The forest had no birdsong.
No chirps. No rustling leaves. No distant hoot of an owl or snap of a branch from a startled animal.
Only silence.
And silence screamed louder than any predator.
Dave's boots sank into damp soil as he entered the Forest of the Dead. Moss and rot clung to every step. The trees, tall and blackened like scorched bones, arched over him, forming a crooked cathedral of shadow. Their branches intertwined above, letting no sunlight touch the ground.
He didn't know the legends. Only rumors. That criminals banished here never returned. That the trees moved. That the air itself rotted men from the inside out.
And yet, here he was.
Not a prince. Not a mage.
Just a "common criminal" cast into hell.
Exactly what he wanted them to think.
He played the part well—mud smeared across his cheeks, hair matted with sweat and leaf bits, a faint limp in his step. He hadn't summoned even a flicker of mana since entering.
Let them underestimate him.
Let the world forget him.
A Blade, A spell and A smile.
They found him by a hollowed log, chewing dry root bark to kill the hunger.
"Well now," a gruff voice boomed. "What do we have here?"
Two figures emerged from the mist. The first, a tank in rust-colored plate, dragged a greatsword across his shoulder like it weighed nothing. A Fourth Tier Knight—muscles layered on top of muscles, with jagged scars crisscrossing his jaw. His eyes, small and sharp, gleamed with suspicion.
"Looks like a rat," the woman beside him said. Her voice was clean, precise. She was wrapped in a dark blue robe lined with glowing runes, and silver hair coiled down her back like a viper. Her fingers twitched with restrained magic.
Dave dropped to his knees immediately.
"Please," he gasped. "I'm no threat. They threw me in here for thieving. I don't want to die alone."
The Knight scoffed. "Bastard's a thief."
"Or a liar." The mage studied him with a cold stare. "But we could use a porter. You'll carry our supplies."
They dropped two heavy packs at his feet without another word. And with that, Dave was absorbed into their strange little caravan.
No names. No warmth.
Just mistrust and exploitation.
Perfect.
Whispers in the Rot
The deeper they went, the stranger it became.
The trees bled sap that hissed where it touched the ground. In places, the roots broke through soil to form clawed hands grasping toward the sky. Once, they passed a grove where faces were grown into bark—twisted in eternal screams. Some had teeth.
Mireya—the mage, as he later learned her name—warned him not to speak near the trees.
"They remember voices," she said. "And mimic them when you're alone."
Balric, the knight, laughed at that. "If you hear someone you know calling your name, run the other way."
Dave said nothing. But he listened.
Because the forest was already whispering to him.
Not through the trees. Not in the wind.
From within.
You don't belong to them.
You are not theirs to use.
He froze one night, huddled beneath a root-arch, eyes wide open as the whisper dug into his skull like warm needles.
They will betray you.
We will not.
His breath came short. Shaky. But deep down, the voice didn't terrify him.
It called to something familiar.
The promise of power. The taste of control.
"Give me everything," Dave whispered into the moss.
And the forest answered.
Bait
On the fifth day, they heard the wind change.
Not the normal breeze that stirred mist and twitched leaves—but a wall of pressure, sudden and sharp.
Mireya paled. "A Gale Wolf."
Balric's hand went to his sword. "Tier Five."
The wind shrieked.
And the creature emerged.
It was massive—larger than a horse, cloaked in writhing mist. Its silver-gray fur shimmered like moonlight caught in a storm. Eyes like pale glass watched them with chilling clarity. Its breath whistled through fangs longer than daggers.
Mireya flared her hands. Runes ignited across her arms. "We distract it—Balric, front!"
The knight roared, raising his blade.
Then she pointed at Dave.
"You. Run. Draw it away. Be useful!"
Balric shoved him. "Go! Or die here!"
Dave met the wolf's eyes.
And the forest whispered again.
Let them burn. You are the heir to rot and ruin.
He turned and ran—only enough to make it look like he obeyed.
Then he stopped behind a twisted tree, watching.
The Gale Wolf didn't chase him.
It saw through the lie.
It went for the real threats.
It blitzed toward Mireya in a flash of lightning, cracking her barrier shield on impact. She flew backward, ribs crunching.
Balric screamed and swung his blade in a fury.
The beast dodged, twisted, bit.
Flesh tore.
Armor split.
Blood painted the roots.
Mireya tried to stand—cast a spell—but her glyph cracked halfway through. She collapsed, neck twisted at an unnatural angle.
Balric fell next. Screaming until the end.
Then the forest came alive.
Dave stepped into the gore-soaked clearing.
The Gale Wolf had retreated—either wounded or satisfied.
He was alone now.
The forest knew.
Roots burst from the earth, coiling around the corpses. First Balric. Then Mireya. The tendrils pulsed and drank—draining color, soul, everything from the bodies.
From them rose two pale-blue flames—souls unmoored.
They drifted toward Dave like moths drawn to fire.
He didn't resist.
He welcomed them.
The moment they entered his chest, his body convulsed.
Magic tore through him like lightning in reverse.
The world blurred. His veins ignited. His soul stretched beyond what it should've ever contained.
And the forest spoke.
You have fed us.
We will now feed you.
Rise, Scion of the Rotten Root. Drink deeply.
A barrier inside him—one all mages possessed—shattered.
The cap on his potential crumbled like ash.
His mana core began to twist, reshape—evolve. Where once it was a vessel, it became a furnace. A heart. A throne.
Memories not his own pulsed in his mind. Combat instincts. Mana circuits. Dark spells never taught, only inherited.
And one word burned bright.
Tyrant.