Chapter 10 — The Edge of Worlds
Resting on a massive boulder, with only three stones left clutched in his aching hand, Soma reflected on the pouch he had crafted. Without it, he would never have crossed the treacherous red mangrove forest. The thought sent a chill down his spine.
Before him stretched an endless desert, a barren sea of golden sand broken only by scattered cacti, standing like lonely sentinels in silence. Yet it wasn't the desert itself that unsettled him—it was the horizon. What once seemed distant now loomed disturbingly close, where sky and ground melded into a seamless, impenetrable border. The sight was so unnatural it defied description, as though reality itself were unraveling at its edges.
Hopelessness weighed on him. No trace of life, no civilization, no sign of intelligent beings—only silence. Yet after coming this far, he couldn't turn back. Something awaited beyond that veil, and he had to discover what it was.
Soma gathered stones and dropped them into the pouch. Gritting his teeth, he hurled them one after another, alternating hands as he pushed himself forward across the desert.
Then he caught movement—a tremor beneath the sand, chasing something small. Ahead of the disturbance, a squirrel darted frantically—no larger than Soma's hand. It sprinted toward a towering cactus nearly six meters high. With astonishing speed, it scaled the spiny trunk.
The ground erupted. A worm burst from beneath the sand, jaws gaping to snap at the squirrel—but it was too late. The rodent had already scrambled high above its reach. The worm's attack ended with a thud as it slammed back into the desert floor.
From his vantage, Soma finally saw the predator clearly: a five-foot-long monstrosity, its body the color of sand, designed for camouflage. Its face bore no resemblance to any earthly creature—just a circular maw lined with concentric rows of razor-sharp teeth, dripping with thick red fluid that fell in slow, menacing drops.
The worm circled the cactus in frustration.
Meanwhile, the squirrel reached the very top. It crouched on its hind legs, body taut like a spring—then jumped.
Soma's breath caught—was it about to attempt suicide?
But in mid-air, the squirrel stretched wide, unfurling translucent flaps of skin between its limbs. It glided gracefully, soaring through the hot desert air.
Soma's eyes widened. A flying squirrel!
The worm thrashed through the sand, pursuing, but the rodent glided too swiftly. In the end, the predator relented, sinking back into its sandy lair.
A spark of inspiration struck Soma. If the squirrel could glide, could he?
Without hesitation, he began hurling rocks downward at furious speed. His body lifted, rising higher and higher. The desert shrank below him. From above, the cacti became scattered dots on a golden canvas. Distant dunes rippled like frozen waves beneath the glare of twin suns. A handful of boulders stood in strange, deliberate formations, as though whispering a forgotten message. Trails of disturbed sand betrayed hidden creatures prowling beneath the surface. And beyond it all, the horizon glimmered like a cosmic veil, where earth and sky bled into one another.
The flight thrilled him, but it also hurt. The wind tore at his raw skin, and the sheer speed blurred his vision. His arms screamed with each throw. Stones slipped from sore fingers, yet he forced himself to keep going, every burst of speed tearing against his muscles.
Reaching a great height, Soma steadied himself, eyes fixed on the world's edge. He clenched both fists, hurling stones in rapid succession. The force propelled him forward like a living engine.
The wind screamed past his ears. My speed rivals the golden owl—maybe even surpasses it, he thought, exhilarated. I never imagined I could fly this fast.
Driven by the flying squirrel's technique, he surged toward the horizon, a streak against the desert sky.
But when he arrived, there was nothing.
At first, he thought it might be an illusion, or a hidden barrier, yet it was neither. Before him stretched a void—an emptiness so absolute it felt wrong. The desert still lay behind, but ahead there was nothing. Not darkness, but a living absence that swallowed light and thought alike.
The closer he drifted, the more his ghostly form bristled. Cold without air, silence without sound—the collapse of all places. Every instinct screamed that to cross it was not to die, but to be unmade.
Soma's chest tightened, heartbeat hammering in the suffocating silence. Is this a doorway? A passage? The stone led me here. There must be something beyond.
He crossed his fingers, silently asking the heavens for good luck, then hurled himself into the void. Rock after rock, he threw with desperate speed, flying headlong into the darkness.
Minutes passed. His arms screamed from exertion. He paused to glance back—and froze. He hadn't moved. Not even a single step. By now, he should have covered a kilometer, yet the void remained as close, as unreachable as ever.
He tried again. This time, he ascended high, then dove straight toward the darkness with all his strength. Stones flew from his hands like bullets, but the result was the same. It was as if an infinite expanse lay between him and the void, no matter how far or fast he went.
Attempt after attempt ended in failure. Finally, Soma collapsed, trembling. His breath came ragged, his hope draining away.
Am I doomed to remain in this world forever?
The image of his grandmother flashed in his mind. What would happen when she couldn't find him in the storeroom? How would she react? The thought stayed, etched within.
A broken sob escaped his lips. He lay back on the sand, staring at the empty sky, lost in despair.
Lying upon the desert floor, Soma began reflecting on his path. What if I misunderstood? Maybe this isn't where the stone was leading me. Perhaps I took a wrong turn and ended up in the wrong place entirely.
Then another memory struck him—the stone structure. Maybe that was the true destination.
With renewed determination, he shot through the sky toward the site.
Minutes later.
Hovering above, he began counting: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… 18. A total of eighteen towering boulders, each nearly fifty feet high. Many were broken, yet the formation was clear—an arrow pointing south.
At once, the message was clear: move toward the south.
Perhaps between the cave and this place lay something the arrow was urging him toward.
Drawing closer, Soma noticed faint markings on the stone. Brushing away layers of sand and debris, his breath caught—these were letters. Not just symbols, but English.
How… how could English exist here?
Each boulder bore one or two paragraphs, though most were eroded beyond recognition. His fingertips scraped along grooves filled with grit. Flakes of stone broke off in his hands, as if the words themselves were dying. From all eighteen carvings, only three words survived: river—mountain—between.
That was enough.
Between the mountains, a river waited. Somewhere out there, something—or someone—existed. Now he knew where to go—the twin mountains. At last, a thread of hope. Perhaps more stones once guided the path, but monsters must have destroyed them.
For the first time since reaching the desert's edge, joy surged through him. He could almost see light piercing the darkness of despair.
Without wasting another heartbeat, he launched southward, gliding like the flying squirrel that had inspired him. Rocks flew from his hands in rapid bursts, propelling him across the sky like a living jet.
Below, the world shifted like pages in a book. The yellow of the desert faded, replaced by blotches of black and crimson. His stomach tightened. The red mangrove forest stretched below.
Not again… I don't want to see those grotesque things again, Soma thought, pushing himself to fly faster.
But then—click.
One of the pouch's strands snapped. The stones spilled out like rain, scattering into the swamp below. Soma desperately tried to catch them, but he was moving too fast.
He began drifting toward the swamp. Despair kicked in. He tried to find a way to move forward, but nothing worked.
No matter how he tried, he couldn't keep himself in the air.
Beneath him stretched the mangrove forest—bubbling black mud and eerie sounds making it even more terrifying. The stench rose up to meet him—rot, sulfur, something foul enough to burn the back of his throat.
From above, he noticed one massive branch knotted into a twisted nest. With only two stones left in his grasp, Soma angled himself and hurled one upward, redirecting his descent.
He landed hard on the nest, chest heaving. He scanned his surroundings. In front, nearly few kilometers away, he noticed a cluster of trees standing like towers.
Relief came with a shaky laugh. Thank "God"… the edge of the red forest. If I had fallen in the middle, I don't know what that enormous red tree would have done to me.
He sat on the tangled surface, tapping the wood absently with the rock in his hand.
The nest stirred.
Twisting tentacles uncoiled from the mangrove, writhing like living ropes. They lashed out, grasping for him.
Soma flinched, but the tendrils passed through his body like ghosts. In the chaos, he lost his balance and toppled into the mire.
The swamp swallowed him hungrily. No matter how he fought, he sank deeper, the muck pulling him under like quicksand. Panic clawed at him as the cold sludge crept up to his throat. Insects buzzed around his ears; his lungs filled with the stink of rot.
Then the mire trembled. Something was coming toward him. His breath caught. With a *hissss* sound, a thousand legs broke through the mire. A colossal centipede erupted—twenty feet long, its upper body towering upright, covered in black armored plates, while the rest remained submerged. Its twin black antennae twitched as it leaned close.
The creature's jaws parted, revealing scythe-like fangs dripping with green venom. Droplets fell into the mire, which hissed and smoked, the fumes stinging Soma's nose.
Soma's body trembled as the muck engulfed him up to the neck.
Is this how it ends for me?