughed again, a wild and free laugh this time, as the creature bolted through the forest, branches whipping at his face. He felt like a hero from the weirdest fantasy video game, riding his own personal chocobo.
The glorious ride didn't last long. The panicked creature wasn't watching where it was going and tripped over a large, hidden tree root. It pitched forward with a pathetic squawk, and Devon was thrown from its back, flying over the creature's human head and landing head-first in a pile of wet leaves.
"Oof..." he grunted, getting up while holding his throbbing head. By the time he turned around, the Poultry Woman was already back on its feet and limping away into the depths of the forest, disappearing from sight.
"Well, that was fun," he said to himself. Then, a momentary cold panic—the only real emotion he'd felt—set in. "Ah! The egg!"
He checked his back. The backpack was torn, but the egg, once again, miraculously, was still intact. "Phew... good thing it didn't break."
As Devon stood up and dusted himself off, he realized the ridiculous chase had brought him somewhere. He was standing on the edge of a large clearing. Before him were the remains of a village. The wooden and stone buildings were ruined, their roofs caved in and their walls choked with vines. What were once stone-paved streets were now overgrown with weeds. The air was heavy with silence and sorrow.
"Hmm... maybe the natives of this island," he thought, his cold curiosity now taking over. He walked down the deserted main street, his boots rustling on the dry leaves. It was a ghost town, a silent testament to a long-past tragedy.
In the center of the village stood one building that was still relatively intact. It was large, perhaps a temple or a meeting hall, made of massive black stone blocks. Its heavy wooden door was slightly ajar, beckoning into the darkness within.
Devon pushed the door. It swung open with a long, hoarse creak that protested the disturbance after decades of silence. The interior was dark and smelled of dust, decay, and something else… something cloyingly sweet and uterine.
Across the vast room, on a raised dais, was a throne. And on that throne, sat the figure of the Grave Mother.
Devon could only stare. 'What fresh hell is this?'
It was not something that could be described with simple words. It was a living, rotting mountain of flesh, an unnaturally obese and bloated gigantic female figure. Her body was a formless mass, with dozens of sagging arms and breasts, fused with her throne, which was itself made of hundreds of tormented human bodies, their faces frozen in silent screams. Her matted hair was a nest of skulls, and in one of her many hands, she held a large, rusted bell.
Suddenly, a voice spoke, echoing in the quiet chamber. It didn't come from the Grave Mother's nearly featureless face; it seemed to come from the air itself, a soft, melodious, and ancient voice. It was the voice of the parasite that controlled her.
"Ah... another one. An unwritten soul. A blank page wandering through my rotting library. Welcome, child of man."
Devon gaped for a second, then his expression settled into a look of bizarre condescension. He leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms, and raised an eyebrow.
'What is this crazy old hag talking about? So poetic. It's making me sleepy.'
The Grave Mother seemed to sense his indifference. The voice chuckled, a sound like wind chimes made of bone.
"You are not afraid. Interesting. Very interesting. You are the second to stand before me without his soul trembling like a leaf in autumn. The first was... the quiet one."
Devon simply sat down on the floor, leaned against the wall, and began cleaning the dirt from under his fingernails with the tip of his knife. "This first person you mentioned... was his name Corvus?" he asked, his voice lazy, as if discussing the weather.
"Names are fleeting labels. I do not deal in labels," the voice replied, amused. "But yes... he was a walking silence. He came here not with fear, but with curiosity. He looked upon my children not as horrors, but as puzzles. He took samples, made notes, and then left without a word. Not much of a talker, that one."
'Oh, I guess that was Corvus,' Devon thought, yawning. 'So he's been here too. Great. I'm following in the footsteps of a psychopath tourist.'
"So, what's your deal, anyway?" Devon asked, cutting off whatever the creature was about to say next. "I'm kind of busy, so if you could get to the point."
The voice laughed again, louder this time. "Ohohoho! Straight to the point! I like that! My purpose, you impatient child of man? My purpose is simple. I give birth. I am the womb of true beauty. I create beautiful children to fill the silence of this world."
Devon glanced at the Grave Mother's bloated abdomen, where he could see monstrous shapes squirming beneath the translucent skin. "Beautiful children, huh?" he said, his tone flat. "So, that human centipede I saw in the forest... was that one of your 'beautiful children' too?"
"Human centipede?" The voice sounded momentarily confused, then it burst into a full-throated laugh that made the entire building tremble. "Ohohoho! That thing! No, no, no. That was a crude work of art, an abomination crafted by one of the island natives driven mad by the Onyx's whispers. Stitching dead flesh together? So inelegant. There is no warmth. No sacred process of birth. My children are born of my womb, woven from suffering and despair. They are alive!"
'Okay, this is getting boring,' Devon thought, his eyes starting to feel heavy. 'She just keeps rambling. What nonsense.'
"In fact," the voice continued, its tone becoming softer, more seductive, "I am looking for a new host. A more... mobile womb. A strong womb. And you, child of man... you look simply delicious."
Devon shot to his feet. He held up his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "Oh, sorry, but I'm not interested in becoming a weird, disgusting creature like you. Not really my type."
He turned to leave.
BAM!
The giant stone door behind him slammed shut, plunging the room into total darkness for a moment before Devon's eyes adjusted to a faint light emanating from somewhere on the throne.
The Grave Mother's voice had now lost all its warmth. It was cold, hard, and filled with absolute power.
"Not so fast, little man."
From every dark corner of the room, from behind stone pillars, from cracks in the floor, they began to emerge. Dozens of gaunt, withered figures with white, brain-like parasites clinging to their chests—The Infected. Among them crawled other, worse things, shadows made of nightmare. The children of the Grave Mother.
They all moved in unison, their empty eyes fixed on Devon. The room was now filled with a symphony of shuffling, groaning, and wet clicking.
Devon could only sigh. He looked at the sealed door. Then at the horde of monsters before him. Then at the Grave Mother sitting regally on her throne.
'Hhh... Looks like I won't be having a quiet dinner tonight.'