Tormo's rapid steps were dragging his body along—not as if he were walking, but as if the road itself were pulling him out of the Forest of Phantoms.
The ground beneath his feet was unstable.
Or perhaps he was the one who was no longer steady.
The sounds… did not stop.
They emerged from his head, only to return to it again.
Overlapping screams, whispers, laughter, and crying with no identifiable source.
As if the forest refused to let him leave unscathed.
He moved at an unnatural speed, like a madman—crashing through branches, slipping past trees without feeling pain.
His eyes were open, yet unfocused.
His mind was trapped in a single moment.
Ravan…
Falling.
Blood.
The sound.
The emptiness.
Ravan died before his eyes.
That thought was not a scream—it was a weight.
A weight that settled on his chest and shattered his breathing into uneven gasps.
He could not fully comprehend it, yet he felt it in every heartbeat.
The demons…
They were the cause.
The root of everything that had happened to him.
But the question that began to eat him from the inside was far more dangerous:
Was he one of them?
Tormo had never seen Ravan as merely a companion.
He was not just a "friend."
Ravan was something else entirely.
A father—when Tormo was weak.
A brother—when he was alone.
A teacher—when he was lost.
The title changed, but the meaning remained the same.
Ravan was the only constant in a collapsing world.
And now…
He was gone.
Tormo's long strides carried him deeper, until he reached what was known as the Forest of the Final Breath.
The air there was heavier.
As if every breath was being forcibly torn from his lungs.
He stopped abruptly.
His body could no longer endure.
He collapsed beside a massive tree, leaning harshly against its trunk as he began to gasp.
His chest rose and fell violently.
His breaths were sharp—painful.
Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at the trees before him.
There was nothing remarkable about them.
But his eyes…
They were empty.
No expression.
No tears.
Only a hazy stare, as if his soul had yet to catch up with his body.
And in that moment…
A sound.
The sound of a chain moving behind him.
It was not loud—but it was clear enough.
His body reacted before his mind.
A dagger attached to a chain shot toward his head at tremendous speed.
Tormo caught it at the very last instant.
His body twisted aside on pure instinct.
The dagger missed him and slammed into the tree, buried deep in its trunk.
Tormo froze.
His heart leapt violently.
What was that?
Who—
Less than a second passed before someone lunged at him at full speed.
A man…
His movements were sharp, his gaze focused, another dagger clutched in his hand.
He attacked without hesitation.
In that instant, Tormo's eyes flashed yellow once more.
Not a decision.
Not a choice.
A reaction.
His body evaded the strike with extreme speed—clean, precise movements, as if they had been practiced a thousand times.
Tormo stepped back and looked at the attacker's face.
Recognition came late—but it came.
It was the strange man…
The one he had seen earlier with Ravan.
Rage exploded.
Not a conscious rage—
but the rage of a man whose mental state could no longer afford understanding.
"Not the time…"
He whispered it, but his eyes said something else.
A faint red gleam appeared in them.
Not a full transformation…
A warning.
Tormo surged forward, grabbed the man's clothes with brutal force, and yanked him close.
The grip was violent—humiliating.
He punched him.
The blow was heavy.
The man was thrown back nearly two meters, barely keeping his balance.
But Tormo did not stop.
He rushed forward in fury, kicked the ground—
And with that kick, a sudden cold erupted.
Ice formed around his foot, born of pure rage.
The kick struck the man directly.
The moment Tormo's foot connected with his body, the man's clothes froze at the point of impact.
Frost spread rapidly, and the man collapsed to the ground screaming.
Tormo seized him, dragging him violently, his eyes pulsing red.
"You are the reason…"
His voice was low—but terrifying.
The man, seeing Tormo's appearance, panicked.
The eyes.
The aura.
The cold.
He begged for forgiveness in a broken voice.
Said he had not intended to kill him.
That he only wanted to drink his blood.
That alone was enough.
Tormo struck him with a powerful downward blow.
The sound of impact was dull.
The man fell unconscious to the ground.
Tormo did not look back.
He pulled the chain tight, wrapped it around his waist, and took the dagger in his hand.
He stayed alert.
Then he continued onward.
Elsewhere…
Ravan was moving toward the north.
But not as he once had.
This time…
He walked submerged in madness.
Laughter never left his face.
The laughter of someone cast out of a paradise he once dreamed of—
and who decided to shatter that paradise with his own hands.
He was thirsty.
Not for just any blood.
For specific blood.
His eyes gleamed.
His steps were steady, but inside him raged a storm.
"Tormo…"
He said it while laughing.
"I'm coming."
As for Tormo, he began to sense something different.
The road had changed.
The air had changed.
He was getting closer.
Tension crept into his chest.
Not fear…
But the realization that what lay ahead would not be easy.
And that what awaited him…
Would change everything.
With every step Tormo took, he felt the air tightening around him.
Not because the forest was dense—but because his chest could no longer contain what he carried.
The path ahead grew clearer, while his mind grew more chaotic.
The rage had not faded.
The shock had not vanished.
And the question that began in the Forest of Phantoms…
Still haunted him.
Are the demons the origin of everything?
And if they are…
Then what does that make him?
Fragments of memory assaulted him without warning.
Ravan laughing.
Ravan fighting.
Ravan falling Tormo clenched the chain tightly, until the cold metal felt as if it were carving into his skin.
That sensation pulled him back into the present moment, wrenching him from the whirlpool of thoughts that had been slowly devouring him.
A chill ran down his spine—not from the air, but from the certainty that had settled in his chest:
he was going to face the one who killed Ravan.
This was not merely a road.
It was a sentence.
Tormo was certain of only one thing:
if the White Sword did not die, then he had failed at everything.
At survival.
At remaining.
At the very meaning of his life.
In that moment, death seemed kinder than continuing without purpose.
He kept walking, and with every step the world around him changed.
The air grew heavier, the ground harsher, as if the road itself were testing him.
The marks of his descent toward the very edge of his soul were evident—not as visible wounds, but as scars buried deep inside.
He tightened his grip on the chain; its ridges pressed against his chest, and a strange cold seeped into him—a cold unlike mere chill, but one that felt like loss itself.
Elsewhere, far from this road, Ravan was rushing forward at tremendous speed, as though the ground did not touch him at all.
He did not think.
He did not hesitate.
One thought alone consumed him, repeating, feral and relentless:
kill the White Sword.
His hair was growing longer, his limbs heavier, his mind edging toward madness—but none of it slowed him down.
On the contrary…
it was his fuel.
As for Tormo, exhaustion had begun to gnaw at him.
His body had resisted for a long time, but the mind weighed more than any muscle.
Thoughts struck him mercilessly:
Ravan falling.
Blood.
The cold laughter behind the mask.
At last, he stopped.
He looked around.
An abandoned place, unnaturally quiet.
He decided to camp until morning—not out of fear, but because his body could no longer take another step.
He lay down, the chain still clenched in his hand.
He closed his eyes… and fell into a heavy sleep.
The dream came swiftly.
He saw the White Sword before him.
Standing.
Silent.
Then…
The figure removed the mask.
Something trembled inside Tormo.
Something familiar.
Painful.
The face was unclear.
The features faded every time he tried to focus.
But the feeling…
was overwhelming.
Before he could understand, the scene changed.
He saw his father.
Standing in the very place Tormo was heading toward now.
The place where he was lost.
The place from which he never returned.
Tormo ran toward him, but the distance did not shrink.
He screamed, but no sound came out.
And when he finally drew near…
Everything vanished.
Tormo woke up gasping.
His eyes were wet.
His heart pounded violently.
He could not remember the face.
He had forgotten it completely,
as if the dream had deliberately left itself unfinished.
He rose in silence.
Gathered his things.
Pulled his scarf tight.
He did not cry.
He did not stop.
He continued on his path…
toward the east.
And elsewhere, Ravan kept going.
His hair growing longer.
His mind growing darker.
Madness drawing closer…
But he did not resist it.
Because some paths…
can only be walked this way.