Chapter 20: The Path of Silent Echoes
The morning mist clung to the forest like a ghost reluctant to fade. Sunlight, fractured by the towering canopy above, spilled in uneven patches over the moss-carpeted earth, turning dewdrops into scattered diamonds. Birds sang in hushed, lilting tones, as if afraid to break the sacred quiet of the ancient woods.
The trio—MC, Lina, and Cilia—stood at the mouth of a narrow, overgrown trail, their boots sinking slightly into the damp soil. Behind them lay the remnants of their previous journey—the weight of battles fought, secrets uncovered, and bonds forged. Ahead, the path was unknown.
Lina adjusted the strap of her dagger belt, her sharp eyes scanning the shadows between the trees. "You sure this is the right way?" she asked, though her tone held no real doubt—only anticipation.
MC nodded, his fingers brushing against the worn leather of the journal in his satchel. The pages, filled with cryptic notes and half-faded sketches, had led them here. "The last entry mentioned a 'veiled path where the trees remember.' This has to be it."
Cilia, ever the quiet observer, knelt and pressed her palm against the earth. A faint pulse of energy hummed beneath her fingertips. "The land is old here," she murmured. "It's watching us."
With that, they stepped forward, the forest swallowing them whole.
For hours, they walked in near silence, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and the occasional distant call of a bird. The deeper they went, the more the forest seemed to shift— alive in ways they couldn't explain.
At one point, Lina stopped abruptly, pointing. "Look."
A butterfly the size of her hand, its wings a shimmering tapestry of blues and purples, drifted lazily through the air before alighting on a nearby flower. The petals glowed faintly at its touch.
Cilia's lips parted in quiet wonder. "This place… it's brimming with latent magic."
They pressed on, the woods growing denser, the air thicker with the scent of earth and blooming vines. By midday, they reached a clearing where a crystal-clear creek wound its way through smooth, time-worn stones. The water sang softly as it flowed, and without a word, they agreed to rest.
Lina crouched by the bank, splashing her face. "Damn, that's cold!"
Cilia gathered herbs from the undergrowth, crushing them between her fingers before sprinkling them into a small tin cup. Steam curled as she poured hot water from her flask, the scent of wild mint and something earthy filling the air.
MC sat back against a fallen log, watching them. There was something peaceful about this moment—something fragile. He knew it wouldn't last.
Night fell, and with it came the stars—more than any of them had ever seen, spilling across the sky like scattered embers. They sat around a small fire, swapping stories. Lina recounted a heist gone wrong in her mercenary days, Cilia spoke of old monastery teachings, and MC… hesitated.
Then, for the first time, he told them about the first time he felt the push and pull.
The fire crackled. The forest listened.
Dawn came too soon.
They had barely packed their camp when the crawlers struck.
There was no warning—just a sudden, sickening crunch of leaves, and then the forest floor erupted.
Segmented, chitinous bodies lunged from the underbrush, their jagged bone-mouths gnashing. Lina moved first, daggers flashing as she carved through the first wave. Cilia's hands flew up, glowing sigils bursting to life in the air—a barrier shattered one creature mid-leap, sending it crashing into a tree.
MC gritted his teeth,focusing.
The push and pull answered.
He yanked one crawler out of the air, slamming it into the ground hard enough to crack its shell. Another leapt at him—he shoved, and the creature flew backward, impaling itself on a broken branch.
The fight was over in minutes.
Breathing hard, Lina wiped blood from her cheek. "Well. That was rude."
Cilia knelt beside MC, her fingers hovering over a shallow gash on his arm. A soft glow emanated from her touch, the wound sealing shut. "We should move," she said quietly. "They might have been scouts."
The forest no longer felt welcoming.
Days passed. The trees thinned, giving way to rolling hills where the grass grew in twisted, yellowed patches. The air smelled of dust and something metallic.
Strange markings began appearing—carved into boulders, etched into the bark of dead trees. No one could read them.
At night, the wind carried whispers.
Not words. Not voices. Just… echoes.
Lina's fingers twitched toward her daggers every time. Cilia's gaze grew sharper. MC felt the push and pull **stirring** in his veins, restless.
Then, the husk-wolves came.
They moved without sound, their elongated limbs dragging through the grass like shadows given form. Their faces were blank—no eyes, no mouths, just smooth, stretched flesh.
The battle was a blur.
Lina danced between them, blades a silver whirlwind, but the creatures reformed when struck, smoke curling from their wounds. Cilia's barriers flickered under their relentless assault.
MC grabbed one with the pull— crushed it mid-air with the push. It dissolved into mist.
Another lunged—
Lina stabbed upward, her dagger piercing where its heart should have been. It **screamed**, a sound like shattering glass, before vanishing.
Silence.
Panting, they stared at the empty space where the creatures had been.
"...What were those?" Lina finally asked.
Cilia's voice was grim. "Echoes of something that shouldn't exist."
On the fifth day, they crested a jagged ridge—and there it was.
The abandoned city.
It sprawled before them like a corpse frozen in time—crumbling towers, vine-choked streets, a skeletal bell tower tilting as if mid-fall. Fog curled through its ruins, swallowing sound, swallowing light.
And yet…
They were not alone.
Small, pale figures lurked in the shadows—hunched, elongated limbs too thin, faces smooth and eyeless. They did not attack. They only watched.
Lina's grip tightened on her dagger. "You seeing this?"
MC stepped forward. The moment his boot touched the cracked stone of the city's outskirts, the wind **shifted.
The eyeless creatures tilted their heads in eerie unison.
Then, with a groan of rusted hinges, the great gate swung open on its own.
A breath. A heartbeat.
The city invited them in.