CHAPTER ONE: The Forest That Bled(PART 1)
Night had weight.
Not the gentle quiet of a sleeping world, but the kind of weight that pressed on the lungs, that thickened the air, that made even breathing feel like trespassing. The moon was sheathed behind curtains of cloud; its light escaped only in thin silver rays that flashed between the swaying trees. The forest lay silent, waiting, as though it sensed something approaching from the edges of an unseen horizon.
A dying fire crackled weakly in a circular clearing. Five tents surrounded it, some sloppily pitched, others bearing clear signs of hardened experience. Bedrolls were thrown down beside half-eaten rations. A few weapons leaned against tree roots like half-forgotten sentinels.
The mercenary camp looked like any other—exhausted warriors resting after a day of travel. On the surface, nothing was wrong.
But one man couldn't sleep.
His name was Rauken, scarred from jawline to cheek by a wound so deep it made his left eyebrow twitch whenever he was thinking too hard. He sharpened his sword slowly, deliberately, running the whetstone down the blade like a surgeon making a cut.
He wasn't sure why his heart raced, or why the air felt… wrong. He only knew that after twenty years of surviving jobs he should've died on, instincts never lied.
Something was coming.
He stopped halfway through a stroke with the whetstone. The forest was still—but not the peaceful stillness of the night. It was the suffocating stillness of anticipation.
He stood.
"Rauken?" a sleepy voice murmured from one of the tents. "It's your turn to rest, the next watch is mine."
"Something's off," Rauken muttered. "Too quiet. Even the insects shut up."
A head poked out from the tent. Nerin, the squad's youngest archer, blinked groggily. "Quiet is good, isn't it? Means nothing will try to eat us tonight."
Rauken didn't answer.
His sword hummed—only slightly, almost imperceptibly. The steel thrummed the way it only did when magic was thick in the air, a sensation he hated and had never understood.
He stepped closer to the treeline, boots crunching softly on dead leaves.
The darkness looked deeper than usual. Not just night-dark. More like shadows that had been painted onto existence.
Nerin emerged fully, cloak around his shoulders, bow in hand. "There's no danger. You're just paranoid. We're miles from the nearest—"
A sound cut him off.
A sound that didn't belong.
It wasn't a growl. Not a roar. Not even the rustling of leaves.
It was a whisper.
But not a whisper in the air—
a whisper in the mind.
A voice like scraping stone hissed through Rauken's skull: "We hunger…"
He froze, eyes widening.
"What is it?" Nerin asked, stepping closer.
Rauken was about to answer when the forest bent.
Bent—as if space itself folded.
The moonlight fractured like shattered glass. The air rippled and tore open, not with fire or light, but with absence. A hole formed in reality—pitch black, swirling, devouring the starlight around it.
A tear.
A rift.
An Abyss Tear.
Rauken shouted before he even knew he'd moved.
"RIFT! MOVE! WAKE THE OTHERS NOW!"
But he was already too late.
The tear pulsed, widening like an eye opening after eons of sleep. And something clawed its way through.
The ground trembled.
The first creature fell out—slender, bone-white, humanoid but twisted like melted wax. It crawled on blackened limbs that ended in claws. No eyes. No mouth. No face. Yet it released a sound that resembled a shriek of knives dragged over stone.
Nerin's arrow flew reflexively.
It struck the creature.
The creature didn't flinch.
It leapt.
Before Nerin could scream, it tore into him.
The camp erupted into panic.
Three mercenaries stumbled from their tents, half-armed, half-awake, all doomed.
"Form up! Spears forward! Get behind me!" Rauken roared.
Two obeyed. The third ran. He vanished into the trees. Rauken heard him die five seconds later.
The first monster lunged again. Rauken's blade met it mid-air, cutting through its torso. Instead of blood, black vapor spewed out, chilling Rauken's exposed skin.
Then a second monster emerged from the rift.
Then a third.
Then five more.
Rauken's men fought beautifully—desperately—fatally.
One died screaming, another died choking, another dying silently, as if breath had simply been stolen.
Rauken cut, slashed, parried, dodged, kicked, shouted, bled.
But there were too many.
He carved the seventh monster apart, but eight more crawled from the black wound in reality.
He felt a claw sink deep into his thigh.
He felt teeth that weren't teeth bite into his shoulder.
He fell to one knee.
And the rift pulsed again.
Something worse came through.
It stepped onto the grass, towering twice a man's height, body draped in flowing shadows that moved like living smoke. Its limbs were long, jagged. Its head was crowned with twisted horns. And its presence felt like the cold of death itself.
The creature stared at Rauken without eyes.
A chill crawled into his bones.
He realized something horrifying.
This monster wasn't just killing them.
It was learning them.
The others had been instinctive beasts.
This one was a mind.
It extended a claw.
Rauken spat blood and laughed.
"If this world dies—let it die screaming."
He charged.
He swung.
And the world went dark.
The last thing he saw before everything vanished was the creature tilting its head, curious—almost disappointed.
Then the tear in reality closed.
And silence returned.
The forest absorbed the blood without a sound.
For a long while, nothing moved.
Then a feather drifted down, soft and light, as though mocking the carnage.
---
Far away.
Miles from death.
Quiet city.
Crackling fire.
Warm bed.
A boy jerked up from sleep, gasping as though drowning in nightmares. Sweat drenched his forehead. His heart hammered wildly.
His name was Lucius.
A single drop of blood trickled from his nose.
He wiped it, confused.
"What… what was that dream?"
His chest ached, like someone had thrust a cold blade through his ribs.
He stood, trying to control his breathing.
He didn't know why.
He didn't understand the dream.
He didn't know about the mercenaries who died.
He didn't know about the tear in reality.
He didn't know about the Abyss.
But he felt a presence.
A whisper.
A voice not from the world of man.
"Wake, child of mixed destiny… Wake."
Lucius clenched his fists.
And from that moment, his life would never belong to him again.
---
Morning came.
Bells rang in the small trading town of Ravenwall, chiming like playful children. Merchants shouted, farmers bargained, blacksmiths swore as they hammered glowing metal.
Lucius walked through the market, carrying a small basket. He was only sixteen, lean rather than muscular, with sharp eyes that seemed too perceptive for someone his age. His black hair fell in curls that nearly touched his shoulders.
People nodded to him as he passed—friendly, comfortable. He helped the elderly. He traded fairly. He worked hard. He was well-liked.
He belonged.
Or so everyone believed.
Lucius stopped in front of a stall selling fruits. "Morning, old Hennan."
The vendor, a gray-bearded man missing a tooth, grinned. "Lucius, boy! Here to buy apples again?"
"Three, please."
"Three? Your appetite's shrinking. Growing less dragon every day!"
Lucius chuckled.
If only he knew how literal that was. He did in fact carry dragon blood—though dormant, sleeping beneath human skin.
He paid with bronze coins and walked off.
As he passed, two children chased each other with wooden sticks, pretending to be knights.
Lucius smiled.
This town was peaceful. Safe. Ordinary.
He had no idea how short-lived that would be.
---
At the town gate sat a tavern called The Rusted Crown.
Inside, music played. A young brown-haired bard strummed awkward chords on a lute.
"You're hitting the wrong notes again," teased a ginger-haired female magician seated nearby.
"It's called improvising, Lucy. You wouldn't understand art."
"It sounds like a strangled cat."
"It's emotional strangled cat."
The bard—Mike—continued strumming.
At the corner of the tavern, the massive-built warrior Jak was arm-wrestling three men at once and winning.
The magician rolled her eyes. "Men with muscles and no brain. Art with no talent. Ravenwall deserves better companions."
"Good morning to you too, Lucy," Lucius said, stepping in.
Mike brightened. "Lucius! Tell her I'm improving."
Lucius thought for a moment.
Then:
"You're improving… at disturbing the peace."
Mike fake-gasped. "Et tu, Lucius?"
Lucy snorted with laughter.
Jak slammed the arms of his challengers down simultaneously, collecting his winnings. "Breakfast's on me!"
They all sat together at a table.
They didn't know it yet.
Not one of them.
But these four would shake the world.
---
"Did anyone have weird dreams?" Lucius blurted, unable to stop himself.
Lucy blinked. "Dreams? What do you mean?"
Mike leaned back. "Yeah, I dreamed I was eating chicken but the chicken kept screaming at me—"
"Not that kind of dream," Lucius interrupted.
Everyone looked at him.
Lucius swallowed.
"It felt… real. Too real. Like I was seeing something happening somewhere else."
Jak cocked his head. "A spirit dream?"
Lucy frowned thoughtfully. "If that's true, you shouldn't ignore it."
Mike laughed. "Spirit dreams are myths."
Lucy glared. "Magic exists. Don't mock spirit sensitivity."
Jak nodded. "If Lucius sensed something, then something happened."
Lucius froze.
Because when Jak said that, something happened in his chest.
A pulse.
Not a heartbeat.
A pulse of power.
Like a dragon stretching its wings inside him.
He gasped.
The others didn't notice.
Lucy continued: "Dream visions are rare. Usually gifted only to those with—"
She stopped herself.
"—well. Strong spiritual affinity."
Lucius stared at the table.
He didn't know why.
He didn't know how.
But something inside him whispered:
"You are more than you believe."
And somewhere… far in the forest…
the corpses of the dead mercenaries still bled.
And something ancient smelled destiny awakening.
---
END OF PART 1