In that ancient and hostile forest, Kenzo kept running without even trying to understand what that little fog, not even thirty centimeters high, was as it drew closer with an almost calculated slowness. It was no ordinary mist: it crawled across the ground like a living creature, slipping between roots, sliding into cracks, always toward him. Every time he glanced back over his shoulder, it felt closer, as though it were breathing in silence.
Kenzo stopped trying to understand. Every second spent thinking could mean his death. The air around him was cold, damp, almost suffocating. A smell of ancient earth and rotting vegetation clung to his nostrils. The trees, enormous and abnormally thick, looked as though they had survived centuries of storms. Their cracked bark resembled scars, and their twisted roots jutted out of the ground like limbs trying to seize anything that came within reach.
The sky was completely blocked by the branches and by those unmoving gray clouds that smothered the light. Nothing filtered through. Everything was gray, shadow, and silent threat. Kenzo thought of only one thing: run. Run again. Run always.
Every step echoed through his muscles. He ran across treacherous ground where moss swallowed every sound, where protruding roots tried to trip him as though the whole forest were conspiring against him. His breath trembled in his throat, short, quick, almost ragged, but he refused to stop. His heart beat at an uneven rhythm, hammering against his ribs. He felt his legs stiffen, then loosen under the strain, again and again. Drops of sweat slid down his temples, mixing with the dampness of the air.
The wind slipped through the dead branches, producing strange sounds. Sometimes whispers. Sometimes rustlings that seemed to imitate footsteps. Sometimes distant moans that might have been nothing more than the wind… or something else. The kind of sounds Sir Dora would have described as "natural warnings from a place that does not want you."
During the two months at the Royal Academy, Kenzo had done nothing but run to build his endurance. He had run in the morning, run in the afternoon, run at night, sometimes even in secret when the dormitories were quiet. And it was precisely during those repetitive runs that he had activated one of his abilities.
Bodily Awakening: [Serpent+]: Unleashes within its bearer the agility of the serpent, wrapping the body in invisible fluidity and ethereal grace. Every movement becomes a perfect undulation, a silent dance that allows him to slip easily between attacks like an elusive shadow. His mind aligns itself with the world's hidden rhythms, refining his reflexes so that they respond with natural, almost instinctive precision to the slightest tremor around him.
By running over and over, he had discovered this ability without meaning to. Every time he nearly fell whether by tripping over a root, slipping on wet grass, or crashing into obstacles placed in the academy courtyard his senses sharpened abruptly. His body corrected itself on its own. An undulation. A twist. A suppleness he had never possessed before.
But that fluidity came at a price. Using it consciously demanded intense mental concentration, as though he had to align his mind to an invisible rhythm that did not belong to him. And it exhausted him. Terribly. A fatigue that did not only strike the muscles, but the head itself, as if someone were draining his mental energy drop by drop.
In a place this hostile, what Sir Dora would have called a "lethal unknown territory," [Serpent] had to be used sparingly. Because collapsing here meant dying immediately.
After several minutes, he felt his heartbeat slow slightly. His breathing grew less ragged. The fog finally seemed to have vanished behind him. He could no longer hear the unsettling rustle that had been following him until now.
– « I finally managed to outrun that fog… I need to find somewhere safe, then try to find the others. »
He kept running. Not out of comfort, but because he did not dare stop. Around him, the trees seemed to tighten in, as though the forest wanted to crush him. Twisted trunks, low branches, leaves blackened by time. The atmosphere grew heavier and heavier.
The wisest option would have been to climb a tree. But his instinct, more reliable than his reason in this place, whispered that it was a bad idea.
– « This isn't the island from my first test… I don't know what kind of Void Creatures are waiting for me here. For all I know, they're in the trees. »
So he kept going.
The forest began to rise gradually. A slope opened before him, gentle at first, then steeper and steeper. His legs burned, but he did not stop. Every step was a struggle. Every breath a battle. His throat stung. His lungs felt as if they were tightening.
As he moved, he gathered whatever he could without slowing down: a few dry branches here, plant fibers there, two or three mushrooms he recognized thanks to his academy lessons—the kind that could be eaten raw—and flat stones that might serve for sharpening or scraping. To carry it all, he tore away the still-usable pieces of his ragged gray top and made himself a crude bag. The shredded cloth rubbed against his skin, scraping it slightly, but he had no choice.
The silence in that place was unnatural. No birdsong. No murmur of a stream. Nothing. The kind of silence that makes you feel watched. Observed. Judged.
From time to time, a crack sounded in the distance, too far away to identify and yet too close to be reassuring. Kenzo tried to ignore it. To focus on his steps. On his breathing. But anxiety gnawed at his stomach.
His exhaustion was beginning to catch up to him. His vision blurred at times. His hands trembled. He felt tingling running down his arms. Yet he kept going, driven by something primal and raw: the instinct to survive.
That was when an unusual detail appeared between two curtains of mist.
A gigantic tree.
Even more massive than all the others. A vegetal colossus towering over the landscape. Its base could have housed a small cottage easily. But it was not its size that startled Kenzo. It was its shape.
Half the trunk had been cut cleanly, straight up and down, as though some colossal entity had sliced it with one perfectly even strike. A gigantic scar. A wall of wood, smooth and unnaturally regular.
And at the top: a platform. Long, wide, almost flat. Like a refuge.
– « I might have found the perfect place… »
His legs trembled, but he forced himself into one last sprint toward the base of the trunk. Once there, he placed a hand against the bark. Rough. Massive. Secure.
Despite its impossible size, the trunk had enough irregularities to be climbed. As an Awakened, he could do it. And even if he considered himself the weakest of them, he still possessed more strength than a normal human.
He inhaled deeply, clenched his teeth… then grabbed the first hold.
The climb began.
The first twenty meters were simple, almost encouraging. There were many holds. The bark was solid. His muscles still responded well.
The next twenty were harder. His arms began to shake. His fingers cramped. His breath turned hoarse.
Then came the height of sixty meters.
An icy wind rose all at once, as if the altitude had awakened a new danger. The cold struck his face. His fingers almost froze instantly. The skin of his hands began to split slightly, burned by the cold and by the constant friction against the bark.
Then a stronger gust than all the others exploded around him.
Kenzo slipped.
His hands lost their grip. His body tipped into the void. For a fraction of a second, he felt the air open around him. He felt his heart rise into his throat.
But [Serpent] unleashed itself.
His body twisted. Bent. His reflexes exploded. In a movement impossible for a normal human, his arm shot sideways. His fingers caught a tiny crevice. His legs slammed against the bark, absorbing the shock.
He gasped, trembling.
Then resumed the climb.
By the time he finally reached the top, night was beginning to fall. The sky, once a uniform gray, was becoming a dark veil without stars. The cold bit even harder. The surface of the trunk was not entirely flat: several hollows had been carved into the wood, forming small pockets of natural shelter. A perfect place to survive.
Before settling in, Kenzo saw something.
A camp. A tiny camp. Abandoned for a very long time.
As he approached, he saw a skeleton. Motionless. Frozen in time. It wore armor woven from green leaves, of a strange quality, almost artistic. Beside it lay a spear. Its point was broad, double-edged, and brutally beautiful.
– « It won't be of any use to you anymore… » Kenzo murmured as he took the spear.
It was not an artifact. But it was solid. And above all, it was a weapon.
After moving the bones toward the edge of the trunk—not out of respect, but out of necessity—Kenzo settled against one of the hollows and placed his improvised bag beside him. He considered making a fire… yet Sir Dora's voice echoed in his mind.
"Never light a fire in unknown territory on the first night. Never. It attracts everything that lives… and everything that no longer does."
So he refrained.
He closed his eyes. Tried to calm his breathing. To reduce the tremors in his body. To forget the fatigue crushing his muscles.
Around him, the forest breathed. Slowly. Deeply. Alive. Or something that resembled it.
At the top of that giant trunk, exposed to the wind, plunged into darkness… Kenzo simply tried to sleep.
Even if only a little.