The forest greeted Devon not as an enemy or a monster, but as a silent kingdom waiting to be mapped. Each step he took on the damp, rust-colored layer of moss felt different from the last. There was no more blind panic driving him forward, no more agonizing pain tripping him up. There was only purpose. The cold, solid weight of the crossbow in his hands was an anchor, an affirmation of his new reality. The leather pack on his back felt right, a turtle shell of survival tools he had chosen deliberately, not scavenged out of desperation.
He ventured deeper into the shade of the silver birch trees, their shimmering bark reflecting the pale lavender light of the sky. The air was clean and sharp, filled with the scent of steel pine and rain-soaked earth after its magical shower. He was an intruder in this world, but for the first time, he didn't feel like prey. He felt like an explorer, an armed scholar.
He stopped, pulling Corvus's journal from his pack. The worn leather cover felt warm in his hands, as if still retaining the residual genius of its mad owner. He opened it to a marked page. Sketches drawn with gruesome anatomical precision filled the page. On the left, a vine with leaves shaped like spearheads and small, dark purple flowers. Devon compared the drawing to a vine snaking around a nearby tree trunk. Identical.
"Dagger Root," he murmured, reading Corvus's neat script beneath the sketch. "Roots edible after boiling twice to remove mild toxins. Tastes like spicy potato. Leaves poisonous if ingested, but sap can be rendered into strong adhesive."
Knowledge. Not just power, but control. He took out his small hatchet, not to fell trees, but to carefully dig around the base of the vine. He extracted the thick, gnarled roots, brushed off the soil, and placed them in a woven basket in his pack. He continued his journey, his eyes now scanning the forest in a new way. The woods were no longer just a menacing green labyrinth; they were a pharmacy, a grocery store, and an armory waiting to be unlocked.
He identified "Tongue Moss," a flat, bright orange fungus growing on a fallen log, which the journal claimed was safe to eat and tasted like chicken when fried. He picked some "Night Berries," small, jet-black fruits that tasted intensely sweet but left a vivid purple stain on his fingers, exactly as Corvus's notes described. Each discovery was a small victory, an affirmation that he could learn, he could adapt. He could conquer this world, not with muscle, but with mind—the true legacy of Corvus Nightshade.
After about an hour of methodical travel, he heard a familiar sound: the rushing of a strong current. He arrived at the bank of the same river that had nearly drowned him and then saved him from the wolves. He regarded it now without fear, only with cold calculation. It was a resource.
"Hmm, should have brought a fishing pole," he thought, an echo of the old Devon who still appreciated convenience. Then he stopped. He was a mage now, at least in the most primitive sense. He didn't need a fishing pole.
He set down his pack and crossbow on the dry ground. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a pale yellow witch stone. It vibrated faintly in his palm, a barely perceptible pulse of static like an insect trapped in amber. Electricity. Lightning. Raw power.
"Alright," he whispered to himself, "let's try something new."
He gripped the witch stone tightly in his left hand. He extended his right hand toward the shimmering surface of the water. He didn't try to incant; he knew it was pointless. Instead, he focused his will. He didn't just want lightning. He imagined it. He envisioned the energy gathering within the stone, flowing through his arm, and erupting from his fingertips. He pictured the blinding flash, the sharp crack in the air, and the numbing jolt spreading through the water.
True to form, a magic circle began to form in the air before his hand. But this one was different from the watery blue circle. This one was sharper, more volatile. Its runes looked like shards of glass, swirling with restless energy. The air around it smelled of ozone, the sharp, clean scent before a storm. Then, from the center of the circle, a thin, yellow-white tendril of lightning shot out, no thicker than his finger, and struck the surface of the water with a loud CRACK!
It wasn't an explosion, but a concentrated jolt. The water at the point of impact boiled and vaporized instantly, and a shockwave rippled across the river. For a few seconds, the entire pool of water before him vibrated. Then, silence fell.
One by one, fish began to float to the surface, their silver bellies facing the sky. They weren't dead, just stunned, twitching weakly in the water. A cold, satisfied smile touched Devon's lips. This was more efficient than any fishing pole.
Emboldened by success, he stepped into the shallows, his boots unaffected by the chill of the water. He quickly gathered the stunned fish, stuffing them into his basket until it was full. Meat. Protein. Fuel for the days ahead. He had provided for himself, not by luck, but by the intelligence and power he held in his hands.
Afterward, he decided to rest. He chose a small clearing on the riverbank, leaning against a large silver birch tree, giving him a clear view of his surroundings. He took out Corvus's jerky, chewing it slowly. It still tasted like leather, but it was the taste of victory. While he ate, he decided it was a good time to familiarize himself with his new weapon.
He picked up the crossbow. The cocking mechanism worked exactly as he had imagined. He pulled the small lever beneath the handle, and with a sharp hiss of compressed air and a satisfying thunk, the thick bowstring was drawn back and locked into place. The process was nearly silent and required minimal effort. He inserted one of the obsidian-bladed bolts into the groove. It clicked into place with precision.
He raised the crossbow to his shoulder, feeling its balanced weight. He aimed across the river, at a prominent knot on the trunk of a fallen tree. He held his breath, his eyes narrowed, his finger lightly touching the trigger. He felt the world narrow to a single point of focus: the wooden knot.
That was when the silence shattered.
It began not as a sound, but as a feeling. The feeling of being watched. The hairs on his arms stood on end. Then came the whispers. They were so faint at first, barely audible above the rustle of the wind, but they didn't enter through his ears. They took root directly in his mind.
Devon
It was Kaito's voice, but wrong. There was a cruel, mocking edge to it, a hidden glee that his friend had never possessed.
you're all alone out here
Then Rina's voice, cold as ice, but without the underlying warmth he had always known.
weak... pathetic
A soft laughter began to follow, a laughter that echoed inside his skull, the laughter of a thousand voices that all sounded like his friends, laughing at him. Devon's hands began to tremble. The barrel of the crossbow wavered. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
Then he saw them. Among the trees across the river, the illusion took shape. Kaito and Rina, standing there, staring at him. But they were wrong. Horrific. They looked like broken recordings, their images flickering and distorted at the edges. Kaito's smile was too wide, stretching from ear to ear, revealing too many teeth. Rina's glasses were empty and dark, reflecting nothing, two black holes in her pale face.
"You left us to die, Devon," said the illusion of Kaito, his voice layered with countless echoes.
"You should have been the one to fall," hissed the illusion of Rina. "You'll never go home."
Devon flinched, his mind assaulted by the wave of guilt and terror he had tried to bury. The memory of the fall, the panicked cries of his friends, all came rushing back with the force of a physical blow. He almost dropped the crossbow. He wanted to scream, to close his eyes. He was a terrified teenager again, paralyzed by trauma.
Just then, the black ring on his right index finger turned ice cold.
The chill was so sudden and piercing that it felt like a burn. It was a mental sting that cut through the fog of confusion and terror. The black crystal in the ring seemed to pulse with nothingness, absorbing not light, but the emotions and disturbances around it. Abruptly, the ring emitted a wave of unseen energy.
The whispers in his head stopped instantly, as if a door had been slammed shut. The laughter vanished. And the illusions across the river shattered like broken glass, dissolving into nothingness.
Silence fell again. But this time, it was a clear, sharp silence. The panic, the guilt, the fear—all gone, sucked into the cold void of the ring. All that remained was a calm, deadly analysis. He felt no relief. He felt no fear. He simply understood. He was under attack. His mind had been violated. And his enemy was still out there.
Devon could finally think straight again. He was no longer trembling. His grip on the crossbow was as hard as steel. He pushed himself to his feet, his movements fluid and controlled. He didn't fire randomly. He scanned the treeline, his eyes now cold and focused, searching for the source of the attack.
"Who's there?!" he shouted, his voice no longer hoarse with fear, but sharp and steady as a dagger's edge. "I'm warning you!"
There was no answer but the rustle of leaves. But then, he heard it. A wrong kind of rustling in the bushes to his right, not far away. It wasn't the sound of a normal animal moving. It was the sound of something liquid and heavy dragging itself.
Without hesitation. Without a second of doubt.
The instincts honed by Corvus's legacy and amplified by the cold clarity of the ring took over. He whirled, the crossbow rising smoothly to his shoulder. He didn't aim. He fired at the sound.
There was only the muffled thwump as the bowstring released its energy, followed by the near-silent hiss of the bolt cutting through the air.
A second of silence. Then, a high-pitched shriek tore through the air. It wasn't a roar of anger or a cry of pain. It was a strange, horrifying sound—the sound of laughter laced with agony, as if the creature was enjoying its own suffering.
Devon didn't move. He lowered his crossbow, pulled the lever with a sharp hiss, and inserted a fresh bolt. He waited. The shrieking faded into a wet gurgling sound, then stopped.
With his crossbow raised and ready, he stepped forward cautiously toward the bushes. He pushed aside the broad, copper-colored leaves with the barrel of his weapon.
And there it was.
Devon stared, his now-calm mind trying to process what he was seeing. What manner of creature was this? It was alien. It was a Gloomsmile.
Its body was a shapeless mass of viscous black, pulsing gently like crude oil, forming a barely discernible torso and head. His obsidian bolt was lodged squarely in the center of its "chest," and from the wound flowed not blood, but more of the same black fluid that made up its entire being, which smoked faintly as it touched the leaves beneath it.
But the face was the source of the true horror. It was a pale, greyish mask made of something that looked like ground bone, rough and uneven. Two large, round eyes stared out from it, perpetually wide, unblinking, gazing blankly at the sky even in death. And the mouth... the mouth was stretched into an impossible smile, from one side of its face to the other, filled with countless tiny teeth, as sharp as shards of glass. The smile was frozen in place, an expression of grotesque, eternal glee.
Devon stood there, staring down at the monster from his psychological nightmares. A creature that attacked not the body, but the mind. A creature that fed on fear and loneliness. He felt the lingering chill of its mental assault, and he saw the result lying at his feet.
He felt no triumph. He felt no revulsion. The black ring on his finger ensured that. He felt only a cold, predatory curiosity. He lowered his crossbow. He had discovered a new specimen.