Ethan woke with a groan, his entire body screaming in protest. Every muscle ached as if he had been trampled by something enormous. His ribs throbbed painfully, bruises forming across arms and legs, and his clothes were shredded—torn along the shoulder and knees from the sprint through the forest. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.
He glanced around. No ruins, no familiar landmarks—just the dense forest stretching endlessly in every direction. The sprint had carried him far, far away from the old, abandoned village. He had no choice but to keep moving carefully.
The first thing he checked was his supplies. His grocery bag, clutched tightly during the flight, had survived. Inside, his notepad, pen, lighter, and four books were safe. He exhaled, the relief almost painful amidst the soreness. And then he saw it: the half granola bar he had shoved into the bag earlier. Not much, but enough to keep his strength from completely failing.
He broke off a piece and chewed slowly, every movement of his jaw reminding him how sore his body was. Hunger gnawed at him, but exhaustion was worse. He forced himself to drink a few sips of water from the bottle, wincing at the chill that sent shocks through his ribs.
Ethan tested his legs. They wobbled beneath him, but he could walk slowly. Running was out of the question—he wouldn't last a minute sprinting after the night's ordeal. His hands still held the sword and shield, more for comfort than any real defense; they reminded him he had survived, if barely.
The forest was alive with noises he had learned to recognize—the distant calls of strange birds, the rustle of small animals—but , something unusual reached his ears. Faint at first, almost lost beneath the sound of wind through the trees, came a rhythmic creak and the soft rolling of wheels over uneven ground. A cart.
Ethan froze. His body tensed, bruised ribs protesting with every heartbeat. He strained to listen, every instinct screaming both fear and curiosity. The sound was distant but unmistakable, moving somewhere deeper in the forest. He made sure to make a mental note of in which direction the sound came from.
He pressed himself against a fallen tree, taking shallow breaths. The granola bar gave him just enough energy to stay on his feet, but his mind raced. He couldn't chase the sound. He couldn't even investigate properly—not while he was still weak, injured, and alone.
For now, survival meant the basics. Find water because who know's how far away it could be. Keep hidden. Rest when possible. The forest stretched endlessly, but he had learned that staying put was even more dangerous.
Even so, that faint cart creaking over stone and dirt lingered in his mind, a promise of something new—maybe help, maybe danger. He didn't dare move toward it yet. Instead, he adjusted his bag over his shoulder, swung the sword lightly to loosen stiff muscles, and began a slow, cautious walk through the undergrowth, each step deliberate, each branch and root noted carefully.
As night fell, he found a small hollow beneath an overgrown root system. It wasn't comfortable, but it offered some protection. He curled up, clutching the bag against his chest and using the shield as a makeshift barrier. The faint memory of the cart sound echoed in his mind, just enough to keep him alert even as exhaustion dragged him toward sleep.
Half of... half granola bar, a rusty sword, a dented shield, a bit of water and four mysterious books—his only possessions, his only lifelines. And somewhere out there, in the darkness, wheels creaked across dirt and stone, hinting at the unknown.
He closed his eyes, pain and fatigue weighing on him, but determination burning quietly in the back of his mind. He had survived the night. He would survive the next. And maybe, just maybe, he would learn what was making that sound