Thalos chuckled as he staggered back, brushing his tousled hair away from his face, his hand smeared with thick, dark blood.
The space around him—once filled with overlapping, gnarled roots, twisting vines as thick as a baby's arm, and glowing, predatory flowers—had become a scorched clearing of black ash. Towering over the ruin was a monstrous tree creature, now missing one of its massive limbs, slowly advancing toward him.
It had no distinct facial features, but its sheer size made it formidable—twice Thalos' height, with arms long enough to scrape the ground and a mouth lined with jagged, thorn-covered teeth.
The forest was cursed, and so too was the creature. Born from the curse that corrupted the land, it naturally recoiled at Thalos' presence—especially after he had destroyed numerous trees and plants in the forest.
With a guttural snarl, the creature lashed out. Its limbs elongated, transforming into thick, thorn-covered vines that whipped through the air toward Thalos. But he only smirked.
He didn't move.
He waited until the vines reached him before grabbing one with a single hand. The thorns tore into his skin, and the veins in his arm darkened to ash black. Yet he didn't flinch. Whether it hurt or not was unclear—perhaps he didn't feel it at all, or simply didn't care.
Clenching the vine tightly, Thalos pulled hard, using the momentum to drag the massive creature toward him. Then, with a savage twist, he slammed it into the ground.
The impact was violent. The earth quaked. Debris erupted and scattered in all directions.
But the tree monster only roared louder.
And this time, it was enraged.
The monster charged again, mindlessly, recklessly—its movements driven by pure rage and instinct. Vines shot forward, slashing the air with force, the thorns gleaming with poison.
Thalos ducked beneath one strike, pivoted away from another, and rolled across the ground as a third vine shattered the earth where he had stood. He moved extremely fast, but he couldn't stop all the attacks.
A vine thicker than his torso slammed into his side, launching him through the air. He crashed into a tree with a heavy thud, the bark cracking beneath the impact. For a second, the forest went quiet, save for the groaning creak of the broken tree.
Thalos dropped to the ground, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. He grunted, wiped it away with the back of his hand, and stood again. His gaze fixed on the raging creature.
He was smiling.
Dashing forward, he avoided the wild swing of a branch-like arm, slid under another, and drove his elbow into the base of the creature's leg, cracking bark and sending splinters flying. The monster screamed—a high, grating shriek as it staggered.
Seizing the moment, he raised his hand—and Ash responded.
It surged from the ground, thick and fast, coiling around the monster's legs. The creature tried to move, but the ash dragged it down, forcing it to half kneel.
Thalos moved forward once more, slamming his fist into the center of its chest. The impact made the bark split. A shockwave echoed outward. The monster's frame quivered, and then—it collapsed on both knees.
Thalos let out a low laugh, his head tilted slightly, golden eyes gleaming like molten metal through strands of blood-drenched hair. The forest hissed around him, a mix of snapping bark and creaking limbs. The monster rose again with a cry that wasn't made of sound—like the forest itself inhaled all at once and then exhaled rage.
The ground cracked beneath its feet. Roots erupted like spears, aiming to impale.
Thalos stepped once to the side, then forward—each movement a blur. One of the roots grazed his shoulder, slicing open the fabric of his jacket and the skin beneath. Blood dripped, but he didn't stop. He didn't even blink.
The monster charged again, screeching with rage.
This time, it lunged, its body splitting open to reveal a core—twisting wood wrapped around something pulsing and dark.
Thalos grinned.
"There you are."
The tree monster raised both its arms—limbs spiraling into dozens of tendrils. A storm of thorns rained down on him like daggers.
Thalos burst forward.
He moved like a shadow, weaving between the strikes. Thorns tore through his jacket, dug into his side, slashed across his cheek—but he kept going, faster now, the grin never leaving his face.
He leapt.
With inhuman strength, he slammed his hand into the creature's chest, tearing through layers of bark and hardened vine until his fingers wrapped around the pulsing thing inside.
The monster wailed—high and shrill, a sound that made birds fall dead from the trees and leaves curl inward.
Thalos pulled.
Black sap and glowing spores exploded outwards. The creature's arms thrashed, its legs buckled—but Thalos didn't stop. His veins turned darker, spreading from his wrist to his chest, crawling like ink through his skin.
He yanked the core free.
The tree monster convulsed once. Twice.
Then collapsed with a ground-shaking crash, its limbs crumbling into dry, lifeless wood.
Silence settled and even the forest seemed to pause.
Thalos stood in the middle of the destruction, his chest rising and falling, the pulsing core still in his hand, slowly dimming until it turned to ash.
He looked down at the blood running down his arm, mixing with the black veins of corruption. They were shallower now. Receding. Disappearing down his arm.
He exhaled once through his nose and muttered, "Still not enough."
The trees around him shuddered.
Another whisper stirred. Not a threat this time but a name.
Sylva.
Thalos turned sharply, his expression changing as everything around him completely went still.
The forest had gone unnervingly silent. The air, once humming with curses and whispers twisted enough to turn the weak-minded into hollow shells, now hung still and heavy, like it was holding its breath.
Thalos narrowed his eyes and tilted his head.
Everything had stopped the moment that name was whispered—Sylva.
It wasn't the usual malevolent stillness of Silva Metuenda. It was different. The kind of quiet one found in sacred places or ancient tombs—too calm to be comforting.
"What in the gods' rot is wrong with this forest?" Thalos muttered, cracking his neck with a sharp twist.
He stepped over the gnarled remains of the monster, now just a pile of splintered limbs and dry bark, its corrupted life force already fading into the earth. As he passed, he reached for a cluster of dark, luminescent flowers growing from the twisted trunk of a nearby tree—flowers that only bloomed where blood had been spilled. He plucked two, wrapped them carefully in a strip of cloth, and tucked them away.
Then he followed the direction of the whisper.
The journey was long, and the forest had gone back to how it was. Thalos tore through vines that tried to strangle him, snapped the necks of snake-limbed creatures, and kicked aside rodent-like things that oozed poison from their fangs. Minutes passed in the shadow of trees older than time.
But then the landscape began to shift.
The corruption thinned. The shadows receded. And in their place came something else—something strange.
Here, on the far edge of the cursed forest, the air was… softer. The silence was not oppressive but serene. No predatory vines slithered underfoot. No eyes blinked from the darkness. Even the trees stood taller here, their bark a smoother shade, their leaves tinged with silver. The scent in the air changed too—from rot and blood to something lighter, faintly floral, like a blooming nightshade.
Curious now, he dragged his fingers along a vine curling beside the path. But before his skin could touch it, the vine recoiled, snapping back like it had been burned. The plants all around him followed suit, pulling away at his approach, wary of his presence.
Then, two steps later, he saw her.
At first, he thought she was part of the forest floor—a tangle of limbs and bloodstained fabric sprawled across the moss. Her hair, a wild sweep of glistening black, was tangled with leaves and resting gently against a thick root. Blood clung to her skin in rivulets, her body slumped against the base of an ancient tree.
She was alive—barely. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, a trembling rhythm like a candle in the wind.
And yet, despite the blood, despite the grime, there was something about her that gave him pause. Not beauty in the way most would name it, no. More like the haunting allure of a battlefield at dawn—quiet, ruined, and strangely sacred. She looked like death's favorite bride—battered and bloodied.
Thalos crouched beside her, eyes narrowing. The tree above her shifted, its branches brushing through her hair with the gentleness of a mother's touch. The forest—this cursed, violent place—was cradling her.
"And what do we have here?" he murmured, tilting his head to the side.
A human girl. Alone. Unprotected. Unconscious. And yet… untouched by the forest's fury.
That should have been impossible. The veil should have torn her to ribbons the moment she crossed it. Silva Metuenda didn't allow strangers in. It devoured them. Warped them. Drove them mad. But her wounds were different—human-inflicted. Blade wounds. Bruising. Nothing magical.
That meant something else had gotten to her first, and she'd come here for relief.
Thalos wanted to laugh at his thought.
This forest? Relief?
"Who the hell are you?" Thalos whispered, voice low, almost reverent. His gaze flicked to the tree again. Its branches didn't move in threat, only in quiet defense.
Then, without warning, the girl stirred.
Just barely.
Her fingers twitched. Her mouth moved. And then, hoarse and raw, she muttered something that made Thalos' brow rise.
"I hope you go to hell, you shitty bastard…"
He blinked.
Then he laughed.
The sound cracked the quiet like thunder.
She was—half-dead, clearly delirious, and yet somehow still full of fire.