The eighth day brought rain. Cold. Endless. No firewood. No warmth. Just wet boots, soaked cloaks, and teeth chattering in silence.
Half the unit was sick.
Four more had died—two in the night, throat marks like claws, another crushed by a fallen tree, the last from infection. They didn't even bury him. Just left the body behind.
"We keep moving," Adel had said.
But now… no one listened to him.
They argued over rations. Fought over patrol shifts. One boy snapped and tried to run—Troy tackled him down, beat him until he stopped moving.
Not dead.
But not right anymore.
That night, Finley sat alone under a tree, blanket soaked, shivering.
"I don't want this anymore," he whispered.
Adel heard it. So did Troy.
But none of them answered.
They were too tired.
Too numb.
By the tenth day, Troy stopped speaking. He'd taken a blow to the head two nights ago—ambushed by something fast, unseen, with clicking joints and too many limbs. They killed it, eventually. But Troy hadn't said a word since.
He just stared.
Eyes wide, axe in hand, like he was waiting for the next thing to move.
Finley started crying in his sleep. Whimpering. Then screaming.
The others hated it. Said he'd draw monsters. One kicked him awake. Another held a knife to his throat and told him to shut up or go die outside camp.
Adel had to pull them apart. He threatened the boy who held the knife.
But he didn't feel strong.
He felt like breaking too.
On day twelve, they lost six more. A split unit didn't return. When they checked, they found only bags. Torn armor. And a tree covered in blood, like something had dragged their bodies up and smeared them against the bark.
One boy vomited.
Another started praying.
Adel just stared at the tree, jaw clenched, eyes red.
That night, the fire didn't light.
Everything was wet. Fingers were stiff. Hope was gone.
No one slept.
Troy sharpened his axe without blinking.
Finley whispered to someone who wasn't there.
Adel watched them both and felt the cracks inside his mind widening.
He looked at his sword, then at the forest.
And for the first time, he wondered if going deeper would be easier than going back.
The sky turned black by midday.
Not storm clouds.
Smoke.
Sector West-3 was burning.
It started with a scream. Then two. Then dozens—snapping bones, tearing flesh, the gurgling of boys choking on their own blood. The camp had no time to form lines. No warning. No mercy.
They came from beneath the roots.
Gray-skinned things—like goblins, but wrong. Taller, leaner, with spiderlike limbs and eyes that never blinked. They moved like water and hit like hammers.
Reid was the first to die.
Something grabbed his leg, pulled him into the dirt. His scream was short. When they found him seconds later, only half his body remained. His lower torso had been chewed off—spine like a snapped twig, entrails steaming.
A girl named Mira turned to run. A creature jumped from the trees, slammed her head into a rock with a crack. Then it bit into her neck and started drinking.
Her eyes were still open when it tossed her corpse aside like trash.
Finley tried to help a wounded boy crawl away, but the boy screamed and clawed at his own face, shrieking that he could see something in his skin.
His veins turned black.
He burst into flames.
Finley collapsed, screaming.
Troy swung wildly, covered in blood, roaring like a beast. But he couldn't keep up. He chopped one monster's head off—only for another to leap from behind and slice open his back with talon-like claws.
He fell forward, gasping. His blood soaked into the forest floor.
Adel dragged him behind a tree, roaring orders that no one followed.
They died in waves.
One recruit tried to hide in a hollow log. A goblin-thing shoved a spear through the wood, then dragged him out in chunks.
Another tripped, got pinned, and had his throat chewed open like bread. The creature kept eating long after he stopped twitching.
A pair tried to flee together—one tripped, and the other didn't stop. The fallen one got swarmed. The screaming didn't stop for a full minute.
By the time the sun set, 23 out of 40 were dead.
The rest were scattered. Bleeding. Shell-shocked.
Adel stood with blood on his arms that wasn't his. His sword felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. His face was numb.
Finley sat against a tree, rocking back and forth, hands clutching his ears.
Troy lay still, not dead—but not conscious.
The firelight showed body parts hanging from branches. Bones scattered in the mud. And in the middle of the camp, a pile of limbs like some kind of offering.
They had survived.
But it didn't feel like survival.
It felt like a warning.
The Black Forest was speaking.
And it was saying this:
You are prey.
The morning after was gray. Quiet.
Too quiet.
No birds. No wind. No flies on the corpses.
Just the silence of things too scared to move.
Adel sat with his back against a burned-out tree. His sword lay across his lap, still stained. He hadn't slept. His eyes were dry, yet hollow—like the tears had just given up trying to come.
Troy was awake now.
Barely.
His back was torn up, crude bandages wrapped in silence by the few who still had the strength. He didn't talk much—just stared at his hands like he didn't recognize them.
Finley... was pacing.
Fast. Fidgety. Whispering things to himself under his breath, like if he stopped moving, the forest would notice.
"I think it's over," someone said.
Adel looked up.
It was the short girl—Yara. Her leg was splinted with a branch. Her face was streaked with ash.
"It's not," he said.
And everyone around him knew it.
The remaining 17 gathered what gear they could.
No proper burial this time—only shallow pits and covered faces. The smell was already turning.
"We move east," Adel said, voice low. "Find higher ground. Rest, recover. Then we find the others. If there are any."
Troy coughed. "And what if we're all that's left?"
Adel didn't answer.
He couldn't.
They moved slow.
No one talked much. Even Finley went quiet after the second hour. His spear dragged slightly behind him. His eyes didn't blink as much anymore.
Troy walked hunched but steady.
"Never thought pain would feel like clarity," he muttered. "Hurts like hell. But it's real. That's more than the screaming dreams."
Adel smirked faintly. It was weak. But it was there.
"We're not dead yet," he said.
Finley finally stopped walking.
He looked at Adel, then Troy.
And then he nodded.
That was enough.
Not hope. But defiance.
By nightfall, they made it to a ridge overlooking the Black Forest's inner ring.
Smoke still hung in the air.
They counted heads. Made food. Set watch.
Troy stayed awake with Adel that night.
"Why didn't we run?" he asked, eyes on the flames.
Adel stared at the dark trees.
"Because we're soldiers," he said.
Then added, quieter—
"Or we're trying to be."