Niklaus woke.
There was no screaming, no sudden pain, not even a sense of disorientation. Just a slow, heavy awareness seeping into his exhausted body like cold water leaking through the cracks of a sinking ship. His eyelids were leaden, and his entire body was one solid mass of dull pain that had, over time, transformed into a strange numbness.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling—if it could be called that—was a dense network of tangled branches that completely blocked the sky, like giant interlocking fingers preventing any real light from penetrating. The light that filtered through was ashen, pale, as if passing through a filter of thick smoke and remnants of old burning. No sun, no stars, no trace of any known time. The light itself had changed since the last time he saw anything clearly—it had become colder, paler, as if the forest breathed its own cycles.
How long had it been? An hour? A day? A week?
He didn't know. The hours here were like beasts, creeping in without him noticing, devouring his consciousness and leaving him drowning in this gray void. But one thing was clear, screaming from his body: thirst. A harsh dryness clung to his tongue, and his cracked lips bled slightly when he tried to move them, so he tasted the iron and hot salt on his tongue.
The foul smell of mold and death clung to his nose as if it were part of the air itself. Small crawling insects moved across his exposed forearm, treating his body like an abandoned corpse. He brushed them off with two trembling fingers without thinking, feeling his cold skin under their touch.
He rose.
It was a slow, painful process, as if every muscle in his body was reminding him of its existence. He placed his palm on a nearby tree trunk, feeling its rough bark under his fingers. He leaned on it and stood. For a moment, dizziness washed over him, but he steadied his feet.
He looked around.
There was no trace of the Shadow Pack corpses he had fought—as if they had vanished, evaporated, or perhaps been pulled back into the shadows that birthed them. The traces of his blood had dried on the soil, leaving dark stains like scars on the earth's body. No bones, no remains—just silence, earth, and dried blood.
"Water..." he whispered, his voice hoarse as if unused for days. The word came out like rust, as if his throat was grinding against itself.
He began to walk.
His first steps were unsteady, like a child learning to walk. Each step forced his muscles to remember: how to work, how to contract, how to bear his weight. But with each step, his body remembered. Muscles stretched, joints ground roughly, and the pain became a familiar companion—not less intense, but part of the rhythm.
The river was still there, flowing with deadly quiet, its waters black as ink reflecting the shadows of trees and thick mist. It made no sound—no gurgle, no splash—only liquid silence, as if it were a river of stagnant black oil. He knelt, cupped a handful with his trembling hands. The water was tepid, viscous, as if touching his skin before he drank it.
He brought it to his mouth. The smell was metallic, heavy. He took small sips, but the taste was disgusting, burning—as if swallowing molten ash. He spat it out immediately, but a little slipped down his throat, igniting a fire in his empty stomach, like swallowing a burning ember.
But he had no better choice.
He cupped another handful. Then another. He drank quickly this time, enduring the disgusting taste, until the thirst eased slightly. He coughed violently afterward, feeling his stomach burning inside him, as if the fire the black water had ignited was searching for more fuel.
Then, when he looked at the water's surface again, he saw something.
Beneath the black surface, inches down, were engravings. Faint gold, barely visible, moving very slowly like sleeping serpents beneath glass. They weren't written—they were carved into the riverbed itself, flickering and fading with the slow movement of the water. Complex shapes, intertwined lines, concentric circles, and symbols he had never seen before—yet they reminded him of something. Something he had never seen, but felt he had seen a resemblance to somewhere.
Before he could think further, he saw his reflection.
He froze.
The reflection wasn't his current self. It was a man with long black hair touching his shoulders, and deep crimson eyes like volcanic craters, carrying bottomless pain and soul-melting despair. A thick scar split his left eyebrow like a dagger that left an unforgettable mark. The gaze in those eyes was heavy, burdened by memories he hadn't lived—or perhaps had lived in another dream. It wasn't his current self, nor young Niklaus. It was a future version... or a past one.
He suddenly pulled back from the river's edge, as if the water was burning his eyes.
"This is nonsense..." he muttered, his voice trembling slightly despite his attempt to control it. "Just hallucination. Not real. Not me."
He tried to gather his mental stability. He stood. Took a deep breath. Then walked.
He walked along the riverbank, his eyes searching for anything edible. Berries? Roots? Anything to stop the rumbling in his stomach that had begun turning into sharp pain. But the forest was poor, bare—as if life itself had abandoned this place. Only bones. Human bones scattered here and there among the tree trunks, some covered in black moss, others stark white as if death had purified them.
But then, his eyes caught sight of herbs.
Blue-black leaves shimmering in the dim light, as if glowing with a hidden inner radiance. Noctivia. Shadow herbs. He suddenly remembered Maria's words back at the inn—her calm, firm voice: "They only grow in absolute darkness... their black smoke temporarily stops thoughts... but they're a gateway to hallucinations, where dreams become reality..."
He moved toward them. At least, if he couldn't find food, he had found what he wanted—something to stop the screaming in his mind for a moment. He gathered a large handful, his hand trembling slightly. He whispered to himself: "Relief from thoughts... better than food." He stored them in the magical ring beside his few remaining possessions.
But his stomach didn't settle. It growled loudly in the silence, a reminder that his body didn't care about psychological relief—it wanted real food.
He sat on a cold stone, trying to rest. His back leaned against a tree trunk, and he breathed with difficulty. But at first, he felt confused sounds gnawing at his eardrums—as if insects were crawling inside his head. He stuck his finger in his ear and moved it, trying to silence this annoying static piercing his eardrum like a fine needle.
But the static transformed into clear whispers.
As if the trees around him were speaking.
"...the boy of prophecy... he's finally come..."
"Who?!" He spun around with wild eyes, his dagger drawn instinctively. But no one. Only the trees, the mist, and the silence laughing at him.
"What prophecy? What are they talking about?! What nonsense is this?!" His voice rose slightly, but he found no answer. The dizziness increased, and the strange symbols he had glimpsed on the water's surface returned to flicker in his mind like burned images.
"Madness... madness is devouring you!" he snarled internally, clutching his head with both hands as if trying to stop it from exploding.
He took a deep breath. Tried to calm his mind. He thought: How would he walk? And where to? What were the answers the writer of that stinking letter spoke of? The answers didn't seem to be the ones he was looking for. This damned novel was mocking him now—the illusions from that beast, the child who blamed him, the reflection, the engravings, and now "the boy of prophecy." Nonsense upon nonsense. What were these fairy tales? He would do something else...
Before he could finish his thoughts, the blow came.
A blow like a hammer on his back! It made him feel as if his shoulder had been dislocated, as if his bones had shattered under the impact's weight. His flesh tore under massive claws, and he felt sharp pain pierce his spine. He flew through the air and landed face-first in the mud, blood boiling in his throat like volcanic lava.
He turned with effort to see a beast he had never encountered before: a giant body like a bear, but with eight spidery, thorny legs, and leathery wings torn like the sails of a wrecked ship. Its eyes were yellow, glowing with hunger and blind rage. From its forehead, a purple gem the size of a fist protruded, pulsing with a faint light like an exposed heart beating slowly.
"Damn this world!" he gritted through his teeth, his dagger appearing in his hand as an instinctive reaction.
The beast didn't wait for permission. It lunged like lightning, its claws slicing the air with a deadly whistle like the sound of bullets. Niklaus rolled aside at the last moment, feeling the savagery of the claws pass by his ear, severing part of his tangled black hair. Strands of hair fell to the ground with drops of his blood.
The battle began.
But this time, Niklaus was more cautious. He had learned from his previous lessons. The purple gem was the weak point—that was obvious. But reaching it was nearly impossible. The beast was fast despite its massive size, its claws were like short swords, and its wings gave it supernatural balance and sudden leaps.
He struck. Repeatedly. Each blow added new wounds to Niklaus—a scratch here, a tear there, fresh pain added to the list of old pains. But he was learning quickly. The beast relied on its strength, its size, the fear of its victim. But Niklaus wasn't afraid. He just watched, evaded, and waited.
And he saw the opening.
When the beast turned, it left its right side exposed for a second. Just one second. Enough.
With all his remaining strength, he jumped. It wasn't a direct attack—it was a desperate leap over the beast's head, his hand reaching toward the purple gem. His fingers touched its cold, smooth surface like polished glass. He pulled. He wrenched it with all his might, feeling resistance—as if the gem were part of the beast's flesh.
"GRRROOOO—!"