The starless sky above was painted in dark void, Sezel crept through the Spirit Realm's wilderness, clutching the pickaxe in one trembling hand, its weight a frail anchor against the forest's horrors.
The forest ended briefly, opening into another clearing bathed in the mystic purple glow of Spirit Essence.
Sezel crouched behind dense, thorned bushes, his gaze scouring the stillness. Nothing stirred, For now, it was safe.
For now. The words were a bitter joke. In this realm, "safe" was just the brief, terrifying quiet between one horror and the next.
He exhaled, a ragged sigh of relief, and stumbled into the open. His tattered clothes were soaked in sweat, clinging to his skin like a second, grimy layer. Exhaustion, a crushing weight, finally won.
He slumped to the ground, his breath coming in shallow bursts. Hunger was a dull, constant ache, but thirst was a cruel, sharp-toothed master.
Water. I need water. The thought was a all-consuming prayer. He looked up at the empty, starless sky, the sky resonated his own self, its emptiness a mirror to Sezel's hollowed soul. "You were also abandoned by the stars you held dear, weren't you?"
He asked the sky knowing that his question won't ever be answered.
The fog of despair had lifted, replaced by a chilling clarity. And with that clarity came a series of unsettling realizations that made his blood run cold.
Spirit Beasts weren't supposed to have a hierarchy, a King. They weren't supposed to be able to talk, leave command. The Mighty Black Knight was not just some powerful monster. It was something else entirely, something that operated on a level of intelligence and power that was beyond his comprehension.
Sezel didn't know much about the Spirit Realm as his life had never allowed time for learning, even surviving was a test itself.
His stomach twisted, as small drops filled his vision, he thought about his sister. A memory of a fleeting promise surfaced, He had promised her that he would bring an abundance of food and water. A promise he had so spectacularly failed to keep.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice breaking. "I'm a liar." Hot tears welled in his eyes, blurring the violet glow, his heart aching for the one soul in the world who might still be waiting for him.
A rustle in the bushes snapped him back to reality. He scrambled to his feet, his hand tightening around the pickaxe. He slowly retreated into the wilderness and observed hiding behind a gnarled tree.
A figure emerged, stumbling on a broken leg. It was human-sized, with mottled green skin. A Zombie. Sezel gritted his teeth. His brief respite was over. He turned and continued his journey deeper into the wilderness.
He hadn't gone far when he felt it—the unnerving sensation of being followed. It was silent, persistent, a shadow at his back that neither attacked nor retreated.
He emerged onto a cracked, unnaturally smooth pavement that resembled a road. The beast lunged. Sezel spun, swinging the pickaxe with a desperate, rotational force that amplified his meager strength. The blade sank deep into the creature's neck.
He gasped, looking down at the motionless form. It looked like a dog, a lesser, more pathetic version of a Night Crawler. It wasn't dead. He knew that much. Spirit Beasts couldn't be killed by physical means alone. But it was down.
Frail as I am, I can still fight. The thought was a small spark in the overwhelming darkness. He yanked the pickaxe free and ran.
"I can't even sit for a second in this place," he cursed bitterly.
Oh, god, if you're real, just look at me for a second. Just once. He had never believed in gods, but in this hell, he was desperate enough to try anything. But if there was a god, why hadn't it helped him? Why hadn't it saved his sister's parents? Was its favor something you had to earn?
His vision blurred, his head spinning. A sharp, lancing pain shot through his skull. It hurts. He clutched his head, his sprint slowing to a stumble. His body, pushed beyond its limits, was finally giving up.
Water... The word was a hoarse chant on his lips, his thirst consuming him.
After walking a little, he fell, barely conscious, breath ragged like a man on death's threshold. Raising his head, he glimpsed an impossible sight—a shallow dip in the earth, filled with liquid, glinting in the violet glow. Hope, faint as a dying ember, sparked.
Fate it seemed had not fully left his side.
He struggled to his knees, using a tree for support. He stumbled to the ditch, staring at the water. It was unnaturally still, untouched by any breeze.
But how did it come here? From all Sezel had noticed Spirit realm was devoid of rain. But it didn't matter, all that mattered was that he had something to drink.
A dying man heeds no doubts. He cupped his hands and drank, gulping the metallic-tasting liquid with a manic desperation. For all he knew, it might be poison, but at that moment, he would have drunk blood.
The water soothed his parched throat, but his body was still a husk. He had nothing left.
Then he heard it. Slow, deliberate footsteps.
The Black Knights. They had caught up.
He pushed himself up, his frail body screaming in protest, and stumbled back towards the wilderness, leaving the pickaxe behind. He didn't have the strength to carry it.
He was in mid-stride when something yanked his dislocated arm back, as if grabbed by an unseen hand.