Tormo walked as if the ground itself no longer trusted his steps.
The road to the north stretched endlessly before him—harsh, unforgiving, without signs to guide or reassure. The wind lashed his face, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something else… an old smell, one that resembled fear.
He no longer counted the days. Time had lost its meaning the moment he left everything he once knew behind.
When he reached the outskirts of the village, he stopped.
That village…
The beginning of the city.
The place where he had met Niva for the first time.
He looked at the small square, at the stone road where he had once stood hesitant, and at the shadow where she had been standing, smiling.
But his eyes held no nostalgia now.
There was something sharper in them—something like a clean fracture, as if memories had turned into blades.
He tightened his scarf and moved on.
He no longer trusted anyone.
Not even himself.
As time passed, the distance began to weigh on his body. His breathing grew uneven, his head rang, and a strange heat climbed from his chest to his skull.
Then… the voices began.
Whispers at first.
Then screams.
Broken laughter, crying, incomprehensible words.
It was as if the forest around him had suddenly awakened and decided to open its mouth inside him.
"Not now…" he muttered, pressing his hands to his head.
But the ground shook beneath him, and he fell to his knees.
He lifted his eyes… and froze.
Before him stood a village.
Pierced.
Destroyed.
Its houses leaned as if crucified, its streets stained black, and the sky above it felt too heavy to be real.
He recognized it.
The Ghost Village.
The one he and Ravan had entered before.
But this time… it wasn't just an illusion.
As he drew closer, the details revealed themselves.
The demons were not simple shapes.
They were grotesque beasts—
Misshapen bodies, extra limbs, eyes in the wrong places, mouths opened wider than they ever should be.
They wore the remnants of human clothing, as if mocking those who had once lived here.
And they were… eating.
Human flesh.
Slowly.
Greedily.
Tormo felt nausea rise in his throat, but his feet locked in place when he saw the sight that shattered what remained inside him.
The man.
The same man who had once helped him and Ravan.
His body was torn apart, his abdomen split open, his entrails clutched by two demons tearing at them.
His head lolled to the side, his eyes wide open, staring into nothing.
Tormo turned away violently.
He covered his eyes for a moment, but the image burned itself into him forever.
In that instant… he understood.
It wasn't the village.
It wasn't the curse.
The demons were the problem.
They were the source of the ruin.
And they were what had to be ended.
He rose slowly, his gaze steady, the chaos of voices beginning to fade.
He was no longer afraid.
He was angry… with clarity.
He left the Ghost Village behind and continued toward his next destination.
At the edge of the road, he sat to rest.
His chest heaved, cold sweat covered his skin, and his mind still wrestled with the images.
And elsewhere…
Ravan stood on the mountain.
He did not enter the man's house.
He did not rest.
He was waiting for nightfall.
When darkness came, the thing he knew would appear emerged.
A single demon.
Its body thin, its eyes red, craving blood.
Ravan stared at it with sharp eyes.
He said nothing.
He jumped.
In a single moment, he was above the demon's head.
His fist came down, then the sword formed from his red arm sliced through the air.
The head flew away.
Then madness began.
He tore the body apart.
Into pieces.
And blood rained down on him.
Ravan was smiling.
A twisted smile, drenched in blood, his hair stuck to his face.
Afterward, he returned to the man's house, gathered his belongings, and stood at the doorway.
He knew.
Tormo was heading north.
He smiled again.
A deceptive smile… powerful.
And he had another goal.
Tormo did not remain long at his resting place.
His body begged him to stop, but his mind screamed: move.
He rose, swaying slightly, tightened the scarf around his neck, and continued north—
as if each step carried him farther from the human he once was.
The road grew narrower, the trees taller, their branches tangled like fingers trying to seize him.
The air here was heavier, carrying the stench of rot and old blood.
As he advanced, the voices returned—but this time they weren't whispers.
They were memories.
Niva's laughter.
Ravan's voice calling his name.
Then silence… the silence that followed the blood.
Tormo clenched his teeth.
"I won't be lost here."
When he emerged from the forest, a wide expanse opened before him, crossed by ancient, abandoned roads.
On the horizon, the sky was darker than it should have been.
He continued walking as the sun began to sink.
In those moments, he felt something stir inside him.
Not fear—but realization.
Everything he had seen in the Ghost Village was not an isolated incident.
It was planned. Calculated.
A cycle.
Humans used, broken, then discarded.
And he had been part of that circle without knowing it.
He clenched his fist.
"This will end."
On the mountain, Ravan walked slowly after leaving the man's house.
The blood had dried on his body, but its trace had not faded from within.
Each step carried a new weight… the weight of power he never asked for, yet had fused to him.
He reached a high, exposed place and stopped, gazing at the distant city swallowed by darkness.
The red part of his body—from his chest to his right hand—was pulsing.
As if it were a separate entity.
He slowly extended his hand.
It trembled.
Black smoke rose from it, and the shape began to change.
The hand transformed into a massive blade—sharp, uneven, pulsing as if alive.
Ravan did not smile this time.
He watched… learned.
He tested the movement.
The blade split the air, and the sound alone was enough to plant terror.
Then he remembered Tormo.
The memory ignited something inside him.
Anger surged, and the red color at the tips of his hair intensified, as if burning from within.
"I'm coming."
It was not a promise to Tormo alone.
It was a threat to everything that stood between them.
After hours of walking, Tormo reached the ruins of an old station.
An abandoned place, but relatively safe.
He sat beside the cracked wall and finally allowed himself to breathe—
and to feel what was coming.