It was the fourth time that week the traveler had reluctantly entered some random place in the city. He needed shelter, but with every step, the floor creaked ominously. That constant groaning was one of the milder signs that the old mansion wasn't the safest refuge. But night was falling. Rotting undead and other equally terrifying creatures roamed the streets of the abandoned port city — and to make matters worse, a storm was closing in.
The traveler had survived worse in this apocalyptic landscape, but he preferred not to push his luck. Still, a sliver of hope clung to him — maybe, just maybe, luck would be on his side tonight.
To the casual eye, he looked like nothing more than a semi-faun on the cusp of eighteen summers. His fragile, adolescent frame could fool even seasoned arcane warriors. Brown hair brushed his shoulders beneath a Sherlock-style hat, usually covering his squirrel-like ears and letting him pass for a harmless young human. That worked — at least until circumstances forced him to become a cunning trickster... or a master of mystical talismans. Even then, he preferred to reserve his Affinity and arcane tools for the truly desperate moments of his journey. After all, traditional weapons — swords, arrows — were always useful in the hands of a skilled warrior.
That's why his satchel still held a few arcane relics, though his stash of enchanted potions had run out faster than expected. He'd need to restock with the Enchanted Potion Lady as soon as the chance arose.
Steve nodded to himself, then removed his hat and scarf, revealing a pale face. His brown eyes scanned the dim room, while his lantern's beam swept across a dusty marble floor. Cold, stifling solitude enveloped him. As expected, apart from the vile undead, his only companions were spiders and rats.
He tried not to think about what might be lurking in the mansion's shadows as he descended a wide staircase. In the basement, after dispatching a handful of zombies with swift blows from his wooden sword and sealing the entrances, the lone traveler looked for a corner to sleep in. He brushed away dust and cobwebs, then laid out his sleeping bag.
It was hard to believe the series of catastrophic events that had unfolded over the past six months. He'd never imagined the world could fall so far, sink so deep into darkness — much less that he'd be sleeping in a crumbling mansion offering zero sense of safety.
With some hesitation, Steve lay down to meditate before sleep, preparing to enter the world of Fauntasia — a habit he'd cultivated since early adolescence.
If I die here, in this world, while inside Fauntasia... maybe that world becomes my new one, the semi-faun thought before finally closing his eyes.
He had been born in the human world, albeit in a village far removed from human civilization — a village of fauns. But he'd made a second home in a realm where he felt equal to others, a parallel dimension he escaped to often, leaping from body to body.
Fauntasia still held many mysteries for him.
As his consciousness began to drift from the human plane — as it sometimes did — Steve awoke in a den beneath a moonlit forest. He was in a body seven years younger, with sharper squirrel-like features. A faun's body, mysteriously born in the forest among fellow alchemists from the moment his spirit had first reached them — the fauns of the Faun Realm, arcane beings who resembled mammals, all bipedal.
Sometimes Steve wondered why he had been blessed with this second life. Only there did he feel truly faun, truly whole — and that was something close to wonder.
The Squirrel emerged from the cocoon-like coffin and headed for the exit of the burrow. Without thinking of walking, he leapt straight into a tree.
He couldn't recall the last time he'd walked through a forest normally. Since that winter night he became a bounty hunter, Steve had stopped strolling through wooded areas. It wasn't just about thrill or fun. The truth was, moving through the forest like a squirrel or monkey had saved his life countless times — letting him avoid danger and ambush foes with surprise. It was no wonder they called him the Woodland Shadow.
With inhuman agility, he moved until he spotted smoke beneath the moonlight — the first camp he'd come across in his leaps through the forests of Faunestalia.
The adventurer landed gracefully in a shaded spot beneath the trees, silently observing the camp for movement.
Ahead, in the clearing, stood two tents. He planned to check both — unless, of course, one of them housed a couple of fauns in an intimate moment.
After watching the silhouettes inside the fabric shelters, the Squirrel used his fae grace to leap straight to the second tent. Only one pair of golden eyes saw him materialize in the shadow behind the canvas. Fortunately, this time no one seemed close to having a heart attack at his sudden appearance, the Squirrel noted. Only then did he allow himself to exhale.
"Hey, Nahlyes," he greeted, spotting the small golden fairy standing guard. "Did I scare you?"
The little fairy replied in Nahvilys, the language of the fae, before flying over to land on the shoulder of a hare-faun passing by the tent.
"Sylvan!" the faun called out, making the adventurer turn. "Everything alright?" asked the young faun in a white cloak, approaching with a hare's graceful swiftness.
The squirrel-faun glanced around, a faintly bitter smile on his face. "Hey, Pronório. Well… let's say everything here seems peaceful, but in the human world…"
Steve thought of the cursed virus spreading back home, and his voice took on a somber tone.
"There's still so much chaos. I wish we had even a fraction of the peace you all have here."
"I'm sorry about your world, man," said Pronório, his tone sincere. "But maybe one day… your destiny is to remain here."
"Yeah… Maybe," Steve replied, lost in thought.
Ten minutes later, they sat around the fire, enjoying skewers of fish seasoned by the flickering flames.
"So… the red-haired girl?" asked Pronório, curious.
"I've been investigating," replied the squirrel-faun, eyes fixed on the fire. "Looks like she's really gone, but… she left at least one replica of herself behind. I think she passed on her mission to it."
"I see. You know, if I had to go, I think I'd do the same," Pronório mused.
"Me too," Steve nodded, "if I had the ability to replicate myself."
"What do you think her mission was?" the hare-faun asked, leaning in slightly.
"That's what I'd like to find out. Whatever it is, I believe it's tied to maintaining balance. As expected from a Fragmentalist," Steve replied, picturing her red hair in the flames, "or from a special replica of the Fragmentalist Folk."
Pronório nodded, absorbed in the thought. "You're right. Ah… the Fragmentalists and their nobility — they were truly something else."
Lost in reflection, Pronório looked up at the full moon as he stirred the embers with his skewer.