Days passed inside a forest that had long forgotten what a real morning felt like.
There was no sunrise here—only a dim, sickly glow filtering through monstrous trees that seemed to choke the sky itself. Time blurred. Hours bled into each other like wounds that refused to close.
And in that time—
Rolin's chains were stained. Again and again.
He and Likath hunted.
Four more wolves fell.
Each one slightly smarter. Slightly faster. Slightly more vicious.
It almost felt like the forest was… learning.
Or worse—
Testing them.
But wolves weren't the only things lurking in that twisted place.
They encountered creatures that, at first glance, resembled koalas.
Short bodies. Rounded ears. Stubby limbs.
Cute… if you were blind.
Because that was where the resemblance ended.
Their fur was a rotten gray, clumped together like damp ash. Their skin cracked in places, as if something inside was trying to escape. And when they attacked—
Their mouths split open.
Wide.
Too wide.
Tearing all the way to the middle of their skulls, revealing rows of small, needle-like teeth layered over each other like a nightmare that kept repeating itself.
They were slow.
Pathetically slow.
Until they jumped.
And when they did—
They launched themselves forward with disgusting speed, aiming straight for the face or throat, trying to latch on and tear everything apart in a frenzy of flesh and teeth.
"I hate these things…" Rolin muttered, yanking his chain tight as it crushed one mid-air, its body twisting unnaturally before going limp.
Nearby, Likath was chewing through the remains of another wolf.
He let out a low chuckle.
"Tastes worse than it looks."
"…That's a very low bar."
"With these creatures? Not low enough."
With every fight—
They grew stronger.
Not in leaps.
Not in miracles.
But in small, steady increments.
Rolin's grip tightened.
His tolerance for pain sharpened.
His movements became cleaner—more efficient.
Chains flowed like extensions of his will.
Blades found their targets faster.
Cleaner.
Colder.
As for Likath—
His size didn't change much.
Still around the size of a large wolf.
But his flames…
They were different now.
Denser.
Hotter.
Sharper.
No longer just fire—
But something closer to concentrated destruction.
And in battle…
Their roles shifted.
Likath charged first.
He slammed into enemies, tore into them, burned them.
He drew attention.
Took hits.
Like an overly aggressive shield with anger issues.
Meanwhile—
Rolin finished the job.
A chain around the neck.
A dagger through the eye.
A precise stab between ribs.
Quick.
Efficient.
Final.
There were two reasons this dynamic worked so well.
The first—
Likath had become physically stronger in direct confrontation.
The second—
And far more important.
Likath healed.
Naturally.
Surface wounds vanished within minutes.
Deeper ones took an hour… maybe two.
But they healed.
Rolin?
He still stitched his own flesh every night.
Like a very dedicated tailor with terrible working conditions.
Sitting in a hollow shelter, Rolin wrapped a fresh bandage around his forearm, tightening it with practiced ease.
His gaze shifted to Likath, who lay nearby, his flames dimming and flaring lazily.
"Lucky."
Likath opened one eye.
"I'm not lucky."
He paused.
Then, quieter—
"I'm incomplete."
Rolin glanced at him.
Likath lifted his head slightly.
"The power growing inside me… isn't whole."
His gaze locked onto Rolin.
"Part of it always settles in you."
This time—
Rolin didn't smile.
Because he felt it.
Every time he fought.
Every time he stabbed.
Every time he watched something die—
Something inside him…
Calmed.
Cooled.
Hardened.
No hesitation.
No trembling.
Just calculation.
And action.
The forest itself had begun to change, too.
Near its outer edges—
It grew quieter.
Less hostile.
As if it acknowledged the presence of new predators.
But deeper within…
Something remained.
Something bigger.
Something that hadn't shown itself yet.
And in one quiet night, while Rolin cleaned his daggers with slow, methodical movements, he spoke without looking up:
"…I wonder what happened to the others."
Likath smiled faintly, flames casting shifting shadows along the hollow walls.
"They either became gourmet meals…"
He paused.
"…or high-quality fertilizer."
Rolin snorted.
"Your imagination is disgusting."
"I prefer 'realistic.'"
"…You're both."
Their path eventually led them to—
Webs.
But not ordinary ones.
These stretched between the massive trees like a curtain of pale death. Layer upon layer, threads as thick as fingers in places, pulled so tightly they resembled steel wires more than silk.
They wrapped around trunks, connected branches, sealed entire sections of the forest like something had decided—
Nothing gets through here without permission.
Likath looked up, unimpressed.
"Ah yes… the perfect place for eternal relaxation."
Rolin smirked faintly, though his eyes remained sharp.
"Maybe."
He stepped closer.
Careful.
Pressed one dagger into the threads.
Nothing.
He pushed harder.
Still nothing.
"…Thick," he muttered.
Then Likath stepped forward.
His flames brushed the thread.
It burned instantly.
Shriveled.
Melted.
Leaving behind a sharp, choking smell.
Rolin blinked.
"…Lucky bastard."
Likath raised his flaming tail proudly.
"Natural talent."
"…You're literally a walking lighter."
"And you're a walking meat bag. We all have roles."
"…I hate you."
"Mutual."
They advanced slowly.
Likath burned a narrow path forward while Rolin scanned above, watching for movement.
The dim light filtering through the trees reflected off the threads, making them look like a network of pale veins—like they were walking inside the body of something enormous.
Then—
They saw them.
Bones.
Everywhere.
Wolf skeletons.
Those grotesque koala-things.
Something resembling a deer… with five horns.
And others.
Some half-rotten.
Some wrapped tightly in thick white cocoons, preserved like exhibits.
Rolin glanced around.
"…This looks like a museum."
He paused.
"…Owned by a psychopath with very specific tastes."
Likath chuckled.
"Museums don't usually eat their visitors."
"…Depends on the museum."
"…Fair point."
They moved deeper.
The ground became slightly sticky.
The air heavier.
Then—
Rolin stopped.
In front of him—
A cocoon.
But not a large one.
Not monstrous.
Human-sized.
Hanging between two trees.
He froze.
For a moment—
His expression didn't change.
Then he said quietly:
"…Let's open it."
Likath tilted his head.
"Could be a high-level monster."
Rolin smiled.
No warmth.
"That just means a quick death."
"…I admire your optimism."
"…It's not optimism."
"…It's suicidal."
"Close enough."
Rolin stepped forward.
Reached out.
Tried to tear it open.
Nothing.
He pulled out his dagger.
Likath stepped closer, igniting the blade with crimson fire.
The metal glowed.
This time—
When Rolin cut—
The threads split.
Easily.
One after another.
The cocoon began to open.
Slowly.
Sticky fragments falling to the ground.
Then—
Something appeared inside.
A strand of hair.
Short.
Sand-colored.
Rolin froze.
Completely.
"…No…"
His voice was barely a whisper.
"…That's not possible…"
He tore the rest open.
Faster.
More violently.
The hair became clearer.
Then—
A face.
Familiar.
Unmistakable.
A face he had seen beneath black and red armor.
Selen.