The forest thickened with every step.
Fog wrapped around Vikram's legs like wet chains; the ground pulsed faintly, as if something beneath it were breathing, waiting. Betaal hovered ahead, his corpse-like form swaying slowly, a pendulum in the silence. The air smelled of iron and decay, sharp as the edges of a blade.
Vikram's sword remained ready, though he knew the steel could cut nothing here. Not the mist. Not the shadows. Not the weight in his chest — a growing dread he could neither flee nor fight.
> "This is where it begins," Betaal whispered, his voice threading through the fog. "The first story. Listen carefully, King, for the line between life and tale is thin here. Cross it unwisely, and you may never return."
Vikram said nothing. His jaw clenched. Each step toward the clearing ahead made the forest seem smaller, yet infinitely deeper.
---
🩸 The Clearing
The clearing appeared suddenly. Trees arched above like cathedral ceilings, but their branches were gnarled, sharp, and dripping with black sap that hissed on contact with the earth. In the center, a corpse hung from a twisted tree. Unlike Betaal, it was not alive in any way — skin pale and taut, eyes closed, mouth frozen mid-scream.
Vikram approached cautiously, sword drawn. The ground around it was littered with bones — some human, some animal, some unidentifiable. As he stepped closer, he realized the bones were not scattered randomly. They formed a pattern: a circle, etched into the soil in meticulous symmetry.
The air shivered. Betaal floated toward the hanging corpse, reaching out with skeletal fingers.
> "Meet your first story," he said softly. "And remember, King… this is more than a tale. It is a reflection."
The corpse stirred. Its eyelids opened slowly, revealing milky, unseeing eyes. A voice — brittle, raspy — drifted from its mouth.
> "There was a man," it began, "who sought immortality, not through heaven, but through fear. He wished to see the world kneel, to bend time and memory to his will…"
Vikram's heart tightened. He had heard this before, in whispers, in dreams he had dismissed.
> "He discovered a ritual," the corpse continued. "A way to trap a soul between worlds, to hang it from the tree of life and death. Every day, it would whisper secrets… until the living could no longer tell their own name from that of the dead."
Vikram's pulse quickened. He looked at Betaal. The ghost's eyes gleamed like molten silver.
> "The man's soul grew proud. He called himself king over death itself. And yet…"
The corpse tilted its head. Its jaw unhinged unnaturally, and the air filled with a chorus of distant screams. Shadows on the ground elongated, twisting into shapes of people Vikram had known, people he had failed.
> "…every king who seeks mastery over death finds only mirrors."
---
🌑 The Mirror of Sins
The clearing shifted. The hanging corpse was gone, replaced by a pool of black water, perfectly still. Vikram peered into it, and saw not his reflection, but a series of images — memories he had long buried.
A child screaming as soldiers dragged him from his village.
His father's disappointed gaze.
A betrayal he had committed as a young general.
Every lie he had told, every blood oath he had broken, all swirled in the water like red and black ink, merging into a chaotic whirlpool of guilt.
Vikram's hand shook. He wanted to turn away, but Betaal's presence pressed against him.
> "Do you see, King?" the ghost asked. "The forest does not lie. Every tale it shows is a thread of truth, woven from your own fear."
> "I… I did what was necessary," Vikram muttered. "For my kingdom."
Betaal tilted his head. "Ah, the classic excuse. Necessary? Or convenient?"
The water rippled, and the images became interactive, drawing Vikram into scenes as if he were reliving them. He saw the man from the story, the would-be immortal, hanging himself in a forest much like this one. Every scream from the dead echoed the cries of people Vikram had sent to their deaths.
> "You are not merely observing, King," Betaal said. "You are participating. Every sin, every fear, every unspoken oath — it belongs to you now."
Vikram stumbled back, but the forest floor shifted beneath him. Roots emerged, entwining his ankles. He fell to his knees.
> "I… I do not understand," he gasped.
Betaal floated above him, his form flickering between corpse and shadow. "Understand? You will. The tales are patient, but they are relentless. Your first story is not done, for the man who hung his soul is still here — within you, and everywhere you walk."
---
🕯️ The First Story Unfolds
The forest darkened further. Trees leaned closer, their bark forming faces that whispered questions Vikram could barely comprehend. The pool of black water expanded, engulfing the clearing. From it, a figure emerged — the man from the tale, suspended in half-life, his skin translucent, veins black as ink.
> "I am the first story," the figure said. "I am the king who sought fear, and found only mirrors. Every step you take, every oath you swear, brings you closer to what you will become."
Vikram gripped his sword. "Then I will not become you."
The figure laughed — hollow, cruel, echoing. "Ah, but you already are me, and I am you. Every king who steps into this forest carries this story. You cannot escape it. Only survive it."
The black water rippled again, forming multiple copies of the man. They lunged at Vikram, not to kill, but to confront, dragging him into visions of failure, betrayal, and death.
Vikram struck with his sword, but each blow passed through flesh and bone into memory itself. He screamed.
> "This is not a fight of steel, King," Betaal whispered. "This is a fight for your soul. And the forest… it is hungry."
---
🩸 The Test of Will
Vikram felt himself drowning in the pool, the water cold as blood. Every image, every scream, pressed into his chest. He realized: the hanging corpse, the immortal king, the shadows — all were manifestations of his own fears and sins.
He closed his eyes, fighting to remember the oath.
> "By my life and my empire," he whispered through gritted teeth, "I will face my truths. I will not falter."
The water receded slightly. The hanging corpse reappeared, tilting its head.
> "Very well, King. You see now. You are bound to the story, as the story is bound to you. But the truth… the truth waits deeper, in the heart of the forest."
The roots released him. The black water shimmered and formed a path — winding, uncertain, yet beckoning him forward.
Vikram rose slowly, sword in hand. His palms were bloody, his body trembling, but his eyes burned with determination.
> "Then lead me," he said to Betaal. "Show me the way."
Betaal's corpse-like smile widened. "Oh, I will lead you, King. But beware… each step will strip you bare. Each tale will demand more than courage. It will demand truth."
The forest seemed to sigh in anticipation, as though hundreds of unseen eyes were watching. Shadows lengthened, forming arches, doors, and windows in the trees — portals to other stories, other horrors.
Vikram knew, deep in his bones, that the path ahead would be longer, darker, and more relentless than anything he had ever faced.
But he walked on.
Each step carried the weight of the dead, the living, and the stories yet to be told.
And somewhere above, Betaal whispered one final warning:
> "Remember, King… the hanging corpse is not merely a story. It is a promise. And promises… in this forest… are binding."
The mist swallowed them both as they moved forward. The forest gate behind them had vanished, leaving only the abyss of shadow and whispered tales.
Vikram's heartbeat echoed, loud and singular, in the silence. The first story was complete — but the nightmare was only beginning.
End of Chapter 3 — The Hanging Corpse