Four months later, in the Southernmost Kingdom of "Etree".
North of the capital lies Woodmen, the kingdom's smallest village. Legend said it was founded by woodcutters who left nothing but stumps in their wake. Yet, the village bordered a forest vastly larger than the settlement itself.The villagers fear this forest as " Yanaha".
At the first stiffened edge of Yanaha, beneath a canopy of frozen banana leaves, a man in his early twenties awoke. He stretched and yawned, his body heavy, as if roused from a deep, unnatural slumber.
Then the cold hits him.
Violently.
Shivering uncontrollably, he realized he was entirely naked. Instinctively he curled into a tight ball, hastily dragging the rigid banana leaves around his skin. A thick, suffocating dog swallowed the world, though the dark, massive trunks of ancient oaks still cut through the white gloom like bars of a cage.
For some moments he sat there trying to warm himself from those banana leaves.
But the wet dew on the leaves only worsened the biting frost. Realizing he would freeze if he stayed still, he forced himself up.
Using the frozen leaves as a makeshift shawl, he began to walk. The forest was entirely bleached by winter ; direction had no meaning. Every step forward pushed him into a new, blind world of white, while the fog immediately erased the path behind him.
He wandered disoriented in search of something warm until his foot brushed against something solid: a pile of discarded clothes.
He rushed to them, desperately pulling on every layer he could find. He ended up in five layers of mismatched, oversized garments, topping it off with a stained green shawl to cover his head. The fabric was uncomfortably damp, holding the biting chill of the forest floor,but within moments, his trapped body heat fought back, and a stubborn, desperate warmth began to emerge.
Refueled by the heat, he kept walking as if blind until the faint, crisp sound of moving water broke the silence . A small spring glinted between frosted banks, thin wisps of steam curling off its surface.He dropped to his knees, submerging his face in the warm water, drinking desperately until his lungs burned.
When he finally pulled back, hot tears filled his eyes. His breathing sharpened, then slowly steadied. Sinking onto the bank where the water breathed a faint warmth into the air, he pressed his forehead to his knee, letting the gentle rush of spring and the soft hiss of settling snow wash over him.
A low, guttural growl twisted through his stomach, hollow and insistent , a reminder that water alone wouldn't save him.
After a long while, he forces his stiff legs to stand.
He walked slowly and carefully until the morning fog began to thin.
Then, something forced him to stop.
A corpse lay before him. It was a thing of three absences: sight, footing, and its own skin, replaced by a ghastly crimson shroud.
The sight horrified him.
His body froze,
His eyes widened,
His breath hitched.
A single tear cut a clean path through the grime on his cheeks. As his gaze drifted upward, he realized it wasn't alone. Five shapes hung like rotten fruit from the low, skeletal branches of the surrounding pines. A man. A woman. And three small, terrible silhouettes—children. All naked and violated in the same way: sightless, soleless, painted in that same grotesque rust-red hue.
Something dark and overwhelming snapped inside him. And the world blurred into a smear of white fog and dark tree trunks as he bolted.
His legs fled, but his mind refused to follow. It lingered among the pines, locked in the hollow gaze of the dead.
And when he finally stopped, his body began shivering — not with cold but because of what he just saw.
From within the fog, a harsh voice cuts through the silence.
"Hey! You—stop! Hey, green man ".
The words reached him, but they didn't land, his mind was still tangled in those hollow sockets and rust-red skin.His legs tried to carry him forward again , but four fully armored horsemen burst through the most, cutting off his escape.
They asked no question. They seized him instantly, binding him to a saddle, and dragged him into the gray dawn.
Village Henbane
The village henbane is the eastern neighbours of village woodmen, a larger, beautiful settlement nestled among rolling hills. Atop a small hill, sat a solitary monastery, isolated by a thick ring of trees.
Hemar, a subordinate of the Village chief, was here to deliver the chief's message.
Outside the monastery door, a small group of anxious teenagers had gathered.
"Again". Hemar muttered to himself, pushing past them.
Inside the counseling hall, Knoudi ,a man in his thirties ,leaned over a boy, his voice a low, sharp whisper.
"Don't lie to me. I'll know."
The boy answered in an instant: "Yes."
Hemar and Knoudi exchanged a glance at each other.
Hemar walked past the main hall into a back room, pulling aside a heavy woven carpet to reveal a hidden trapdoor.
Underground, a bald boy somewhere in his teens , sat naked on a straw mattress. An empty cup sat beside him. The boy was perfectly still, his eyes locked onto a small wooden doll placed exactly five steps away. He didn't blink. Even his breath was careful, calculated, and terrifyingly thin.
From the doorway, an old saint watched him with a mixture of dreadful determination and a tiny, desperate shred of hope.
Suddenly, the skin on the boy's scalp flinched. His teeth ground together, his eyes narrowing as he forced himself to tolerate a sudden, agonizing internal pressure.
The old saint leaned forward, holding his breath.
The boy kept his eyes glued to the target. Then, the doll moved. It slid an inch across the floor.
But the boy didn't break focus. The skin across his forehead began to vibrate violently, like a drumhead being struck in rapid succession. The saint began to tremble with anticipation.
Then, blood erupted from the boy's nose and gums. In an instant, his vision went pitch black, and his body went limp, collapsing onto the straw.
The saint froze. He rushed over, his hand trembling as he touched the boy's chest. The skin was already cooling.
There was no breath.
As the saint sank into sorrow, Hemar descended the wooden stairs. He took in the sight of the corpse and shook his head in deep disgust.
"Look at him. Cold and breathless, just like the dozens before him," Hemar spat, his voice dripping with frustration. " Your obsession is killing them. You should be ashamed of yourself, Saint Gizon."
Without waiting for a response, Hemar pinned a letter to the stone wall and walked back up the stairs.
The words struck the old saint like a hammer. He didn't defend himself; he merely stared at the floor, crushed by the weight of his own failures. Finally, he looked at the letter Hemar had left behind. The contents offered no comfort. With shaky legs, Gizon weakly climbed the stairs, leaving the unfortunate boy alone in the dark.
Upstairs, Gizon's gaze drifted to trembling teens and then to Knoudi.
"These are the children who failed their studies?"
Knoudi nodded. "Scripture and recitation. None of them could recite a single passage correctly."
The old saint was silent for a long moment, Hemar's words still ringing in his ears. Finally, he let out a slow, heavy breath.
"Let them go."
Knoudi's brow furrowed. "But their punishment—"
"My brother will handle it when he arrives," Gizon cut in, his voice tired. "He's their teacher, not me."
Knoudi hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "As you wish, master."
He turned to the trembling children and jerked his head toward the door.
"You heard him. Next time don't fail. Now go to your study room. "
The banks of woodmen
Back near the borders of Woodmen, the fog was finally retreating like a living thing, revealing two massive, wide rivers that carved the landscape apart. Their currents were slow, deep, and unnaturally dark.
Tied to the back of a moving saddle, the green man suddenly convulsed. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, his face turning an unhealthy, suffocating purple. Thick, foamy saliva spilled from his lips, dripping onto the frosted ground.
"Stop!" one of the knights shouted.
The patrol reined in their mounts. "What is it, Ger?"
Ger dismounted, stepping closer to the prisoner. He grabbed the man by his matted hair, forcing his head back so the others could see the foam. "He's choking. Or worse."
The knights exchanged uneasy, fearful glances.
"He's about to die," one muttered, backing his horse away.
"Get away from him, Ger. If he's sick, you'll catch it. Forest filth carries all kinds of rot."
The word rot hung heavily in the air. The knights instinctively backed their horses further away.Ger hesitated, then drew his dagger and sliced the ropes. The green man collapsed onto the frozen mud, gasping weakly. His green shawl fell away, landing on the riverbank.
"What now?" Ger asked, looking at his comrades. "Rahr? Suynk? Ebora?"
Ebora spoke first, his fingers brushing the talisman at his throat. "First, don't touch him. This looks like the devil's work."
"It makes sense," Suynk agreed, gripping his reins tightly. "That forest is inhabited by demons and evil . Anyone who enters without protection is damned to rot from the inside out. Just look at him."
Rahr scans the rivers, the fog, the empty land. "No one saw us take him. No one knows he's here".
Suynk snorted. "Then let him die here. If we bring him to the garrison, he'll just infect the men." He looked down at the twitching man and smirked faintly. "It's forbidden for civilians to enter Yanaha anyway. How did he even get in?"
"Looking at him, he won't be speaking anytime soon," Suynk added with a dry chuckle. "Unless we can rip his soul out and ask it ourselves."
No one laughed.
Ebora exhaled slowly, turning his horse back toward the path. "He broke the law by entering the forest. We take him nowhere, and we report nothing. If he lives, the devil can keep him. If he dies..." He gestured vaguely at the river and the sky ."The rivers will carry the body away, and the vultures will feast."
Ger looked down at the gasping man one last time, then nodded. "Fine."
Without another word, the four knights rode off, their heavy armor fading into the remaining mist.
Slowly, the man's violent convulsions stopped. His breathing slowed, and his eyes fluttered open. He stared blankly at the sky before turning his head to the side.
Water. Two rivers.
The sight struck a chord of absolute terror in his chest. He slammed his eyes shut, clamped his hands over his ears, and froze.
"Mother..." he screamed, his voice hoarse, cracking against the empty air. "Mother!"
The sight terrifies him. He forced his eyes close and ear with his hands and sat still.
His voice echoed off the muddy banks, returning to him entirely empty.
For a long time, terror kept him glued to the frozen earth. Eventually, he tried to open his eyes, only to instinctively snap them shut again. He tried a second time, then a third, but the sight of the dark water filled him with a primitive dread.
He didn't dare lift his hands from his ears. The deep, heavy rushing sound of those two rivers felt like teeth, scratching at something ancient and deeply engraved within his very soul.
It took dozens of agonizing attempts before he could finally withstand the sight of the water. With his hands still pressed tightly to his ears, he forced himself to look around, slowly turning his body away from the banks. Finally, he let his hands drop.
The overwhelming rush of sights and sounds made his heart hammer violently against his ribs. He ground his teeth, fighting down the panic, maintaining his composure through sheer will.Slowly, he managed to stand tall.
The sun was high overhead now. The fog had completely lifted, and vultures circled lazily in the bright. Fearfully, he dragged himself back to the water's edge to retrieve his damp green shawl.
As he leaned over, he froze.
Staring back at him from the slow, dark current was a face — dark eyes, skin smeared with dirt and frost. Someone entirely unfamiliar.
He touched his face. The reflection copied.
Startled, he recoiled, stumbling back a step.
He went back to the edge. As he looked at the reflection, he whispered, "Me?"
He reached up to touch his cheek. In the water, the reflection did the exact same. Fascinated and deeply unsettled, his hand reached down, his fingers dipping into the river to touch the reflection's face. The moment his skin broke the surface, he jerked his hand back with a gasp.
"Too cold."
Brushing the strange, unsettling thoughts aside, he carefully wet his hands and rubbed the grime from his skin. He stood, wrapping the green shawl tightly over his head, and began to walk aimlessly into the unknown—at least, somewhere far away from the two rivers.