The forest pressed tighter as Cipher moved forward, the crimson canopy blotting out what little light the sky offered. It was as though the trees themselves wished to cage him in.
The tracks wound deeper into the woods, dragging lines carved by claws. Cipher followed in silence, Astralis resting at his side, its runes glowing faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"Cipher," Automaton whispered from his shoulder, voice unusually hushed, "do you notice it?"
His eyes scanned the shadows. The mist shifted unnaturally, pooling in places where no wind stirred. His ears picked up the faintest of whispers, just beyond human comprehension, like a dozen voices muttering a story at once.
"Yes," he murmured. "The forest is speaking."
They passed through another clearing. This one was stranger than the last.
At first glance, it seemed like an ordinary village square—a fountain in the middle, cobblestone paths leading to the shells of houses. But on closer inspection, the houses weren't houses at all. They flickered in and out, glitching, sometimes whole, sometimes nothing but frames of black wire as though someone had forgotten to finish drawing them.
And the people—if they could be called people—were worse.
Figures walked the paths aimlessly, their forms smudged like half-erased charcoal sketches. Faces blurred, hands fading in and out. Their mouths moved in unison, mumbling broken lines:
"She wore red, she wore red, down the path to grandmother's house, beware the wolf, beware the—"
Cipher's stomach clenched. These weren't villagers. They were echoes. Fragments of memory.
One of them turned its head toward him. Its eyes—if they were eyes—were pits of static. "The wolf… devours… devours… devours…"
Its voice cracked mid-sentence, repeating until it collapsed into silence, body dissolving into mist.
Cipher instinctively took a step forward, his teacher's instinct urging him to correct the error, to fix the broken recitation. But Automaton's hand tapped lightly against his cheek.
"You cannot teach shadows," it said softly. "They are only the remains of what once was. Like chalk left behind after the rain."
Cipher exhaled, forcing himself to nod. Still, his grip on Astralis tightened. "Then I'll find what cast the shadow."
The first growl came from behind.
Cipher spun instantly, Astralis raised. From the mist, they emerged—low, crawling shapes that at first resembled wolves. But their bodies were stretched wrong, limbs too thin, jaws split open far wider than nature intended. Their fur was not fur but dripping shadow, falling off their frames like ink running down parchment.
Their eyes glowed white-hot, not like beasts, but like lanterns.
"Not the Wolf," Automaton whispered, eyes narrowing. "Its shadows."
The pack circled, silent except for the crackling hiss of their forms shifting.
Cipher shifted his stance, Astralis angled before him. The runes along the scythe's shaft pulsed, responding to his will. He could feel it—the weight of the weapon was not a burden but a tether, connecting him to something greater.
The first shadow-wolf lunged.
Cipher moved fluidly, almost instinctively. Astralis sang through the air in a wide arc, the blade trailing a streak of starlight as it cut. The shadow split cleanly, dissolving into black mist that scattered like broken glass.
The second came from the side. Cipher pivoted, using the scythe's shaft to parry, the runes flaring as sparks cascaded outward. He struck back with the heel of the weapon, smashing the wolf into the dirt before finishing it with a clean slice.
Automaton observed silently, glowing eyes unblinking.
More came—five, then six, then more from the treeline. They swarmed, jaws snapping, bodies warping as they moved. Cipher's breathing steadied, his body moving with an efficiency born not from instinct alone but from discipline.
He fought not like a berserker, but like a teacher leading a lesson: each strike measured, precise, demonstrating control rather than chaos. Astralis carved arcs of midnight light, weaving patterns in the air that turned the wolves' frenzy into a dance he dictated.
Still, the numbers pressed. For every shadow he cut down, two more slithered from the mist.
Cipher ground his teeth. He could feel fatigue building—not in his body, but in his spirit. This place drained him, feeding on exertion, turning strength into weight.
Automaton finally spoke, voice sharp. "Cipher—your scythe isn't just a blade."
He grunted, spinning Astralis in a defensive sweep that cut three wolves back. "Then what is it?"
"A symbol. A tool of harvest. What does a teacher harvest?"
Cipher's mind flickered—memories of classrooms, of children's eager faces, of cultivating not crops but potential.
He thrust Astralis into the ground. The runes exploded with light, and for an instant the shadows faltered, their forms glitching violently. Cipher's eyes widened as he felt the truth resonate: the scythe was not only to cut—it was to reap meaning from corruption, to strip away what was false.
The wolves shrieked, staggering. Cipher surged forward, scythe gleaming with threads of starfire, and cut them down one by one, each strike burning away more than just their forms—it erased the lies they embodied.
When the last wolf fell, the clearing was silent once more. Mist curled away, retreating like a tide.
Cipher stood in the stillness, chest rising and falling slowly. Astralis' glow dimmed, settling into a quiet hum.
Automaton tilted its head, watching him with unreadable expression. "You see now. You don't just fight. You correct."
Cipher let out a slow breath. He glanced at the Codex strapped to his belt, fingers brushing against its cover. "Then I'll keep correcting until the story remembers itself."
They pressed deeper, leaving the broken village behind.
The forest grew darker, the mist denser. The whispers grew louder now, fractured lines repeating endlessly:"The path, the path, to grandmother's house—don't stray—don't stray—""…and then the wolf ate her whole—""…she wore red, red, red…"
Cipher felt unease coil in his chest. These weren't just whispers—they were warnings, like the remnants of a tale struggling to recall itself.
Then, he heard it.
Not a whisper this time. Not a growl.
But a sob.
Faint, fragile, carried on the mist like a trembling thread.
A child's sobbing.
Cipher froze, head snapping toward the sound. Automaton's glowing eyes dimmed, almost reverent.
"There," Cipher whispered, stepping toward it. His voice softened, instinctive, the same tone he used for frightened children in his classroom.
The sobbing came again—closer this time, from within a hollow tree whose bark glistened black.
Cipher's grip tightened on Astralis.
"The girl," he breathed.
The forest went still, as though holding its breath.