Chapter 95
Written by Bayzo Albion
I took the step. The ground softened underfoot, a spongy mix of moss, decayed leaves, and long-forgotten remains. Nearby trees bore strange growths—scar-like protrusions and pale, glowing lichen that pulsed like the forest's own heartbeat.
With each stride, the darkness thickened, turning midday into dusk. The air grew heavy with the musk of rot and a faint sweetness that clung to my throat.
Then, I spotted it: the first mushroom. Pristine white, smooth as polished marble, about the size of a clenched fist. It nestled at the base of a gnarled tree, half-buried in a bed of rotting foliage, peering out from the shadows like a vigilant eye.
I crouched low, using my dagger to gingerly part the soil and debris. The mushroom yielded without resistance, but as I uprooted it, a plume of warm vapor escaped from the earth—sweet and heady, laced with a narcotic haze that made my vision swim for a heartbeat. I quickly clamped a sleeve over my mouth and nose, stifling the dizziness, then wrapped the prize in a scrap of cloth and stowed it in my pack, careful not to let my bare skin linger on its surface.
One down. But far from done.
For a fleeting moment, optimism flickered—maybe luck was on my side after all. But the forest seemed to sense that thought, chuckling in its silent way, ready to remind me who truly ruled this domain.
I pressed on without a clear direction, the trees blurring into indistinguishable silhouettes, paths looping back on themselves in deceptive circles. How long had I been wandering? Minutes? Hours? Time lost its grip here. No more mushrooms, no animal tracks, not even a faint trail to follow. Just the suffocating silence, broken only by the squelch of my boots in the mire, like teeth grinding in the dark.
*The curse of a clear mind,* I mused bitterly. That's what it boiled down to—searching for patterns in chaos, reading omens in mold and dampness. Being clever was a burden in a world where overthinking sank you faster than quicksand. The forest didn't reward intellect; it preyed on it. It thrived on fear, not analysis.
And as I tried to dissect my surroundings, it waited patiently for that fear to bloom.
I forged ahead, but purpose slipped away like sand through my fingers. Why was I here? What drove me? The questions dissolved in the haze, much like the path ahead. Everything blended into monotony: ebony trunks, squelching decay underfoot, tendrils of mist slithering between branches like serpents on the prowl. Time didn't march forward; it quivered, refracting like dark water in a shaken vial, distorting reality itself.
And then, I saw it.
Something pale, embedded in the tangled roots. At first glance, I mistook it for another mushroom—larger, more substantial. But no. This was different. Far more unsettling.
A figure.
Curled into a fetal position, as if frozen in the act of retreating to some primordial womb. Its skin was pallid, almost translucent, like fragile ice veined with faint blue shadows. No rise and fall of breath, no twitch of muscle. Yet, I felt its gaze—cold, introspective, not from eyes but from the void within, an emptiness that pulled at my soul.
I edged closer, a dry leaf crunching under my boot like brittle bone.
The figure shuddered.
Not rising, not stirring—just a tremor, like a candle flame guttering in a draft. As if the fabric of existence here couldn't sustain such a form, fracturing and reforming in ripples.
I froze, my heart pounding in my throat, a metallic taste flooding my mouth. If this was an illusion, it was too vivid, too tangible. If a creature... it was waiting. Biding its time.
The mist around it thickened, swirling into a vortex that drew in the dim light. The white form began to dissolve, erased stroke by stroke by an invisible hand. One moment it was there; the next, gone. As if it had never existed.
I stood alone.
Or... had I ever truly been alone?
A shiver raced down my spine, cold as winter's grip. I didn't know what I'd witnessed. And worse—I realized I didn't *want* to know.
I retreated a step, then another, deliberate and cautious. The forest held its breath—no wind, no rustle, just me and this festering quietude closing in, lapping at my heels like rising tidewater.
On the third step, my resolve cracked. I spun on my heel and bolted.
Direction didn't matter. Escape was all. Away from that spot where reality quivered, where something—not alive, not dead—had fixed its unseen eyes on my back.
Roots snagged at my ankles, leaves whipped my face like stinging lashes, branches raked my arms, drawing thin lines of blood that burned in the damp air. But I didn't stop. In moments like these, instinct trumped reason. And reason stayed silent, terrified of voicing the truth.
I burst into a small clearing littered with decayed wood and spongy detritus. Gasping, I doubled over, hands on knees, lungs burning as my pulse thundered in my ears—not just in my chest, but echoing in my temples, as if something inside me yearned to flee as well.
I glanced back.
Nothing.
Just the forest, unchanged and impassive. Silent as ever. As if the encounter had been a fever dream.
But I knew better. It had been real. And now, it knew I'd seen it too.
I pushed onward, an hour or more slipping by unnoticed. Time bled away in this place. The trees grew taller, crowding closer, their light all but extinguished by the interlocking canopy. No birdsong, no scuttle of insects. The forest had mastered silence, mirroring my own growing unease.
Then, an anomaly caught my eye. The foliage was trampled, pressed flat in a deliberate path. At first, I assumed an animal—perhaps a deer or boar. But closer inspection revealed boot prints: deep, deliberate, human. Fresh, too, the edges still sharp in the mud. Whoever it was had been burdened, the impressions smeared as if the ground had given way under extra weight.
I knelt, fingers tracing the damp soil. Yes, a boot—heavy, not the light tread of a hunter. An adventurer? What could draw someone into this forsaken depths? No one ventured here without cause—or desperation.
The tracks veered deeper into the gloom. Logic screamed to turn back. But I wasn't logical. I was driven. And that meant following.
The glade ahead enveloped me in a heavier silence, the air thick with an invisible rot that coated my tongue.
There, I found the body—or what remained of it.
A skeleton, shrouded in moss like a verdant burial shroud. No armor clung to the bones, no satchel brimmed with supplies, no weapons lay scattered. Even rings or trinkets were absent. Stripped clean—by beasts, scavengers, or the forest's insidious hunger.
I crouched beside it, a peculiar calm settling over me. No fear, just an eerie familiarity, as if I'd glimpsed this scene in a half-remembered dream.
Then, I noticed them: delicate white filaments threading from the bones into the earth. They pulsed faintly with an ethereal glow, syncing with some hidden rhythm, as if channeling the forest's very breath.
Mycelium.
It wasn't merely overgrowing the corpse. It had *emerged* from it. Fed on it. Consumed it whole.
I stood, scanning the surroundings. Similar networks veined the roots nearby—pale tendrils burrowing deep, weaving an underground tapestry.
And suddenly, it clicked, pieces snapping into place like a lock tumbler.
*White mushrooms. Dawn Gorge. Death. It's all connected?*
My thoughts raced, converging. My two quests weren't separate at all. They were facets of the same grim puzzle, disguised under different names.
*"If you find nothing, you can always loot the corpses,"* the receptionist had quipped.
But these weren't mere remains. They were soil. Fertilizer for something far more sinister.
*"Mushrooms that let people see spirits..."*
The words caught in my throat, dry and choking.
I snapped off a fragile strand of mycelium from the bones and tucked it into my pack.
Time to head back. Or... plunge deeper?
I chose the latter, compelled onward. The mycelium seemed to guide me now—a luminous web interlacing roots, climbing trunks, vanishing into the dirt only to resurface ahead. It beckoned like an invisible thread, and there was something profoundly wrong about it. As if I no longer chose the path; the path had chosen me.
The forest transformed around me. Trunks huddled closer, roots swelled and intertwined into treacherous barriers, canopies fused into an impenetrable dome that strangled the last vestiges of light. The air turned stagnant, oppressive, clinging to my skin like sweat-soaked cloth. The ground softened further, yielding like decaying flesh under my boots.
And then, the fog arrived.
It began as a whisper-thin veil hugging the earth, innocuous at first. But it swelled, billowing between the trees, rising to my ankles... my waist... my chest... until it veiled my eyes in a milky shroud.
Within minutes, I couldn't see my own feet.
Nor could I hear the forest anymore.
*Stay calm,* I whispered to myself, grasping for bearings.
I'd always had a keen sense of direction, animal-like intuition for space and orientation. But now, it faltered, ripped away like a faulty compass needle spinning wildly.
I circled the same tree twice. A stone I'd notched with my blade reappeared before me. I'd sworn I'd walked straight— no turns, no deviations.
The fog densified, turning viscous, invasive. It wormed into my nostrils, coated my tongue, seeped beneath my clothes like a swarm of spectral insects. I swiped at my face, but the sensation persisted, intimate and unwelcome.
*Stop it... you stupid mist...* I muttered, my voice hollow, unbelieving.
A cold dread pooled in my gut—not frantic panic, but a slow, viscous awareness of being observed. As if footsteps shadowed mine. As if the fog wasn't mere vapor, but a living entity, brushing against me with deliberate intent.
*This is magic. Not just weather. Not nature's whim.*
I whirled, lurching blindly, verging on a run. Yelling felt futile—or worse, it might summon whatever lurked. And then, the ground betrayed me. A root snared my toe, or perhaps my foot simply slipped; it didn't matter. I pitched forward, crashing to my knees in the muck.
And in that moment, clarity pierced the haze: This fog didn't dissipate. It advanced. It pursued. It came *for me*.