The Whispering Wilds
Raghu's Halo Watch blinked with a soft, rhythmic light — the message link from Jivan had arrived.
"Forest Pocket unlocked.
Entry fee: 6,000 Credits.
Duration: 48 hours.
Survival is victory.
Terrain: adaptive."
Raghu frowned. "Six thousand?" he muttered. "Jivan's definition of generosity must come from another world."
He hesitated for a moment, but a growing trust in that infuriatingly cryptic man — won. He confirmed the entry, and light swallowed him whole.
The world reassembled around him in pieces — first the sound, then the air, then the smell. Damp soil, dew-heavy leaves, and the faint buzz of unseen life filled his lungs. When the light faded, Raghu stood in a forest that seemed to breathe.
Massive trees loomed like titans, their trunks slick with moss and veins of faint green luminescence running up their bark. The sky above was fractured, filtered through a canopy so dense it turned sunlight into thin ribbons of emerald.
The air was alive — whispering, sighing, speaking in the language of wind and root.
Raghu turned slowly, falchion drawn. He felt small — not because of fear, but because the forest made him aware of something larger, older, infinitely patient.
Then came Jivan's voice — not from the watch, but somewhere between thought and sound:
"Welcome to the Whispering Wilds! Lovely place — the trees talk, the ground moves, and if something bites, bite back harder. Try not to die in the first hour, I'm rooting for you. Literally."
"Perfect," Raghu muttered. "A comedian with divine connections."
For the first few hours, he moved cautiously, marking trees with scratches from his blade. The terrain shifted in strange patterns — paths reappeared in different directions, the same fallen log turned up twice, and at one point, he swore he saw his own footprints cross themselves.
Something was testing him.
The forest wasn't a static place; it pulsed. He could feel it — faint tremors beneath his boots, the rustle of leaves syncing like breathing. Even the distant sound carried rhythm.
Once, while drinking from a clear stream, he noticed ripples forming against the current. Seconds later, a creature burst out — a tangle of branches shaped like a wolf. It moved like wood snapping, jaws lined with glowing sap.
Raghu's falchion met it mid-leap, the impact sending splinters flying. The creature recoiled, reformed, attacked again. It was tireless — and every move it made synced with the tremor underfoot.
He realized the forest was feeding it energy.
So he stilled himself — blade steady, eyes closed. The forest's rhythm surged around him, chaotic and steady all at once. For a moment, he matched it — inhaling as the wind exhaled, moving when the leaves quivered.
When the creature lunged again, he was already gone, sliding past its strike with impossible precision. His blade cleaved its core — a hollow, glowing heart of amber — and the thing fell apart in a cascade of dust.
The forest stilled. Then, almost approvingly, it whispered.
That night, Raghu made camp in the hollow of an ancient tree. He didn't sleep — not entirely. The forest had a pulse that wouldn't let him. He could feel every flicker of movement around him, every heartbeat not his own.
At first it was maddening — a thousand faint signals pressing against his mind. But slowly, as the hours passed, he began to separate them — the rustle of an insect, the drift of a leaf, the breath of something large moving in the distance.
The chaos began to form a pattern.
He placed his hand on the bark beside him. The pulse ran through it — the same rhythm in the soil, in the wind, even in his veins.
He whispered, almost instinctively: "I hear you."
The world responded.
A faint green shimmer ran up his arm, tracing the outline of his veins before fading into his chest. His heart began to beat slower — deeper — until it aligned with the rhythm outside.
For the first time, Raghu felt the world breathe through him. The forest wasn't merely alive — it was aware. And now, it seemed to have accepted him.
By the second day, everything changed.
He no longer needed to look for danger; he could feel it. When a predator crept behind a log, its intent registered before its shadow appeared. When a tree shifted its roots to block his path, he adjusted his footing without thought.
The forest had stopped testing him. It was teaching him.
When the final challenge came — a swarm of vine-serpents dropping from the canopy — he didn't fight them in panic. He danced with them.
Each motion flowed through him, guided by the forest's pulse. He cut, ducked, and moved with impossible clarity. The rhythm between him and the Wilds had become one.
When the last serpent fell, the ground trembled lightly — a heartbeat of approval.
And then the voice returned. Jivan again, cheerful and annoyingly smug:
"Well done, Mr. Forest Whisperer! The Wilds approve — and apparently, they like you enough to give you a souvenir. Try not to ruin it. Check your balance — you've earned some pocket change for not dying."
Raghu looked at his Halo Watch. His Credit counter blinked:+10,000 Credits earned. Current Balance: 16,000 Credits.
The mark on his wrist pulsed faintly — its hue now carrying a faint green undertone, the echo of the forest's veins.
When the light took him back to the train, the contrast felt jarring — the cold metal hum, the muted air. Yet, something inside him was different.
Everything had rhythm now — the mechanical clicks, the footfalls of other candidates, even the train's distant growl. His senses had sharpened in ways words couldn't describe.
Verdant Pulse had awakened — the resonance of life within him.
He could feel presence before he saw it, anticipate shifts before they came. It wasn't raw strength, but something deeper — awareness. The kind that separated survivors from the fallen.
He leaned back in his capsule, staring at the green shimmer on his skin ."Thanks, Jivan ," he muttered, half-sarcastic. "Next time, maybe send me somewhere with actual beds."
Somewhere far away, in whatever realm he lingered, Jivan likely grinned.