The pain struck like a hammer to the spine.
At first, the adrenaline dulled it—but once that rush faded, reality returned with a vengeance.
And no matter how many times a person faces pain, true pain, it never becomes easier. People might say they're used to it, that repeated suffering makes them immune—but that's a lie.
The mind might grow numb.
The body might adapt.
But when pain sinks deep, truly deep, it etches itself into memory.
Unlike emotional wounds that time might dull—loss, betrayal, heartbreak—physical trauma leaves behind echoes. Lingering scars.
Triggers.
Just like a drowning survivor who never forgets the taste of water flooding their lungs, or the burning panic as oxygen slips away. They'll always flinch at the scent of chlorine, or the feel of water rising past their chest.
And while Sareth wasn't drowning, he might as well have been.
The branch had entered from the back of his right thigh, shattering the femur on impact. The jagged wood tore through muscle and tendon but didn't pierce all the way through. Instead, it lodged deep, like a parasitic claw burrowed inside him.
The shock hit hard. His leg collapsed. He crumpled to the ground with a ragged cry, his thoughts scattered like broken glass.
"What the hell—what the actual hell just happened—?"
He turned his head, teeth clenched against the pain, and saw the twisted, blackened branch jutting out from his thigh.
Bark the color of old blood, pulsing with some dark, rhythmic energy. Thorns like barbs glistened along its length, and the base where it had snapped from shimmered faintly—like it had been grown just for this.
The area around the wound turned a sickly reddish-black. It spread like infection—but stopped just short of spreading to the rest of his leg. That didn't offer much comfort.
He couldn't move the leg. Couldn't even feel it now, save for the firestorm of agony that licked his nerves.
"God, it's like the leg was never mine to begin with. But the pain? Yeah, it's mine alright."
Then, as if summoned by suffering, the perpetrator appeared.
A creature stepped from the treeline. It towered nearly two meters tall, its entire body formed from knotted, warped wood.
Its limbs were twisted like dead tree trunks, bark cracked and gnarled. Its face lacked features—no eyes, no nose, just a jagged line where a mouth should be, slightly parted as if it could scream, if it wanted to.
Both its arms were shaped like long, sharpened horns—natural lances that glistened with sap and blood.
And in its chest was a single, gaping eye made of amber resin, constantly leaking a reddish fluid that hissed when it hit the ground.
Sareth's blood ran cold.
"Oh great, now we've got eldritch trees with murder-kinks. Fantastic."
He sweated profusely, jaw tight with the effort of not screaming again.
"What is with my luck today?" he muttered under his breath, wincing as he tried to drag himself backward. "It's like the universe is playing fetch with me—and I'm the damn ball."
Still, through clenched teeth and rising terror, he growled,
"But screw it. I accepted Nytheron's offer knowing full well it'd mean diving into hell again. I am surviving this."
⸻
Meanwhile, just outside the forest—
Zoran had just finished counting.
His lips curled into a grin, excitement bubbling in his chest like a child about to unwrap their favorite sweet.
He exhaled slowly, savoring the anticipation.
"Ah, the chase… finally."
Then—
A scream.
A very familiar scream.
Zoran's eyes widened.
His smile vanished.
"No… no no no," he snarled. "Who the hell is playing with my prey?! He's mine! Mine!"
Rage overtook him as he dashed into the forest, a blur of speed and malice.
Back in the woods—
Sareth was struggling.
His breath came in short, panicked gasps. The twisted branch throbbed with some unnatural pulse, and though the bleeding had slowed, the pain had only worsened. Every breath felt shallow. Cold sweat ran down his spine.
He felt powerless.
"Just like back on Earth."
"No powers. No strength. No help."
"Maybe this is just who I am—someone who's never good enough to save, never worth saving."
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, even through the agony.
"Hell of a character arc, huh?" he said to no one. "The funny guy with all the bad luck who dies in episode two. Classic."
But behind the sarcasm, there was a flicker of truth.
Sareth had always worn humor like armor, used laughter to distract from the fear. The pain. The loneliness.
He wasn't fearless.
He just didn't want anyone to see how afraid he really was.
"Everyone's like clay," he thought bitterly. "They take the shape of whatever hits them the hardest. Some come out sculpted. Others… just break."
And right now, Sareth was breaking.
But even shattered clay can harden.
Even cracked vessels can hold fire.
He forced himself up—not standing, not really, more like wobbling upright on his good leg while dragging the other behind. He didn't have a plan. Didn't know what to do.
He only knew he had to move.
So he hopped, awkward and desperate, blood smearing behind him in a broken trail.
The monster didn't chase.
It walked slowly, deliberately, mocking him with every step. Its grotesque, bark-covered legs creaked with each motion. It didn't need to run. It knew he couldn't escape.
"Oh come on," Sareth wheezed. "You're really pulling the horror movie villain walk on me? Just sprint, asshole!"
But the monster knew what it was doing.
It knew Sareth would burn himself out.
And when he did… it would finish him.
He stopped. Legs trembling. Chest heaving.
He turned.
The creature stopped too.
It raised one horn-like arm, the bark shifting and twisting until the limb reshaped—not into a weapon, but a hand. Withered and wooden, yet vaguely human in shape.
It reached out.
Gripped Sareth by the torso—and lifted.
Sareth's feet dangled, blood dripping from his ruined leg.
The creature's other arm—the one still shaped like a horn—moved into position. Its tip angled precisely at Sareth's heart. The horn began to tremble faintly, as though gathering force. The monster pulled back, preparing for the kill.
The world slowed.
Sareth stared at the glistening point.
He had no strength left.
No weapon.
No magic.
No hope.
"At least make it quick…" he thought.
Then—
A voice.
Sharp. Commanding. Cracking through the forest like thunder:
"DON'T YOU DARE."
The creature froze.
Its horn-hand stopped mid-thrust.
The forest itself seemed to flinch at the voice's arrival. The shadows recoiled. The mist thinned. The air shifted.
And for the first time since entering this place, Sareth wasn't alone.