Chapter 10 : adapting
The forest felt different that morning.
Not safer.
Just… quieter.
The kind of quiet that settled slowly into the skin and refused to leave.
A pale gray fog drifted between the trees as he walked, thin enough to see through but thick enough to blur the distance ahead. Moisture clung to the bark of the dark trunks surrounding him, and every now and then cold droplets fell from the branches above onto his shoulders.
The air smelled damp.
Wet soil.
Rotting leaves.
Smoke.
That last one was new.
He slowed slightly.
His boots pressed softly into the muddy ground as he moved between twisted roots pushing out from the earth like giant veins. Moss covered almost everything here—fallen logs, rocks, even parts of the trees themselves.
It should've looked peaceful.
And somehow that only made it worse.
Because the forest wasn't alive in the normal way.
There were no birds.
No insects.
No distant animal sounds.
Only wind moving through branches overhead in long, whispering waves.
After a while even his own footsteps started sounding unnatural.
"…This place seriously feels cursed."
His voice came out quiet.
Like he was afraid the forest itself might answer back.
He adjusted the rusty goblin knife hanging awkwardly in his hand and kept moving.
The deeper he walked, the more signs he began noticing.
Not obvious things at first.
Small things.
A broken branch sharpened into a spike.
Marks carved into bark.
Pieces of rope hanging from low branches.
Then came the bones.
Animal bones at first.
Small ones.
Picked clean.
But eventually—
Human.
He froze near the base of a tree where a skull rested partially hidden beneath dead leaves.
For a second he just stared at it.
Rainwater had collected inside the empty eye sockets.
"…Yeah. Nope."
He immediately looked away and kept walking faster.
His chest felt tighter now.
Not panic.
Just instinct.
Something in him understood he wasn't alone here anymore.
The smoke smell grew stronger the further he moved downhill through the forest. Thick bushes crowded the slope ahead, their branches tangled tightly together like a wall.
Then—
Voices.
Harsh screeching sounds echoed faintly somewhere beyond the trees.
He dropped into a crouch immediately.
Every muscle in his body tensed as he carefully moved closer, pushing branches aside one at a time to avoid making noise.
The sound became clearer.
Laughing.
Arguing.
Movement.
Then he finally saw it.
A village.
Hidden between the trees below him.
His breathing stopped for a second.
The settlement looked like something dragged out of a nightmare.
Crooked wooden huts leaned against one another in uneven rows, built from stripped logs, broken planks, animal hide, and pieces of stolen material. Smoke drifted upward from several fire pits burning throughout the camp, mixing into the fog hanging low across the ground.
Goblins moved everywhere.
More than he expected.
Some carried sharpened spears while others hauled dead animals through the mud. One goblin crouched beside a fire, stabbing repeatedly at a chunk of meat with a rusted knife while another sat nearby chewing loudly on something he didn't want to identify.
There had to be at least twenty of them.
Maybe more hidden inside the huts.
His heartbeat immediately sped up.
A cold sweat formed against his palms despite the morning chill.
If they noticed him—
He'd die before even reaching the trees.
He slowly lowered himself deeper behind the bushes, barely daring to breathe now.
The goblins weren't acting like mindless creatures.
That was the terrifying part.
They had routines.
Organization.
Some sharpened weapons near piles of wood while others carried buckets of water between the huts. Smaller goblins ran through the camp carrying strips of meat while larger ones barked harsh sounds at them.
It looked disturbingly normal.
Like a real village.
Just wrong in every possible way.
Then his eyes landed near one of the fires.
And his stomach twisted.
Clothing hung beside the flames on wooden poles.
Not modern clothes.
Travel cloaks.
Leather belts.
Torn fabric stained dark brown near the edges.
Beside them sat several ripped bags with their contents scattered carelessly through the dirt.
A goblin kicked one aside while laughing harshly at something near the fire.
His gaze slowly shifted lower.
Bones.
Human bones.
Some old.
Some not.
One arm bone rested near a firepit blackened slightly at the ends. Nearby, part of a ribcage lay half-buried in mud beside cracked bowls and animal remains.
For a moment he forgot to breathe.
The smell suddenly felt heavier.
Burned meat.
Smoke.
Rot.
The entire village smelled like death soaked into wet wood.
"…What the hell…"
The whisper barely left his mouth.
Then he saw the cage.
It stood near the center of the settlement, crudely built from thick logs tied together with rough rope.
Dark stains covered the ground beneath it.
Inside were bones.
Broken ones.
Some cracked open.
And hanging between the wooden bars—
A human hand.
Dry.
Gray.
The fingers curled inward stiffly like they were still trying to hold onto something.
His stomach lurched violently.
He looked away immediately, swallowing hard.
"Don't throw up," he muttered quietly under his breath.
"Please don't throw up here."
One goblin suddenly screeched loudly near the center of the village, causing him to flinch instinctively before forcing himself still again.
His pulse pounded heavily in his ears now.
He needed to leave.
Immediately.
There were too many goblins.
Too many weapons.
Too many things that could go wrong.
And yet—
His eyes drifted toward the fires scattered throughout the camp.
Then toward the huts surrounding them.
Dry wood.
Dead leaves.
Animal fat stacked near one of the cooking pits.
One good spark here—
And this entire place would become an inferno.
The thought appeared so naturally in his mind that it genuinely unsettled him.
A few days ago he probably would've rejected the idea immediately.
Now—
He was already planning it.
His grip tightened unconsciously around the knife.
"This is insane," he whispered.
But even while saying it—
He couldn't stop staring at the fire.