Pain.
That was the first thing that registered as consciousness returned—a deep, bone-ache that felt like his entire body had been broken down and reassembled by someone working from poorly translated instructions.
'Ow. Ow. Fucking ow.'
Filianus groaned and tried to sit up, immediately regretting the decision as his head spun like a carnival ride operated by drunk teenagers.
'Where am I?'
The scent hit him next—rich earth, green growing things, and the musty sweetness of decomposing leaves. Forest smells. Deep forest, the kind where civilization was just a rumor trees told each other around the campfire.
He forced his eyes open.
Towering trees stretched overhead, their canopy so thick that only scattered beams of sunlight penetrated to the forest floor. Ancient oaks and pines rose like natural cathedrals, their trunks wider than houses and older than kingdoms.
'Definitely not the execution square anymore.'
Filianus pushed himself to his feet, wincing as every muscle protested. His clothes were different—instead of the simple execution robes, he wore dark traveling gear that felt both comfortable and expensive.
A pack sat beside where he'd been lying, along with what looked like a walking staff.
'Care package from my mysterious benefactor? How thoughtful.'
But as he looked around more carefully, something felt… wrong.
The forest was too quiet.
In a normal woodland, there should have been bird calls, the rustle of small animals, the buzz of insects going about their daily business of annoying larger creatures.
Here, there was only silence.
Not the peaceful quiet of a sleeping forest, but the tense hush of a place where things had learned to be very, very careful about making noise.
'This feels like the kind of forest where the trees have eyes and the shadows have teeth.'
Filianus picked up the staff—solid wood carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them—and shouldered the pack.
'Okay, mysterious deal-maker. You've given me a third chance at life. Now what?'
As if in response to his thoughts, words appeared in his mind. Not heard, but somehow written directly onto his consciousness in elegant script:
"Welcome to the Dreadwood, young heretic. Your new life begins here. Follow the path that calls to your heart."
'The path that calls to my heart? Could you be any more cryptic?'
But even as he thought it, Filianus realized he could sense something. A pull, like a compass needle pointing toward magnetic north. Not physical, but emotional—a tugging sensation that suggested this way leads to where you need to be.
'Great. Magical GPS. What could go wrong?'
He started walking in the direction of the pull, staff tapping against roots and stones as he navigated between the massive trees.
The Dreadwood.
Even the name sounded ominous.
As he walked, Filianus found his mind drifting back to the deal he'd made. The figure in the void had been deliberately vague about details, which in his experience was never a good sign.
'Corrupt seven virgin goddesses. Sure. No problem. I'll just add that to my to-do list right between 'learn to tie my shoes properly' and 'achieve immortality.''
But underneath the sarcasm, he was curious about this power he'd supposedly been given.
'The ability to speak directly to hidden desires. To make people hear the voice of their own wants.'
The forest around him was getting darker as he walked deeper into the Dreadwood. Not just dimmer from thicker canopy—actually darker.
The shadows between the trees seemed to have weight and substance, and the temperature was dropping despite what had been warm morning air when he'd first awakened.
'This place has 'cursed forest' written all over it. Probably literally, knowing my luck.'
Crack!
A twig snapped somewhere behind him.
Filianus paused mid-step, every instinct suddenly screaming danger.
The silence that followed wasn't natural. It was the kind of quiet that meant something big and predatory was holding its breath.
Shit.
He turned swiftly, staff raised defensively.
Red eyes glowed in the shadows fifty feet away.
The creature that emerged from between the trees looked like someone had taken a wolf, scaled it up to horse-size, and then let a particularly vindictive dark sorcerer redesign it for maximum nightmare fuel.
Its fur was midnight black with patches that seemed to absorb light completely. When it moved, reality seemed to bend slightly around its edges, as if the world wasn't quite sure how to process its existence.
Filianus' memories surged with information.
'Shadow wolf. Corrupted. And definitely not here for a friendly chat.'
The beast's lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing teeth like obsidian daggers. Saliva that looked suspiciously like liquid darkness dripped from its maw.
Based off of the pressure it was emitting and its size, he quickly came to a conclusion.
'Stage 2 Awakened corrupted. Manageable. Probably.'
Filianus had faced creatures like this in training—well, smaller, less nightmare-inducing versions of them. Standard procedure was to maintain distance, use superior reach, and exploit their predictable attack patterns.
'I can do this. I awakened an epic-grade Soul Weapon. This thing is barely above fodder level.'
The shadow wolf lowered into a hunting crouch, muscles bunching beneath its otherworldly hide.
'Here we go.'
Filianus dropped his pack and staff, then reached deep into his soul for the familiar weight of his awakened power.
The sword would have been his pride and joy had everything not went wrong. An epic-grade blade would have made his father weep with pride and his instructors nod in grudging approval.
In a kingdom where most Soul Weapons were common-grade farming tools or basic swords, an epic-grade weapon marked you as future nobility.
Alas…
'Time to show this oversized mutt what a real warrior can do.'
He called his Soul Weapon to manifestation, feeling the familiar tingle of power racing through his veins.
Light flashed.
Power surged.
And in his hands materialized…
A flute.
'What?'
Filianus stared at the instrument in his hands. It was beautiful, certainly—obsidian black like the wolf's fur, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and flow. It practically hummed with power.
But it was still a fucking flute!
'Where is my sword? Where is my goddamn epic-grade monster-slaying sword?!'
The shadow wolf tilted its head, looking as confused as Filianus felt.
Then it let out what might have been a laugh—a sound like breaking glass mixed with dying screams.
'Oh, you bastard,' Filianus thought, directing his fury at his mysterious benefactor. 'You changed my Soul Weapon, didn't you? What am I supposed to do with a flute? Serenade it to death?'
The shadow wolf finished laughing and bunched its muscles for a charge.
'Shit shit shit!'
Filianus did the only sensible thing.
He ran.