Before Nero stretched an incredible view—a forest from another world, where every element seemed more of a nightmare than a wondrous illusion. Towering trees with silvery bark grew unevenly, their branches resembling twisted, claw-like hands reaching skyward in a beseeching gesture. The leaves of these trees, shimmering in the sunlight, appeared to be made of thin layers of crystal, producing a sound akin to a faint, metallic creaking with the slightest breeze. Vines sprouted from each trunk, their fluids flowing like veins of blood in a body—gently pulsating in violet hues, in rhythm with an unknown, unnatural heartbeat of the forest.
The ground was soft, almost moist, covered with a carpet of lichens and mosses in such intense hues that they seemed otherworldly. Among them grew fantastic plants—flowers with cups resembling mouths, slowly opening and emitting a soft, melancholic sound, like the song of ancient spirits. From some flowers emerged tiny fireflies, floating in the air like mist. Other plants had long, slender leaves that moved independently of the wind, as if searching for contact, touch, peering at their surroundings.
Nero paused, absorbing the view, but something suddenly caught his attention. A strange creature emerged from the thicket. At first, he thought it was an ordinary rabbit—white, with delicate fur and soft ears. However, when the animal looked at him, its eyes were neither gentle nor warm. Instead, it had a pair of eight, shiny, multifaceted eyes resembling those of a spider, staring at Nero with cold indifference. Each eye reflected light, creating a flickering effect, as if the creature had many souls locked within those dark, glistening points.
Nero instinctively took a step back, and his gaze shifted lower—where the mouth would normally be. The rabbit, however, had terrifying mandibles resembling those of an ant, moving independently, clicking with every slightest motion, as if ready to shred anything that crossed its path. Though small, the creature exuded a strange, unnatural aura that stirred a deep sense of unease in Nero.
For a moment, they stared at each other—Nero, deadened, unable to sense real danger, and the bizarre, hybrid creature that seemed to assess whether it should attack or flee. After a few seconds, which felt like an eternity, the rabbit suddenly turned and vanished into the thicket with one swift, almost unnatural leap. All that remained was the quiet sound of clicking mandibles and the delicate trembling of the crystalline leaves overhead.
Nero gazed at the forest, a faint, almost imperceptible smile appearing on his skeletal face. In his dead eye sockets, the two points of light seemed to momentarily blaze with an emerald flame, not so much in admiration as in fascination with the oddity of the place. For a moment, disregarding the cold that seeped through his bones, he thought to himself:
"This forest... is like a beautifully woven trap. It lives, breathes, and waits. Every plant, every tree looks like a masterpiece, created not to delight but to feed on the weakness of those who dare to enter. It compels admiration, awe at its beauty, only to destroy every soul that hesitates even for a moment. What a perfect representation of life—beautiful yet dangerous, full of betrayal and chaos."
He dragged his bony hand across the nearest plant, its pulsating vines seeming to twist towards him for a moment, as if sensing his presence. For a moment, it seemed as though the forest itself wanted to touch him.
"How it all resembles me—dead, yet still full of life in its own way, ready to consume everything in its path. Perfect. There's a kind of beauty in it that I understand... and admire. If I had the time, I would watch this place consume the weaker ones, piece by piece... And I suppose I'm feeling a bit poetic..."
Nero's smile twisted into a sadistic grin, his lips curling in a way that reflected his dark pleasure. The forest in his eyes ceased to be merely a place—it became a stage where a spectacle of destruction was unfolding, and he felt he understood its nature better than anyone else.
As he traversed the dense, dark woods, Nero felt a growing tension. He was aware that he could be surprised by an attack at any moment—an unspoken threat hung in the air. The further he ventured into the forest, the more he noticed animals fleeing from his path. Birds fell silent, and forest creatures hid in the underbrush.
Nero began to wonder if the undead were deterring animals and less aggressive monsters. Perhaps these creatures sensed something unnatural in him, something that instinctively made them keep their distance.
This strange phenomenon, though advantageous in its way, evoked a feeling of emptiness and unease in Nero. His rational side suggested that it was for the best—the lack of encounters increased his chances of survival. However, another part of his nature, more brutal and thrill-seeking, craved combat. He wanted to feel the surge of adrenaline, hear the crack of breaking bones, and feel himself growing stronger with each blow.
After about an hour of walking through the forest, Nero spotted something unusual among the trees. It was an old, wooden structure, barely visible in the thicket. At first, the outline of the building was vague, but soon Nero could make out the details: rotting boards covered in moss forming the outer walls, a roof with damaged, swollen straw, and, most importantly, a window. Although it had no glass, a shutter was visible, likely used to protect the interior from the harsh weather.
What caught his attention was something in the window. A candle was burning there—nearly melted, with a flicker of a dwindling flame. This small sign sparked a note of excitement and dark anticipation in him. Someone was inside, and that could mean a challenge.
Nero moved with incredible caution, placing his skeletal feet as quietly as possible, avoiding branches that might betray his presence. Each step was precise, like that of an experienced predator. When he reached the window, he leaned slowly to peer inside the building. What he saw induced a blissful mood—an almost euphoric calm.
Inside the hut, a dim twilight prevailed, illuminated only by the flames of candles placed in strategic locations. The air was heavy, saturated with the scent of dried herbs and something more exotic, reminiscent of decaying plants. Wreaths of dried vines hung from the ceiling, their leaves in otherworldly shades—violet, blue, even silver, resembling a glassy fabric. Some of the plants seemed to faintly flicker in the candlelight, as if they possessed their own energy. In the corners lay scattered vials with gleaming substances and fragments of strange roots, while the furniture was in a deplorable state, damaged by time and moisture.
Nero's attention was particularly drawn to a bookshelf—most of the books were bent, with mold-covered covers, but a few still seemed to be in good condition, as if protected by some magical aura. He knew that in such places, the knowledge hidden in the pages of books could be as dangerous as the environment itself.
Suddenly, his attention was drawn to the open front door, through which the cool, forest air flowed. On the threshold, in the shadow, knelt a figure—a woman, dressed in a simple, worn garment, with her head bowed. In her hands, she held a mortar, her fingers gently grinding some herb whose scent was unlike anything Nero had ever encountered. She was calm, focused, seemingly unaware of his presence—or deliberately ignoring him.
"If you were younger, I might have spared you, but in this case, it's better to eliminate a potential threat. I don't want to end up as bone powder in your potions," Nero thought with a somewhat ironic smile.
He caught a glimpse of the woman's face as she bent to gather another handful of herbs. She was old, her face having long lost its youthful glow. Yet, despite this, Nero would not make the mistake of underestimating her. From his brief experience in this unpredictable world, he knew that in places where magic flourishes, age could be a deceptive sign of weakness. This old woman might know spells that could annihilate him in an instant. And if not spells, she certainly possessed potions with lethal properties.
These were merely speculations, but the longer he considered it, the more convinced he became that eliminating her might be the only reasonable course of action.
Nero took a deep, soundless breath, though there was no air in his dead lungs. He positioned his bony fingers on the rusted sickle, his other hand gripping a heavy orc femur used as a makeshift weapon. His gaze was fixed on the woman, hunched over her mortar, completely absorbed in her work. She was turned slightly to the right, as if the ingredients she was grinding required the sunlight streaming through the open door. Perfectly—Nero was in her blind spot.
He moved cautiously along the wall of the hut, step by step, placing his feet with an almost inhuman precision, as if death had taught him how to become invisible in the world of the living. Every movement was deliberate, and the rusted sickle, despite its condition, seemed incredibly menacing in his hands. He sensed he was approaching the moment when the silence would be shattered. He did not hurry, waiting for the perfect moment.
The woman remained bent over her mortar, her hands skillfully mixing the herbs. Something about her posture suggested she was unaware of the danger lurking just behind her. At that moment, he had gotten close enough to deliver the decisive blow. His heart, though theoretically non-existent, seemed to pulse with a strange excitement.
Nero raised the sickle, his eye sockets gleaming with sadistic satisfaction. He aimed straight at the woman's neck—one swift, precise motion and it would all be over. He swung, and the blade cut through the air towards her throat.
At the last moment, the woman instinctively ducked, interrupting her work. The strike missed by mere centimeters, and her reaction was immediate. "Thief!" she exclaimed, turning toward her attacker. She thought it was just an ordinary human trying to assault her, but instinct took over.
Quickly, she raised her hand, reciting a few words in an ancient tongue: "Ignis volatilis!" A small magical circle appeared in her palm, glowing an intense red, which immediately flared up. In the blink of an eye, a fireball shot from the magical circle, blazing like a heated star. The air around her shimmered with the heat, and Nero could almost feel his bones starting to warm at the mere thought of what could happen.
Nero instinctively jumped to the side, barely avoiding the fireball as it sped past him, crashing into a nearby tree. The fire slowly spread along the trunk of the tree, but Nero was not frightened. On the contrary, he felt a surge of sadistic pleasure. "What a delightful welcome," he hissed to himself with a shadow of a smile. His eyes were wide open, filled with fascination at what he had just witnessed. "Magic... so powerful, so beautiful..."
The woman, taken aback, noticed something she had previously overlooked. "You... you're undead..." she said with visible disbelief, as if she had just realized what she was dealing with. Her eyes widened, and the hand that had been holding the mortar twitched, ready to cast another spell.
Nero had no intention of giving her a second chance. In an instant, taking advantage of her surprise, he lunged at her with the sickle in hand. This time he did not miss. The blade mercilessly pierced her throat, slicing through skin, muscle, and vocal cords. The woman emitted a soft, choking sound, blood spurted onto the floor, and her body slumped lifelessly to the ground.
Nero stood over her, watching as life drained from her eyes. "If you were younger... maybe I would have spared you," he repeated to himself with an ironic smile. "But it's just a worthless life." He gazed at her dead body, but his thoughts quickly shifted to something else—the magic he had just witnessed. The spell, though simple, had an incredible quality to it. "Magic..." he murmured, looking at his skeletal hands as if pondering whether he would ever be able to master such arts. "Such potential..."
Nero turned away, ignoring the woman's corpse, and began to search the interior, wondering what else might be hidden in this place. He was particularly interested in the books on the shelf—perhaps he would find answers to the questions beginning to form in his dead skull.