Ash finished reading the notebook, his fingers lingering on the fragile edges of the paper.
With a deliberate, steady movement, he tucked it back into the tattered coat of the skeleton—or as he now preferred to address him, Village Chief Alberto.
A complex swirl of emotions churned within Ash's chest, heavy and suffocating like the stagnant air of the room.
Now equipped with the preliminary knowledge from the journal, he understood he need to organize and plan immediately.
His immediate priority was to redefine his objectives and locate the Core.
The revelation of a Colossus at the island's edge was a chilling fact that loomed over his thoughts, but Ash was far from foolish.
He was a pragmatist; he had no intention of throwing his life away by approaching such a god-like entity.
Yet, as soon as a few questions were answered, a dozen more surfaced to take their place, gnawing at his mind like insects.
'How did a group of one hundred explorers end up on this island a few centuries ago?' he wondered.
'They had at least three Ascendants and dozens of Descenders among them—a force capable of leveling entire city—yet they were still forcibly displaced.' It stood to reason that the "Forbidden Zone" they had entered back on Earth was no ordinary territory; it was a trap set by the world itself.
'The second mystery is the breach the rats used during the 11th Chief's reign. That hole might be more than just a tunnel; it could be the very entrance to the Core's chamber.'
Ash narrowed his eyes, shifting his gaze to the skeleton's right hand. It still gripped a broken knife with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity that even death hadn't loosened. Something felt fundamentally wrong about the scene.
'In his final moments, Alberto claimed he was mortally wounded, yet he never mentioned suicide. Where did this knife come from? He had no reason to end his life so abruptly if the wounds were already doing the work. And then there's the shroud…'
Ash looked at the cloth he had just pulled aside.
'Who placed this over him? Dead men don't tuck themselves in.'
The questions flickered through his mind like ghosts in the dark, offering no answers, only a deepening sense of dread.
'And finally...' Ash turned his head toward the window.
Outside, the sky was a sheet of impenetrable obsidian. He felt a phantom itch on the back of his neck, a sensation he knew all too well—the feeling of being watched by something that didn't breathe.
'The creature Alberto failed to kill is still out there. If its mother was an Aberration, then decades later, after feeding on the essence of this Place, it must have evolved into at least a Predator. Perhaps even worse.'
He felt a flicker of helplessness, a rare crack in his stoic armor. It was a bitter irony; just as he thought he had found a sanctuary, he realized the village was even more treacherous than the Gray Forest.
At least in the forest, the threats were visible. Here, death wore a cloak of silence.
'Well, let's see what you've left for me, Alberto. Let's see if your ghost still wants to help.'
Ash knelt by the decaying bed, the floorboards groaning under his weight.
He peered into the darkness beneath, where the shadows seemed thick enough to touch. His fingers brushed against something hard and cold.
He gripped it and pulled, dragging an intricately designed rectangular wooden box into the faint light.
It was secured by a four-digit combination lock, the brass wheels tarnished with age.
'A code. Even in death, you're testing me, aren't you?' Ash exhaled a weary sigh.
He racked his brain, sifting through the numbers he had just read in the journal. It didn't take long for his analytical mind to deduce the sequence.
The number of generations was the only thing Alberto seemed truly proud of.
He dialed the wheels: 0—0—1—2.
Click.
The lock yielded with a sharp metallic snap that echoed too loudly in the quiet room.
Inside lay a cloth pouch, a glass vial filled with shimmering silver sand, five vials of dark, viscous liquid, and a separate handwritten note.
Ash picked up the note first, his eyes scanning the elegant, hurried script.
{ Greetings, survivor. If you've opened this, you've likely read my journal. These items are the last remnants of our village's strength. Use them well: }
{ Spatial Pouch: } { A small pocket dimension. Inside, time is frozen. Food will not spoil, and water remains cold. It is a gift from our founders. }
{ Enhancement Powder: } { Silver grains forged from the essence of broken Cores. Apply this to your weapon. It will drastically increase its durability and lethality, allowing it to pierce the hide of a Predator. }
{ 5 Strength Serums: } { Our alchemists' final work. They will temporarily boost your physical limits. Use them only when death is at your door. }
{ I hope these serve you well. May you survive where we could not. }
The corner of Ash's mouth twitched.
The final wish felt more like an ominous warning than a blessing. Still, as he looked at the gear, he felt a genuine debt of gratitude.
In this godforsaken Place, Alberto's foresight was the only thing standing between him and a shallow grave.
He reached into the spatial pouch. It was strange—his hand seemed to vanish into the fabric, reaching into a void that felt neither cold nor warm.
He pulled out a detailed map of the island, followed by five loaves of bread, three grilled fish, two pieces of roasted meat, and three bottles of water.
The scent hit him like a physical blow.
The food was fresh, as if it had just come off the fire five minutes ago. Despite his usual caution, his stomach growled so loudly it made him flinch.
'Where did this meat come from? There are no animals here. What did these people harvest?'
He pushed the suspicion aside. Hunger was a more immediate enemy than a five-hundred-year-old mystery.
He picked up a loaf of bread and tore into it, the taste of grain and salt exploding on his tongue. It was the best meal he had tasted since the day his world ended—since his mother's cooking.
The thought of his mother made his throat tighten. He slowed his pace, the joy of the food replaced by a bitter nostalgia.
He ate two loaves and a fish, feeling the energy return to his limbs, then packed the rest back into the pouch.
He couldn't afford to be full and sluggish.
Now, he had one final task.
Ash picked up the Enhancement Powder and looked at his wooden branch.
It had served him well, but against a Predator, it was nothing more than a toothpick. He took the broken knife from the skeleton's hand—noticing how cold the bone felt—and began to work.
For the next hour, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic scritch-scratch of steel against wood.
Ash carved with meticulous focus, shaving away the bark, tapering the end into a sharp, lethal point. He smoothed the shaft until it was balanced and firm.
"Finally... I have a spear."
He laid the weapon on the table and opened the vial of silver powder.
As he dusted the grains over the wood, a soft, ethereal silver glow began to emanate from the spear.
The sand didn't just sit on the surface; it seemed to be absorbed, merging with the fibers of the wood, reinforcing it from the inside out.
When the light faded, the branch was gone. In its place was a gleaming, silver-tinted spear that felt surprisingly heavy and resonated with a faint hum. It was a weapon capable of slaying a Predator—a relic usually reserved for a Descender.
Ash gripped the spear, feeling the power vibrating in his palm. He wasn't even an Opener yet, but he held the fangs of a high-ranked hunter.
He looked out the window one last time.
The night was absolute, and he knew the creature was out there, prowling the shadows, waiting for him to make a mistake. He was tired of being the prey.
He was tired of running through the rain and hiding in the dark.
He took a deep breath, securing the spatial pouch to his waist and checking the serums. Before leaving, he walked over to Alberto and gently draped the shroud back over the skeleton.
He stood before Alberto's remains, closing his eyes in a moment of silent prayer to offer his deepest respect—a tribute to the man who had gallantly faced two Aberrations alone.
He felt a profound sense of gratitude for the help Alberto had provided, even though the Chief had never known his identity.
Before leaving, Ash looked at the skeleton's glove and decided to take it to hide the mark of the Chosen on his left hand.
'If possible, I would like to take this glove as well, village chief.'
Without looking back, Ash stepped out of the house and closed the door softly, leaving Alberto to his eternal, frozen vigil.
As he stepped into the freezing night air, gripping his silver spear, Ash felt no fear.
The trembling in his hands had stopped. There was no anxiety, no doubt—only a cold, sharp resolve that mirrored the glint of his new weapon.
If the darkness wanted his life, sink him into eternal sleep.
"Then, come."