Chương 2

Noah awoke with a start on a grey stone floor. His eyes flew open, blinking several times as he fought against the brightness of sunlight streaming into the room. As his vision adjusted, he saw the tops of deciduous trees swaying gently in the breeze outside, their leaves a vibrant shade of green. But… I was underground. His mind rebelled. And in Siberia. In the winter. None of this should be possible. As if by instinct, his analytical mind clamped down on the rising wave of anxiety and forced him into motion.

He rolled onto his front and pushed himself to his feet, flexing and shaking out his arms and legs tentatively. Satisfied that nothing had been injured in the fall, he drew in a steady breath and closed his eyes, retracing his last clear memory. The backpack must not have been as secure as I thought, he realized. His eyes snapped open. The rope was still tied around his waist. He tugged at the loose end and found it frayed, confirming his theory.

A quick scan of the room told him the backpack hadn't followed him down the hole. Whatever had happened, he'd have to make his way back with only what he had on him. Feeling safe enough - for the moment - Noah began a methodical inventory. He untethered his GPS and ice pick, setting them on the stone floor, then worked through the maze of straps and buckles securing his winter gear. The gloves came off first - three layers - followed by his balaclava, parka, and snow pants.

At least I don't have to deal with those fucking goggles anymore, he thought grimly as sweat broke across his skin. When he finished, a familiar edge of panic crept back in. Both his handheld GPS and his phone showed no satellite connection, no signal of any kind. Worse, as he surveyed the items laid out before him, it became obvious that most of them were completely unsuited for the warm, green world outside. There's a solution here, he told himself. There has to be.

He moved to the doorway and took in the impossible landscape for the first time. Only then did he realize the "cave" he'd assumed he was in was actually a tower, with a long spiral of stone steps winding around its exterior - presumably down to ground level. From this height, he could see an enormous forest stretching to the horizon, a lone mountain rising in the distance on one side, and what appeared to be a body of water on the other. I don't see anyone, he thought. But someone built this tower.

That means someone's out there. And if I can find them, maybe they can explain what the hell is going on. After a few moments of searching, he spotted what he'd been hoping for: a well-worn footpath leading away from the tower and into the forest. Confidence stirred. He stepped back inside and considered how much of his gear to take. Not knowing how long he'd be walking made the decision for him. He packed light - his GPS, phone, wallet, and frayed rope - and left the rest behind. The ice pick – almost left it.

He thought before he could leave. You never know when you might need a sharp edge. As he knelt to gather all the items, something caught his eye. Etched into the stone floor were rough markings - writing of some kind. He tilted his head, studying them from different angles, unable to identify the language. It looks ancient, he thought, tracing one carved line with a fingertip. Shit. I really hope this isn't some kind of historical site. That's a great way to piss off the locals and end up in jail.

With that in mind, he shoved the remaining gear into a corner and stepped outside. The smooth, worn stone steps spiraling down the tower lacked any sort of handrail, and the memory of the ladder surged unbidden to the surface. Moving carefully, he descended, keeping his eyes fixed ahead rather than on the dizzying drop below. When he finally reached the ground, he paused to orient himself, following the footpath with his gaze from the forest back toward the tower.

About a meter from his boots, he noticed shallow impressions in the soil. His breath caught. A boot print. Recent - hasn't even been washed out by the rain. Renewed confidence surged through him as he set off along the path. He crossed the clearing surrounding the tower and reached the treeline within minutes. Beyond it, the forest opened enough to make the trail easy to follow, reinforcing his hastily formed plan. Find people. Get help. He repeated it like a mantra as he stepped beneath the canopy.

The next hour of hiking felt strangely familiar. Growing up, Noah had spent countless weekends camping in national parks, and the instincts came back easily. He tracked bird calls overhead, swatted at strange bugs buzzing around him, and once stopped dead when something shifted in the underbrush - only to relax when a small brown squirrel darted away. Eventually, complacency crept in. The steady crunch of his boots and the rustling leaves formed a soothing rhythm, and his thoughts began to wander.

I wonder if Lucien climbed into that hole too, he mused before his mood darkened. I almost wish Yuri fell in too. That Russian bastard ran away with the gear I bought him before disappearing off the map – no GPS tracker, stopped answering his phone… it was a stupid idea to trust him. He slowed, frowning. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work! Where am I, anyway? The question echoed uneasily.

The nearest deciduous forest to Siberia in winter would be at least a day's drive away. Maybe more. Needing to break the silence, he began speaking aloud.

"I must've been injured in the fall," he said.

"Someone found me, brought me here - wherever here is - and nursed me back to health." He paused, then snorted.

"Right. And then they left me alone in an ancient stone tower to wake up by myself. Because that makes perfect sense." Unable to find a theory that fit the facts, Noah went silent. After another hour of hiking, his physical needs began to assert themselves. His stomach gurgled in protest, and his throat felt painfully dry. When the footpath curved alongside a gurgling stream, he decided - just this once - to set aside his caution.

He waded into the ankle‑deep water, knelt, and cupped his hands, lifting the cool flow to his mouth. When he lowered his hands, the sight that greeted him sent a chill racing down his spine. At least a dozen small, bipedal figures were emerging from the far bank, moving slowly but purposefully toward him.

His first thought was a sharp flash of self‑recrimination - idiot, you walked straight into their den - but as he blinked, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing, he realized why he hadn't noticed them sooner. They were made of wood. Not fur. Not flesh. Not scales. Wood. Their bodies consisted of overlapping layers of roots and branches, shaped into crude humanoid forms. Though their heights and builds varied, each had two arms, two legs, a torso, and a vaguely head‑shaped crown of knotted growth.

More of them seemed to materialize with every heartbeat, his mind only registering them as threats after they had already begun to move.

"What the…" The words died in his throat. One of the smaller creatures closed the distance from behind and seized his leg with a claw bristling with thick thorns. Despite standing less than half a meter tall, its grip was brutal. The thorns punched through fabric and skin alike, and Noah cried out as pain flared white‑hot. He swung a fist down instinctively, but the creature held fast, driving a second claw into his thigh. Roaring, Noah yanked the ice pick from his belt and swung.

The sharpened edge sank into the creature's head, and the force of the blow sent it flying several meters into the stream. It hit the water with a splash - and then collapsed, dissolving into a formless mass of sodden wood. Broken branches bobbed in the current and drifted back toward his feet. Looking down, Noah realized with sick clarity that while the attack had freed him, it had also torn a chunk of flesh from his leg. Blood flowed freely now, the wound screaming with every pulse of his heart.

Worse, the remaining creatures hadn't stopped. If anything, there were more of them. I can't win this, he realized. I need to get out of here. Now. Adrenaline surged through him as he turned and scrambled up the far bank - only to collide with another of the creatures. This one was nearly a meter tall, thickly built and coated in moss. It reached for him with grasping claws, and he could have sworn the mouth‑like split in its face widened, as if preparing to bite.

Noah answered with a wordless shout and swung his ice pick as hard as he could. The blow cracked through the creature's arm, snapping the branch clean in half. When it lunged again with its remaining limb, he followed up with a desperate strike to its exposed head. The first swing missed, forcing him to leap aside to avoid the counterattack. The second did not. The pick pierced deep, and the creature froze before collapsing in on itself, disintegrating just as the others had.

With the path clear, Noah limped away from the river, blood dripping steadily down his leg. He glanced back again and again, heart hammering, expecting pursuit - but the forest remained still. Fifteen minutes later, pain and exhaustion finally caught up with him. He slowed to a stop, breathing hard, eyes darting to every nearby tree with newfound suspicion. Gradually, his rational mind clawed its way back to the surface. Check the wound. Apply pressure. If you pass out, you're dead.

He slumped to the ground, released the ice pick from his cramped fingers, and stripped off his sweat‑soaked shirt. Gritting his teeth, he wrapped it tightly around his leg and tied the sleeves in a rough knot. That won't hold forever, he thought, dragging himself back to his feet. I need to keep moving. One foot in front of the other. For the next thirty minutes, Noah did exactly that. He limped along the footpath through the forest, forcing himself onward one step at a time.

His grip never loosened on the ice pick; it was the only thing standing between him and the apparently hostile wilderness. Every shadow drew his eye. Every rustle set his nerves on edge. Not that it's going to do much good in my hands, he thought bitterly. I'm an engineer, for fuck's sake - not some kind of medieval swordsman. As the initial surge of adrenaline faded, a creeping sense of dread took its place. To keep panic at bay, Noah's analytical mind seized control, grasping for order where none existed.

"There's no way those things were real," he said aloud, his voice sounding thin in the open air.

"If they were, the Discovery Channel would have an entire week devoted to them. So something's clearly wrong with me. Head injury from the fall. Drugs. Hallucinations. Maybe even a psychotic break." He exhaled sharply.

"Either way, this isn't real. It can't be." As if summoned by the declaration, a group of impossible insects zipped past him. They resembled dragonflies - at least in silhouette - but they were far too large. Each spanned nearly half a meter from wingtip to wingtip. Stranger still, their wings appeared to be made of jagged shards of translucent glass, floating in slow orbit around their thoraxes rather than attached directly to their bodies. They hovered in place, buzzing softly. Noah stared at them, numb. Yup.

Definitely not real. The nearest creature launched its wings. The shards screamed through the air and embedded themselves in his arm like shrapnel, drawing fresh blood. A heartbeat later, the creature's body slammed into him. Its jaws opened, and a long, flexible proboscis extended to probe the wound.

"Fuck you!" Noah shouted. He swung the ice pick reflexively. The blade sank into the creature's soft body, and it flew backward in a spray of green fluid, slamming into a tree before collapsing to the ground. Unlike the wooden creatures, it did not disintegrate. Its segmented legs twitched weakly as it lay there. There was no time to process the victory. Several more of the dragonfly‑creatures launched their wings at once. Pain exploded across Noah's back and side as the shards struck home.

He staggered, twisting and swinging wildly with the ice pick, barely managing to keep them at bay. With every movement, his strength ebbed. There are too many, he realized as he drove the pick into another creature. I can't keep this up. For several agonizing minutes, he fought - clumsy but determined. Each solid hit killed one of the creatures, but they only paused long enough for him to strike after they had already attacked. Blood soaked into his clothes, and the edges of his vision began to darken.

This is how I die, he thought distantly, as if observing someone else's problem. Another volley of wing‑shards struck his chest, and he cried out, collapsing backward onto the forest floor. Summoning the last of his strength, he swung the ice pick again, killing the creature that tried to land on him. Panting, Noah forced himself onto an elbow and scanned the air. The creatures were gone, and in their place knelt a woman. She had vivid pink hair and long, sharply pointed ears.

His vision swam, refusing to focus as she spoke rapidly in a language he didn't recognize. She flipped frantically through a thick book, her expression tight with urgency. As consciousness slipped away, Noah registered one final detail – a silver necklace with a tiny jewel in the middle.

"Who…are you…?" He croaked out. Her panicked face was the last thing he saw before the world went dark.