The pages flipped on their own. Faster. Faster. Then they stopped.
Eros stared at them, the shifting ink breathing faintly across the paper. Every line seemed alive, writhing like smoke caught under glass. The diary hovered with quiet menace, waiting for him to accept whatever verdict it had prepared.
His chest still rose and fell with the ache of the fight. Sweat cooled against torn skin. The stink of blood clung heavy in his throat, and the silence of the Wasteland pressed harder now that the voice had gone quiet. The corpses around him made no sound, but they seemed to lean closer, as though they too were waiting for him to read.
He almost laughed, though there was nothing funny in it. Absurd, really. After betrayal, after killing, after tearing himself out of a net like a beast, what unsettled him most wasn't blades or chains or Halix's grin. It was a book.
The Reader's Notes pulsed once. A flicker of emberlight glowed between its pages. It reminded him of the scars, the ones already carved into his body. Each gift was a debt, every flame a promise he hadn't chosen.
His fingers twitched around the axe handle. He didn't release it.
«So this is it,» he thought. «Let's see what hell wants from me next.»
His mouth was dry. He didn't know what would come: another flame, nothing at all, or—if the diary felt merciful—a way out.
The first words etched themselves across the parchment, with the rhythmic clatter of a typewriter and that same familiar voice echoing in his skull.
Crisp black lines bled into sentences:For your soul's harvest, Reader… the shadow of the nearest god reveals itself.
Eros froze. His chest hollowed out.
On the page, a crude, shifting map began to sketch itself. Lines twisted, mountains and valleys appearing like spilled ink. It was incomplete, distorted, like a dream half-remembered. At the center, a symbol burned black: a sun swallowed by the open jaws of a serpent.
He stared, eyes narrowing.
Not a flame. Not a gift. Not even a cruel joke. A command.
A god.
The diary had given him a target.
His lip curled. «So killing men makes me a good little reaper. Great. My prize is a death sentence.»
He spat into the dirt, but the taste in his mouth stayed.
The words Soul's Harvest crawled inside his skull. Not crops. Not flames. Souls. His, or theirs. The diary was counting the bodies he left behind, tallying them like a scorekeeper with no pity. His gut twisted.
Then another word clawed at him: nearest.
Nearest meant more than one. The thought made bile rise in his throat. «How many gods are trapped in here? How many does this book want me to hunt down like prey?»
His jaw tightened. He hated the thought, but more than that, he hated that it made sense. The diary wasn't random. It had a plan, a twisted plot dragging him step by step.
And now that plot wanted him to find a god and kill it.
"Of course," he said bitterly. "Because surviving monsters and traitors wasn't enough. Let's add gods to the list."
The book didn't answer. It never did.
He shoved it away. The pages snapped closed as it vanished into nothingness. His eyes went back to the bodies. If the diary was pushing him toward a suicide mission, then he needed to be ready.
Survival first. Always survival.
He crouched by Halix's corpse. The scarf was still damp with blood. Eros didn't linger on the man's face. Instead, he tugged the daggers from Halix's belt. Short, sharp, balanced. Real steel. Better than bone. He weighed them in his hands and almost smiled.
"Guess I'll take your toys," he muttered. "You won't be needing them."
Next, he turned to the packs dropped by the slavers. The leather was stiff with sweat, patched dark where blood had soaked into the seams. He dragged one closer, unfastened the buckles, and began to rummage.
The first thing he pulled free was a crossbow, battered, one arm slightly cracked. Ugly, but better than nothing. When he drew the string, it creaked but held. A few bolts rattled inside a short quiver. Not enough to feel safe, but enough to matter. He slung it over his shoulder and kept searching.
Of course, he changed into whatever clothes he could. He needed shoes. He found all of it among his victims.
Buried beneath a greasy cloth were strips of dried meat, dark and tough, carrying the faint scent of smoke instead of rot. His stomach tightened just smelling it. Hunger gnawed at him like an old enemy, and the thought of chewing that bitter flesh felt like salvation.
Deeper in the bag was a dented canteen. He shook it, heard the slosh, then unscrewed the cap. The liquid was cloudy, metallic. He sniffed it, then drank anyway. It burned his throat, but eased the ache in his stomach. He sealed it tight and set it aside.
The last bundle was a heap of rags, stiff with old blood, torn into strips. They stank, but they would serve as bandages if he had to. He stuffed them into his belt with a grimace.
When he searched Halix's pouch, his fingers brushed parchment. He unfolded it, squinting at the crude lines in charcoal: a jagged river, hills like scratches. At the center, a circle of black ink—the sun devoured by the serpent's jaws.
Almost the same as the image in the diary.
Eros stared, the hair on his arms prickling. «So you knew. You were leading me there all along.»
He folded the map and shoved it into his belt.
His hands didn't hesitate. Strip the bodies. Take what was useful. Leave the rest. His stomach knotted, but he ignored it. He had already crossed that line when he ate the eagle, when he turned bones into weapons. This was no different.
Still, a whisper nagged: «Scavenger. No different from crows picking the dead. But if the choice is between disgust and survival, then I'll be worse than the birds.»
The smell clung to him: sweat, iron, sour blood. His fingers trembled as he buckled Halix's dagger belt. His throat clenched when he slung the crossbow. He told himself it was just weight, just tools. Not pieces of men he had put in the ground.
He pushed himself upright, heavier now, but better prepared. For the first time since waking in this cursed world, he felt like more than a naked boy with scraps.
And that terrified him more than being empty-handed.
He left the valley behind.
The land changed as he walked. The gray sea of ash gave way to harder ground, jagged with black stone. The horizon stretched wide, a rocky desert beneath a bleeding sky. Shattered pillars jutted like broken teeth, while twisted plants clung to cracks in the stone.
His boots crunched on gravel. The air was thinner here, dry enough to sting his throat. The canteen rattled with each step.
The silence gave his thoughts too much room. Trust—already rotten. Halix's grin haunted him, along with the bite of ropes grinding his wrists. Humans were worse than beasts. At least a wolf didn't smile before it tried to eat you. People lied first, then sank their teeth in after.
«If there are people left in here, they'll smile while they gut you,» he thought, bitter. «And if there aren't… then at least the monsters are honest about wanting you dead.»
The new weapons should have felt like protection. They didn't. Steel weighed heavier. The bolts rattled. Every shift of his gear pulled him back to Halix's grin, to the knife flashing toward his ribs. Weapons were only as trustworthy as the hands holding them.
The road stretched forward in silence. His boots scraped against gravel, keeping time in a world that had none.
The sun slid lower, orange bleeding into red. Its light fractured across the desert, catching on shards of black glass scattered among the rocks. For a moment, it was almost beautiful.
Almost.
As the shadows stretched longer, he slowed. His breath fogged in the cooling air. The book itched in his thoughts again, pulling at him like a leash.
With a growl, he summoned it.
The Reader's Notes opened to the same page, the map still shimmering with distortion. The serpent devouring the sun pulsed faintly, glowing as if laughing at him.
Eros scowled. Amanda's face stabbed into his thoughts, raw and sharp.
«Please don't be in here. Please don't let this place have you too.»
The silence didn't answer. Only the book stared back, mocking.
His grip on the dagger tightened.
«The book wants me to kill a god. Fine. I'll go. But when I find it, let's see who really gets devoured.»
The diary snapped shut. Eros turned toward the darkening horizon and kept walking.