Morning stretched across the desert in pale gold, the horizon soft and endless. Tom adjusted the worn coat draped over his shoulders, pulling the collar higher against the faint chill that lingered before the heat.
His steps were steady but his chest felt heavy; today wasn't about jokes. Today was another quarrel.
The Carna Forest waited in the distance like a wall of shadow. Everyone in the bunker had heard stories, and trees that dripped like open veins, flowers that hissed, roots that clutched ankles and pulled men into the soil.
Vera's warning recalled in his head, but Tom pushed it aside. This was his quest, not theirs.
He tugged down the brim of a dark hat, one he'd quietly bought from the System shop last night.
It had cost him two hundred and fifty coins, a reckless purchase, but worth it. The hat wasn't ordinary; it stretched his vision, gifting him a field of sight full-circle around his body. Ten meters of awareness in every direction, no more blind spots, no more ambushes.
As the first line of trees rose closer, his throat tightened. The air already smelled wrong. Damp, metallic, tinged with rot. He could almost feel the soil shifting, like the forest itself had already sensed his presence.
"Alright…" Tom muttered, gripping the trident Vera had reluctantly let him carry. "Let's see what you're really hiding."
He stepped under the canopy. Sunlight fractured above him, swallowed by twisted leaves. His coat brushed against low branches that twitched back unnaturally, as if alive.
The sand beneath his boots became dark earth, soft and damp, breathing like flesh.
The forest closed around him. Tom knew, even before the first sound came, that every shadow inside was watching.
Tom moved deeper, the canopy stretching over him like a cage. The air felt heavier here, clinging to his lungs. He scratched his head with his free hand, muttering to himself.
"What now…?" His voice was low, swallowed by the forest. "March in circles till I starve, or wait for these Razorbugs to come knocking?"
He kept his shoulders close, careful not to brush against anything. Even the smallest vine seemed to twitch when disturbed. His trident, long and cold in his hand, became more tool than weapon.
He used it to sweep aside drooping branches, prod suspicious roots, and clear his path. Every step felt like prying open a wound.
A soft flutter, unlike the usual rustle of leaves, reached his ears. He tilted his head, pulling the brim of his hat lower, eyes narrowing.
Through the slanted shafts of dim light, he caught movement above.
At first glance, they looked like birds. Perched on a crooked branch. But then the details surfaced. Their bodies were small and hunched, more like rats than sparrows, covered in mangy fur.
From their backs sprouted wings, bright and unnervingly colorful, like paint splattered across feathers. Yet when one of them yawned, Tom saw sharp, needle like teeth packed into a rodent's jaw.
"...That's not right," he whispered. His trident shifted in his grip, muscles tense.
The flock tilted their heads all at once, too synchronized, too aware. Their beady eyes glimmered with a strange, intelligent hunger. Tom felt his stomach knot as he realized they weren't startled by him. They were waiting.
"Great," Tom muttered, dry as dust. "Flying rats with rainbow wings and dentist nightmares."
The flock didn't follow. Their screeches echoed once, then bled back into silence. Tom's boots sank into damp soil as he walked further, deeper, where the air turned colder.
He was starting to notice the forest itself didn't like him here. Every vine swayed like it wanted to slap him.
Then he stopped.
The path ahead was blocked. Branches—thick, interwoven, like giant ribs locking the way shut.
They weren't normal either. Their bark pulsed faintly, veins glowing a deep green as if sap was moving faster than it should. When Tom pressed his trident against them, the wood resisted.
"Figures," he muttered, scratching his head again. "Of course the forest doesn't have doors, just walls leading to either darkness or the path."
He stepped back and focused his grip on the weapon. But then, instead of striking, he lowered his hand, palm out, and focused. His Face stirred, the strange pull of it humming through his chest. Space seemed to warp around his fingertips.
Slowly, he rotated his wrist clockwise, and the air around the blockade bent in response. The branches began to twist along with the motion, fibers grinding against each other.
Neither breaking or snapping, but unwinding. Their knots loosened, bending away in spirals.
The forest groaned, like it hated what he was doing.
Tom gritted his teeth, the strain crawled into his arm. It wasn't easy, the rotation wasn't just spinning things.
He had to hold the flow, like turning a key that didn't want to move. He pictured the blockade as gears, and himself forcing them to turn the opposite way.
Bit by bit, the wall of branches curled aside, twisting into an opening just wide enough for him to slip through.
Sap dripped in long strings, glowing faintly before vanishing into the soil.
Tom exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Alright… door's open. Just don't close on me."
He stepped through. The air on the other side felt different, heavier, as if the forest knew what he'd done.
Something clicked in the distance.
A faint scratching sound followed, soft but constant, like claws dragging over wood. The scratching grew louder.
His hat's vision range flickered. Little glints in the dark scattered like stars too low to the ground. Then the glints moved. Dozens of them.
From the roots and hollow trees, they crawled out. Razorbugs. Their bodies were the size of large hounds, carapaces jagged like broken glass, mandibles dripping with yellow froth.
Their many legs clattered against the ground, sharp enough to cut bark when they moved.
Tom didn't panic. He rarely did. His breathing stayed steady, but his hand tightened around the trident's shaft.
The first Razorbug lunged, mandibles snapping. Tom twisted the weapon mid-swing.
The three-pronged head rotated unnaturally fast, a blur of steel, and when it struck, the insect's shell cracked apart, spewing foul liquid across the ground.
But the swarm didn't stop. More poured out, crawling over one another in hunger.
Tom stepped back, rotating the ground under a cluster of them.
The soil itself twisted like a screw, dragging two Razorbugs down until their legs snapped under their own weight. He jabbed the trident into another, ripping it free with cold precision.
Still, there were too many. Their bodies clashed against his legs, mandibles snapping inches from his flesh.
One caught his coat and tore fabric, another scraped his shoulder, leaving a thin line of blood.
Tom didn't curse, didn't shout. He simply calculated. Every move had to count.
"Too narrow here," he muttered under his breath.
He pushed forward, using the trident as both spear and shield, spinning the weapon in controlled arcs. His rotation ability flared again. He twisted the air itself, sending a Razorbug spiraling mid-leap, slamming it against a tree.
They kept chasing.
Tom's boots pounded the ground as he ran, turning corners sharply, using his hat's vision to sense every move behind him. The Razorbugs clung to bark, skittering sideways, cutting through branches to reach him. Their screeches filled the forest, sharp enough to sting his ears.
But Tom stayed calm. He never once lost rhythm.
When the swarm lunged all at once, he spun the trident around his body, dragging a controlled vortex of sand and dirt with him. The insects recoiled, blinded for a second. That was his gap.
He darted through a narrow path, successfully managing to escape.... for now.
He sighed behind a tree and proceeded to eat rough bread. Thinking which direction will be safest to go. He needs to explore the area first.
Then, the tree behind him made a sound,
Crack.