Roots of Echoes
Ruko's steps barely made a sound as he moved away from the obelisk. The forest seemed to watch him leave — leaves tilting like curious heads, shadows curling back into their hollows. The pulse beneath the earth steadied, then thinned, as if whatever slept below had acknowledged him and returned to silence.
He kept his hood low and hands in his pockets. The small spark that had slid up his arm earlier now sat like a warming ember beneath his skin — an itch rather than a fire. Yew's voice hummed faint and clinical.
> [Yew]: Bloodline sync holding at 0.92%. No immediate risk.
Ruko (muttering): "No risk, huh? Well that's comforting."
He found a cluster of flat stones and sat. Dawn would be late in the forest; the canopy clogged sun like a thief's hand. He dug out a water pouch and sipped, eyes on the obelisk's fading silhouette far behind him. Somehow the relic had not only reacted but fed on the shadow beast's remains. That meant the forest was collecting power, bit by bit. Not good — but useful.
Ruko pulled out a thin notebook — a habit he kept even if his storage could hold a library. He scribbled two words: Find roots. Underneath, a crude arrow pointed deeper into the map he'd made from the obelisk's runes.
A noise cracked through the quiet: the staccato clack of metal on wood. Not a beast. Human. Footsteps with intent, not the aimless pace of wanderers.
He stood, instantly alert. The cautious instinct flared — nothing dramatic, just a spike of awareness. Someone was here on purpose.
> [Yew]: Unknown human approach. Suggest camouflage or evasion.
Ruko: "Nah. Let's see who's so keen to meet me."
From between two trunks stepped a figure in tattered gray — a man of no notable rank, perhaps a scavenger from a nearby village. His eyes were quick and sharp, though, and his hand hovered near a short blade. He didn't look like a typical local; there was a steadiness in his breath, a practiced calm.
"Traveler." The man's voice was rough, polite enough. "You seen anything odd—black stones, strange ruins? Folks around the waypoint are nervous."
Ruko offered a half-smile. "Depends. How odd we talking?"
The man shifted his weight like he was deciding whether to trust a coin toss. "Things that hum. Things that wake. Also—" he hesitated, then glanced at Ruko's hood, "—people asking questions. Outsiders asking about old burial mounds."
That prickled Ruko's skin. People asking about burial mounds was how trouble started: curiosity turning into excavation, excavation into exposure. He folded his arms, careful not to show the pulse beneath his skin.
"Where's the waypoint?" Ruko asked, neutral.
"Two miles north, past the broken cairn. You from Axel? You look like an adventurer."
"Something like that," Ruko said. "You keep your ears open. People poking at old stones tends to make things angry." He let the warning hang.
The man's jaw tightened. He flicked his gaze toward the canopy as if expecting a god to drop. "You sure you're not one of those magi or—" He stopped and swallowed. "Look, stranger, be careful. There's talk of a shadow that eats men whole."
Ruko's smile thinned. "Shadow that eats men whole, huh? That's dramatic."
The man laughed, then sobered. "I'm serious. Night before last, three lads went into the mound and came out like wet rags. Couldn't speak. One of them—" He swallowed again, eyes glossy. "One of them kept screaming about a voice calling his name."
Ruko's face hardened at that. He could taste the pattern in the story — old place, curiosity, people who won't leave things be. He felt the old ache of ghosts who'd tried to warn others and been ignored.
"How many asked?" Ruko asked, controlled.
"Word spreads quick when the coin dries up," the man replied. "Merchants ask. Priests whisper. Someone with more coin offered a map yesterday. Folk say the man's name's Varo. He's a trader who likes relics." The man paused. "If you're going in, you better be armed."
Ruko looked at his hands. No weapons he couldn't make for himself. No heavy ranks. Just his mask tucked in his cloak, a few stolen moves in storage, and a stubborn grin.
"Varo," he repeated, tasting the name. "Right. Thanks for the heads-up."
The man left without another word, boots soft on the leaf litter. Ruko watched him go, then crouched and pressed his palm to the earth where the shadow beast had dissolved. A faint tack of residue lingered — the forest had absorbed energy, but the mark of human meddling would leave a different trace. Traders, treasure hunters, those who take what doesn't belong to them — they were magnets for calamity.
> [Yew]: Contact with unknown trader signatures detected in regional logs. Name: Varo.
Ruko: "Figures. Someone who loves coin and doesn't mind breaking bones for it."
He rose and shouldered his cloak. Direction decided, he moved north. The path was narrower, the forest older here — trees gnarled and low, roots like hands clutching the earth. With every step, the obelisk's message replayed in his head: Do not awaken the second gate until your memory fragment return. He turned the phrase over like an old coin—its weight asking questions about timing and readiness.
He stepped over a mossy stone and glanced at the sky, where a single stripe of sunlight finally broke through, shafting down like a spotlight. For a single breath he felt the presence of the forest breathe with him — not hostile now, merely expectant.
A part of him wanted to push forward, to kick the door open and drag whatever secrets out into daylight. Another part — the part molded by that earlier taste of abandonment — wanted to move slow, careful. He had learned the hard lesson: power did not need to roar to be dangerous. Subtlety could slice deeper.
He kept his pace steady and his mind sharper. The trader Varo might be a nuisance, but more likely he was the kind of man who sold trouble. If the mound had already drawn him, the path would be crawling with hawks — both human and otherwise.
The forest shifted, and somewhere deeper, a small bell rang — metal on stone, deliberate and soft. Not the chime of a merchant's purse; something older, ceremonial. Ruko paused, smiled a little to himself, and walked toward the sound.
> [System Notice: External Signal Detected — Pattern: Ritualic.]
[Yew]: Legendary signatures nearby. Proceed with caution.
He answered only with a quiet laugh. "Caution's my middle name," he said, and moved into the dark where the roots curled like secrets.