Chương 15: The Ghost of the Old Prisoner

The light bled from the skies of Ekarthas with agonising slowness, as though the sun itself were dying behind the horizon of Falus Forest. The forest did not sleep when night arrived-it merely changed shifts among its predators. The sounds of raptors and daytime insects vanished, replaced by a viscous, clinging silence, broken at intervals by a low growl or the sound of shattering bone drifting from the fathomless dark. Night here was not for rest. It was a stage for silent massacres.

Dex was dragging his feet with immense difficulty. Every step sent surging waves of searing pain from his broken ribs up through his brain, and his left arm, wound in its herbal dressings, throbbed with a heat like live coals pressed to the skin. He knew that if he fell now, he would never rise again.

After half an hour of exhausting searching, he found what he needed: an enormous ironwood oak, its trunk several metres in circumference, with a deep, dark natural hollow at its base-formed by wood-rot or perhaps carved out years ago by the claws of some massive beast. Dex crawled inside the tight cavity. The smell of damp and decay was almost suffocating, but he paid it no mind. He drew his knees to his chest and gathered the last remaining traces of Mana from his scorched Core.

He extended his trembling right hand toward the hollow's entrance and whispered in a rough, hoarse voice:"Earth Element... Wall." It was no great wall-merely a thin shell of clay mixed with dead leaves, rising to seal the entrance completely, leaving a gap at the top no wider than two fingers to allow air to pass. The moment the wall was complete, the threads of his Mana severed, and his arm dropped weakly to his side. He had spent everything. Dex leaned his back against the rough bark of the inner wall.

The darkness around him was absolute and impenetrable, broken only by a thin sliver of pallid moonlight threading through the ventilation gap. For any Rank E young nobleman, this cave-like blackness would have been sufficient to induce madness or episodes of violent panic. But for Dex... the darkness was not strange. It was an old friend, returning to embrace him. For fifteen long years, darkness had been his only companion.

He remembered his solitary confinement cell in the maximum-security hell of his former life: no more than two metres by three, no windows, no colour, no sounds but the screaming of madmen in the neighbouring cells and the heavy tread of guards' boots on concrete. He looked at his hands, still trembling with a faint, residual shudder in the dark. Not the tremor of fear from the forest's beasts-but the familiar adrenaline tremor that follows every fight for survival.

"Fifteen years among killers, psychopaths, and the most broken men humanity ever produced..." Dex murmured, his voice as dry as the dead leaves beneath him.

"Years surrounded by concrete walls that imprisoned not only my freedom but the human monsters inside them-monsters that make Gloom Lizards and Shadow Wolves look like tame housepets." In that prison, he had learned the first golden rule of survival: the first one to hesitate is the first one to die. He remembered how he had killed the leader lizard hours ago. He had not done it with the gallantry of knights, had not cried out slogans of justice as novel heroes do.

He had done it with the cunning of convicts: a precise, treacherous thrust from below-targeting the enemy's weakest point without honour or mercy. His seemingly suicidal manoeuvres in the forest were nothing more than a pale reflection of years spent watching his back in the prison yard, where a spoon with its edges ground sharp against concrete could end the life of the most feared gang lord in the blink of an eye.

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"I never imagined that those filthy rules-those animal instincts I acquired at the very bottom of human degradation-would be exactly what would save my life in a magical world full of nobles and monsters," he thought with a bitter irony. He closed his eyes-and the rusted bars of his old cell appeared to him at once.

In his former life, he had spent his long hours in the dark dreaming of the outside: a sky open and wide without razor wire, soil he could touch that was not smeared with dried blood, air that did not carry the smell of despair and urine. And now? Now he had the entire forest. No walls, no surveillance cameras, no guards slamming doors with their batons. And yet here he was-digging a hole and hiding in it all over again.

"What a cruelly ironic fate," he laughed-a quiet, bitter laugh that dissolved into a stifled, agonising cough from his shattered chest.

"I escaped a prison of solid concrete, only to dig myself a prison of trees. The only difference is that the guards here have fangs that drip acid-and they accept neither bribes nor smuggled cigarettes as currency for survival." He felt a deep constriction in his chest, and it was not purely physical. The psychological conflict tearing at him in that dark hollow was not a conflict over the morality of killing. He had moved past that question long ago. His real struggle was the fear of hope.

In prison, he had internalised a brutal psychological law: never hope for anything, so that nothing can break you when it is taken away. Hope killed prisoners more slowly than any blade. But this new world, for all its savage excess, was seducing him. Seducing him with the idea of power, of magic, of rising from the ashes-of beginning a new, clean life under the name Dex Williams, rather than simply a criminal number recited in morning roll calls.

He was afraid to believe that he could become the protagonist of his own story, for fear that he would wake one day to find all of this was nothing but a dying hallucination in his old cell.

"Enough of this weakness," he rebuked himself harshly, driving those feeble thoughts from his mind.

"I am here. I am breathing. And this wound burning in my arm is very real." He reached out his uninjured hand and touched the cold soil beneath his feet at the hollow's floor. He had no Mana to raise stone, but he released an infinitesimally small pulse of Earth element-just enough to connect to the forest's living radar. He felt very faint vibrations about fifty metres away: small, panicked footsteps, followed by heavier, faster ones... a small creature being hunted, then the small footsteps ceased abruptly.

"In prison, I could tell when someone was about to attack by the way they breathed behind the metal cell door, or by the drag of their shoe against the floor," Dex thought with sharp focus, reading the vibrations.

"Here, the forest breathes too. It has its own rhythm, its own language buried beneath the surface. The beasts here do not conceal their intentions behind false smiles as humans do. I only need to master their honest, lethal tongue." With considerable effort, he summoned a few droplets of moisture using his Water element and directed them to wash his face, caked with dried blood and clay. The cold of the water struck his optic nerves like a small shock, pulling him back to full alertness.

He looked at his palms in the darkness. He was no longer Prisoner 4021, waiting for a slow death. He was Dex now: the outcast Rank E sorcerer who possessed the tactical mind to breach the most formidable academy on the empire, and who was already planning to steal the legendary Titan Core from beneath everyone's notice.

Before the involuntary sleep of physical exhaustion finally claimed him, he gazed through the small gap in the clay wall, searching for the stars that appeared and vanished between the enormous, wind-swaying branches above.

"I survived fifteen years at the bottom of a human hell-and I came out the other side," he recited it like a private incantation.

"A cursed forest will not break me. Monsters that hide in the dark will not end me." With a mechanical, unconscious motion, he drew his black poisoned dagger from its sheath. He did not set it beside him. He placed it beneath the folded coat he was using as a pillow, with its handle resting in exact contact with his fingers-precisely as he used to hide smuggled razor blades beneath his tattered prison mattress every night. He closed his eyes at last and slipped into a deep sleep-though it was not a peaceful one.

His mind and nervous system remained on the highest possible alert, ready to detonate into action in any fraction of a second, to convert any intruder who dared approach the hollow of his tree... into nothing more than another corpse feeding the dark roots of Falus Forest.