Ash's eyes opened to a canopy of leaves so dense they seemed to form a living ceiling above him. The air was thick, almost syrupy, requiring effort to inhale. Each breath felt like swallowing cotton, but gradually his body remembered how to process oxygen, how to function.
The sky beyond the forest canopy was wrong. Not blue, not grey, but the colour of old volcanic glass—deep orange-red that shifted and pulsed like heated metal. Yet despite the apocalyptic appearance overhead, a cool wind moved through the trees, carrying scents he couldn't identify. Sweet and earthy, but with an underlying metallic tang that made his nose wrinkle.
He tried to sit up and immediately noticed his nakedness. His hands moved instinctively to cover himself as fragmented memories crashed back—the chamber, the crosses, the burning that wasn't fire, the thing that had smiled without a face.
But his body was clean. Unmarked. The flesh that the ritual fluid should have peeled away was whole and healthy. More than that—he felt energetic, almost vibrant, as if he'd slept for days rather than... whatever had happened to him.
What had happened to him?
The last clear memory was agony beyond description, his body dissolving into that churning mass of horror. He remembered the creature's impossible smile, the darkness that had claimed him. And now he was here, wherever here was, as if none of it had occurred.
Ash pushed himself to his feet on unsteady legs and looked around. Ancient trees stretched in every direction, their trunks so massive that a dozen people holding hands couldn't encircle them. The bark was dark, almost black, with veins of silver running through it like frozen lightning. Moss hung from the branches in curtains, creating a maze of green shadows and filtered light.
He found large leaves near the base of one tree—broad, waxy things that would serve for basic modesty. As he arranged them around his waist, his hands trembled. Not from cold or physical weakness, but from something deeper. The numbness was setting in, that peculiar emotional shutdown that followed trauma too large for the mind to process.
So where was he? And more importantly, was he even still alive?
The first thing he tried was reaching for his mana. He concentrated, searching for that familiar warmth.
Nothing.
He tried again, harder this time, digging deep into himself—still nothing.
"Shit," he muttered, then immediately regretted speaking. His voice echoed strangely in the unnatural quiet of the forest.
He needed a weapon. Something, anything, to give him a chance if things went bad.
A thick branch caught his eye, about as long as he was tall and thick. He snapped it off a fallen tree and looked around for something to sharpen it with. A chunk of stone with a sharp edge would do. He settled cross-legged on the ground and began the tedious work of scraping the branch into a point.
The work was clumsy at first, his hands unused to such primitive craftsmanship. But as he worked, he noticed something odd. His grip was steadier than it should have been. His movements are more precise. When he tested the sharpness of the point against his thumb, he barely pressed and still drew blood.
His senses were different, too. Sharper. The forest around him seemed less dark, the shadows less impenetrable. He could hear things he shouldn't have been able to hear—the rustle of leaves far above, even what might have been his heartbeat.
Whatever that ritual had done to him, it had changed more than just his location.
The massive tree beside him looked climbable. He needed to get his bearings, figure out where the hell he was. Back in the city, he'd scaled buildings for necessity. This shouldn't be much different, except for the sheer scale of it.
He started climbing, using the natural handholds created by the bark's deep ridges and the silver veins that ran through it. The tree was even more massive than he'd realised. After minutes of steady climbing, he was barely a third of the way up its enormous trunk. But his body moved with a fluid efficiency he'd never possessed before. His breathing was deeper, more controlled. Even his heartbeat seemed steadier.
Finally, he reached a branch thick enough to serve as a platform. It stretched out from the main trunk like a natural balcony, offering a view of the forest canopy and beyond. He made his way carefully to the edge, his makeshift spear strapped to his back with strips of bark.
The view made him pause. The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, a sea of black-barked giants beneath that alien sky. But what struck him most was the silence. Not the peaceful quiet of nature, but something deeper. No birdsong. No buzz of insects.
He sat on the branch, legs dangling over the edge, and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The beauty was undeniable—the silver veins in the bark caught and reflected the strange light from above, creating patterns that seemed almost alive. But the silence made his skin crawl. In any normal forest, there should have been life. Sound. The constant background noise of a living ecosystem.
To the north, he spotted something that made his stomach clench—a thin column of smoke rising above the treeline. Where there was smoke, there was fire. And where there was fire, there might be people.
Or something worse.
In the far distance, almost at the edge of his enhanced vision, he could make out something that looked like a wall rising from the forest floor. It was white, mostly, with dark spots scattered across its surface. The sheer scale of it was staggering—it had to be miles away, yet still dominated the horizon.
Questions for later. The smoke was his immediate concern, and he thought he could make out the glint of water somewhere in that direction, too. A stream, maybe. Fresh water would be essential.
Climbing down was harder than going up, but his enhanced physique made it manageable. His limbs seemed to know where to go before his brain caught up, as if some deeper instinct was guiding him.
He moved through the forest with surprising grace, his bare feet finding purchase on the moss-covered ground without making a sound. The crude spear felt natural in his hands, an extension of his body rather than a foreign object.
As he travelled north toward the smoke, following the trail, Ash began to catalogue the changes in himself. His body moved differently. More efficiently. His breathing was deeper, more controlled. Even his heartbeat seemed steadier, stronger.
The stream appeared first—a ribbon of clear water cutting through the forest floor. The sight of it made him realise how thirsty he was, and he knelt to drink deeply. The water was cold and clean, with a mineral taste that reminded him of mountain springs.
As he followed the stream northward, the sound of the flowing water helped mask his approach. The smoke was getting thicker now, and he could smell it—wood smoke, but also something else. Something organic and unpleasant.
He climbed a small rocky outcrop to get a better view, moving carefully from stone to stone. At the top, he crouched behind a boulder and peered over the edge.
His heart stopped.
Below him, perhaps fifty yards away, was a camp. A dozen crude structures made from branches and hide dominated a clearing beside the stream. Fires burned in stone-lined pits, sending up the smoke he'd seen from the tree. And moving between the structures were creatures that made his blood run cold.
Goblins. But not the goblins from his textbooks.
These weren't the small, hunched, green-skinned creatures he'd been taught about. These were nearly four feet tall, with broad shoulders and thick, muscular limbs. Their skin was a blue-green colour, like oxidised copper, and their bodies were covered in what looked like natural armour—thick, scaled hide that gleamed in the firelight.
They wore ornaments: necklaces of bones and teeth, arm bands of braided leather, and intricate tattoos that covered their visible skin. Some carried crude but effective-looking weapons—spears tipped with sharpened bone, clubs studded with stone, and what looked like slings made from sinew.
These aren't the weak, cowardly goblins from the stories, he thought. These look like warriors.
And he was naked, alone, and armed with a sharpened stick.
As he watched, frozen with a mixture of fascination and terror, he heard something that made his enhanced senses scream with alarm—footsteps. Multiple sets, coming from behind him. Moving through the forest with the confidence of those who knew the territory.
He turned slowly, his grip tightening on his makeshift spear, and saw them emerging from the shadows between the trees. Three of the goblins, moving in a loose formation that spoke of practised coordination. They hadn't seen him yet, but they were heading directly for his position.
One of them paused, nostrils flaring as it scented the air. Its head turned in his direction, and Ash caught a glimpse of intelligent, predatory eyes.
His mind raced. He could try to run, but where would he go? He didn't know this forest, didn't know if there were more goblins between him and safety. He could try to hide, but his enhanced senses told him these creatures were skilled hunters—they'd find him eventually.
The lead goblin's gaze locked onto his position. The creature's lips pulled back in what might have been a grin, revealing teeth like broken glass.
It raised its weapon—a spear tipped with what looked like a sharpened thighbone—and let out a sound that was part roar, part battle cry.
Well, Ash thought, hefting his crude spear, I'm fucked.