Ren moved with slower steps now. Not just because he was tired—but because every part of him was adjusting. Not to the danger. Not to the fear. But to the silence.
It had a weight.
Every footstep he took pressed into the damp earth with barely a sound. The forest wasn't loud to begin with, but now it felt quieter than before. As if the moment he gained that "Watcher's Sense," everything around him had started keeping its distance.
He didn't like that.
The skill hadn't gone off again, but something about that stillness pressed against his chest. Maybe it was in his head. Or maybe it wasn't.
Ren rubbed his palms together and crouched near a patch of soft dirt at the base of a slope. He dug his fingers into the soil. Damp. Loose. Moldable.
He hadn't even meant to test the skill—it just happened. His hands moved without much effort, shaping a shallow bowl into the ground. It didn't feel like power. More like permission.
The dirt held together under his fingers.
A second later, a faint line of words appeared, hovering a few inches off the ground:
[Clayshape Used Successfully]
Basic container created. Durability: Low.
The bowl wasn't impressive. Lopsided. Fragile. He could probably crush it with one hand. But it was there. Made by him. Not imagination.
He stared at it for a moment before wiping his hands on his jeans and moving on. No point staying in one place too long.
---
About half an hour passed before the ground changed.
He noticed it in the way his feet started sinking less. The moss thinned. Tree roots jutted out, twisting underfoot like veins. The forest here was darker, but not because of the canopy. The light still came in. It was just... muted.
He paused by a thick root and leaned down, pressing his hand against it. It didn't feel like wood. Not entirely. Some parts were dry and cracked. Others were smooth, almost like old bone.
That's when he spotted it.
Half-buried under tangled vines, a shape peeked out of the ground—too flat to be a stone, too smooth to be a root. He knelt and brushed the soil away.
A tile.
Black, slightly curved, with faint patterns along the edge. Not decorative. Just lines. Repeating. Careful.
He uncovered more. They formed a narrow path—mostly broken, overgrown, nearly erased. But it was real. Built.
He stood up slowly and looked ahead. The path dipped, leading between two dead trees that leaned inward, almost touching.
If this was a road, it hadn't been used in years.
But roads led somewhere.
Ren stepped onto the tiles. His foot pressed down, and the ground held. No sudden traps. No clicks. He moved forward, following the line as best he could, eyes scanning both sides.
The silence didn't lift. If anything, it felt heavier here.
After maybe twenty steps, he reached a place where the path split around a wide stone platform sunk into the ground. It looked like a basin—or maybe a gathering spot. A few upright stones stood at the far end, worn by time. Markings ran along their sides, carved deep but faded.
He moved closer.
The marks weren't letters. Not ones he knew. More like pictographs. Circles. Eyes. Shapes that reminded him of people with no faces.
A faint sound broke the stillness.
It wasn't wind.
It was breath.
His own.
And something else.
Above.
Ren's head snapped up.
A branch swayed gently, even though the others didn't move.
There was nothing in the tree.
No animal. No watcher. No sign of life.
Still, the moment his eyes met that spot—something shifted inside him. Like pressure. Like attention.
The [Watcher's Sense] didn't trigger.
But the silence did.
He backed away without turning around, keeping the platform in sight as he stepped off the tiles and onto dirt. Once he cleared the broken path, the pressure faded again, like a rubber band finally snapping loose.
He didn't run. Just walked faster, heart tight in his chest.
By the time he found a cluster of flat rocks near a dry creekbed, the light above was thinning. Not quite dusk. Not safe either.
Ren sat down, rested his back against stone, and stayed still for a while. Just breathing. No screens. No skills. No watchers.
For now.
But his thoughts didn't stop.
What had that thing been? A remnant? A sentry? A wild magical creature lurking in the ruins of something older?
And why hadn't [Watcher's Sense] gone off?
Unless...
Unless that sense wasn't about detecting danger. Not real danger. Maybe it was just one kind. A kind that came with intent. Maybe whatever had been watching wasn't hostile. Just present. Curious.
That was worse, in a way. Because it meant something was close. Watching. Choosing not to act.
Yet.
He pulled his knees up and crossed his arms over them, watching the trees. Still no wind. No rustling. Just the occasional chirp of a bird, and even those were scattered.
He thought back to the tile path. To the way the forest avoided it. The moss had grown elsewhere. The air had gone still. He didn't know if that meant the place was sacred or dangerous—or both.
Still, the carvings had stuck in his mind. Circles. Faceless people. A kind of stillness that wasn't just emptiness but expectation.
He didn't think it was a trap.
But something had built it. And something had stayed.
He wasn't ready to go back. Not yet.
But one day, he would.
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