We were still waiting.
Kai and I hid within a glade where slender trees emitted a pale blue glow—like spectral lanterns swaying in the dark. I sat with my back against one of the glowing trees, heart heavy. Kai stood a few steps away, warming up his joints, preparing for the coming clash.
I glanced at him, then down at my hand.
In it was the flute Ashen had used—he'd handed it to Kai earlier.
And Kai had handed it to me.
I remembered what Ashen said—his voice calm:
"Ashen will try to deal as much damage as possible and lure it here. When the signal comes, blow this flute. One strong, firm breath. Right then."
I'd thought it was a simple task.
Until Ashen added:
"This flute… it only has one use left. After that, it'll shatter."
I gripped it tighter.
We only had one shot.
One breath—to end it all, or die.
I glanced at Kai.
He remained calm as always, but I knew—if Ashen failed, or if I missed the cue… everything would collapse.
I clutched the flute against my chest.
"Ashen… you'll make it in time, right?"
…
Farther in the forest—the answer was blood.
Ashen lay on his back, pressed against the cold forest floor. His body was soaked in blood—pouring from deep wounds on his chest, ribs, and from a broken forearm twisted at an unnatural angle.
His breathing was shallow, strained.
Each inhale made his chest seize with pain. His spine was shattered. Both legs—completely numb.
He could no longer stand.
All he had left were wide eyes staring up at the night sky, where cracks of light rippled like fractures in reality.
The beast was approaching—step by step, slow and sure, as if it knew it didn't have to rush.
Ashen still stared at the sky—not in search of hope, but as if reliving some distant memory.
"...Just like… that night… it also…"
His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper for the wind.
His vision faded.
Heartbeat slowed.
And then—
He stopped breathing.
It seemed like the end…
Until from his chest—right where his heart had once beat—a bony hand emerged. Pale and withered, like something clawed up from the depths of hell.
Resting in its palm… was Ashen's own heart—still twitching, soft, soaked in blood.
The Elderwood Beast halted. It stared at the hand… as if warned or restrained by an unseen force.
Without warning, the hand crushed the heart. Blood sprayed outward in a perfect crimson ring around Ashen's corpse.
And then—the earth shook.
From four directions, eight black coffins erupted from the ground, twisting and cracking as if built from bone and flesh.
They opened in unison—silent and deliberate.
Out of each stepped a towering entity. Abnormal. Their very presence choked the forest.
All eight wore pale armor cloaked in white robes that touched the earth. But each bore a unique mark on their heads:
One had eight curved black horns arching backward like a demonic crown.
Another had a halo above his head, like a fallen angel, and his eyes were pierced shut with dark crimson thorns.
A third wore a knight's helmet, face hidden behind a mask showing only a mouth, which grinned, dripping with blood.
They formed a circle around Ashen's corpse.
No words. No wasted movements.
Just existence—enough to silence all other life in the forest.
And yet—the Elderwood Beast still charged.
It roared, pouring all its strength into a leap that shattered the earth beneath it, launching toward the white-armored figures.
None of the eight moved.
Only one—the masked one with three shifting expressions: sorrow, rage, and fear—quietly raised a hand without even looking.
Just that one small motion…
The Elderwood Beast froze mid-air, as if its body had been crushed by an unseen force. Its eyes rolled back, muscles seized, claws flailed uselessly at the void.
But it was still conscious—and that was the horror. Forced to feel its helplessness and await the doom it could not stop.
The mask's "rage" expression lit up—glowing red like a fire flaring under pressure.
He spoke.
His voice was distorted, layered by countless echoes—seething with hatred, pain, and a curse so deep, it could shatter minds:
"We may still be sealed… But that doesn't mean you're on our level, you lowborn thing."
The moment the words ended—a shockwave tore through the air.
The massive beast was hurled backward hundreds of meters, crashing through trees like twigs. Every impact sent tremors through the forest like mini quakes.
And then…
Another spoke.
This one had a twisted deer skull for a head, with long, withering antlers like the roots of dead trees. Each motion echoed with a rattle—like skulls knocking together.
"Oh… so this is the fifth time."
His voice was scratchy, drawn out—like fingernails scraping bone.
"Same as always, huh…"
He looked down at Ashen's limp form, smiling with a mix of pity… or was it contempt?
Just then, another voice chimed in.
This one came from the entity with the floating halo and thorn-covered eyes. His white armor was immaculate, and he held an open book—its pages unreadable to anyone else.
His voice was neither loud nor soft—just eerily pure, like a child reciting scripture in a graveyard.
"Now now… let's not rush. I just got out of that suffocating prison. Let me enjoy the air of this rotten world."
He closed his eyes, tilting his head, as if savoring the decay—and with each breath, the plants around him withered like their life was being siphoned away.
But as he basked, suddenly—from the eight coffins—eight black chains shot out, wrapping tightly around the necks of each entity.
He sighed.
"So soon…"
The deer-headed one chuckled, voice dripping like blood through cracks:
"It won't be long now… we'll be free soon enough."
All eight raised their hands. From their palms, black mouths opened—toothless, tongueless, nothing but blood-dripping voids.
Dark energy surged from them, spiraling toward Ashen's body.
And then—
Ashen returned.
Not just revived—his clothes were spotless, without a trace of blood or wounds, as if none of it had ever happened.
The eight figures stepped back into their coffins.
And vanished.
Silence returned, as if nothing had ever happened.
Ashen sat up, eyes blank for a second, before clearing.
"That beast really knows how to hide…" he muttered, then stood and ran off—still searching, unaware of the battlefield left behind.
He didn't know…
…that a strange mark was beginning to form on the back of his neck