Morning arrived gradually in the dense forest, its timid light filtering through the thinning canopy of intertwined branches and leaves. Towering, ancient trees with thick, gnarled trunks receded into broader gaps, their skeletal branches swaying gently in the morning breeze as the trail beneath them widened into a jagged scar etched deep into the earth.
Moss-covered roots curled beneath worn, cracked stones shaped by countless years, their surfaces scarred and weathered by time. In the distance, the faint outline of a small settlement flickered among the trees, its presence inevitable — whether welcomed or resisted, it stood as a silent question.
Alexei was dead weight. Michael carried him alone, his muscles tense from the effort.
Alexei's body was slung over his shoulders, arms hanging loosely down Michael's chest, the weight uneven but steady. His boots, scuffed and muddy from the journey through thick underbrush and damp terrain, knocked softly against Michael's back with each step. His head lolled when the road dipped, dark hair brushing against Michael's collar and neck, damp with sweat and streaked with grime. The blood had dried stiff in patches on his jacket, the fabric clinging in places where the skin underneath had been torn, hinting at the violence he'd endured.
Michael adjusted his grip once more, feeling the strain in his arms and shoulders, then didn't again, unwilling to let fatigue take over. His pace was unwavering, steady as the morning itself — determined and unrelenting.
Eden walked close by, her eyes fixed intently on Alexei's face, as if proximity alone could undo what had happened. Her hands opened and closed at her sides, trembling slightly, useless now. Her fingers, stained faintly with dirt and dried blood, remained grimy despite her frantic scrubbing in the cold stream earlier, seeking some measure of innocence or cleansing. The small stream's water had turned crimson where she'd scrubbed, a stark contrast to her paled face and trembling hands.
Ansar took the lead at the front of the group.
He carefully set the direction with a steady hand and maintained a deliberate pace, his boots striking the rough stone path with a measured certainty that echoed his resolve. He didn't look back over his shoulder, not because he lacked concern, but because someone had to stay vigilant for the road ahead. No one spoke; the only sounds were the rhythmic pounding of footsteps on the uneven ground and the faint creak of worn leather under tension.
As they progressed, markers began to appear along the roadside — weathered wooden posts engraved with faded symbols, and scattered stones smoothed by countless boots over the years. These signs indicated a sense of order and established agreements, remnants of people who journeyed through these woods, many of whom returned unaware of what lay hidden beyond the dense treetops.
Eden swallowed. Somewhere ahead, the guild would be awake. A body would be logged. A name would be recorded. Loss would be processed into ink and numbers. For now, Michael kept walking. Alexei remained where he was — carried forward by someone strong enough to bear the weight.
The road ended at stone, not walls — those came later — but a broad terrace carved into the hillside, smoothed by time and traffic. Lanterns burned low beneath an overhang etched with old sigils, their light steady and indifferent. People moved through the space in small, purposeful clusters: hunters, couriers, clerks. Some were wounded, some were laughing too loudly, yet no one stopped walking.
The guild was awake.
Michael slowed for the first time since they'd left the forest.
He stepped beneath the overhang and bent carefully, lowering Alexei's body onto the cold stone floor. He didn't rush it.
He adjusted the angle of Alexei's shoulders, straightened one arm so it wasn't twisted beneath him, pulled the cloak higher, covering the worst of the damage. Only when Alexei was still — perfectly still — did Michael straighten. His shoulders rolled once, subtly, as if shedding a weight that wasn't entirely physical.
Eden stood frozen a few steps away. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until Michael let go. A clerk approached — young, clean — ink-stained fingers and eyes that flicked automatically to wounds, weapons, and faces.
"Mission designation?" The clerk asked, already reaching for a slate.
Michael answered without hesitation. "07-Theta. Redwood perimeter."
The clerk nodded, stylus scratching. "Casualties?"
"One," Michael said. Then, after a beat, added the name. The slate paused, just for a moment.
"Cause of death?"
"Flesh Eater," Michael replied. "Type-three. Feeder variant."
No one reacted — no gasps, no surprise. The clerk silently noted it down on his datapad, his expression unreadable.
Eden realized distantly that this was the reality: such occurrences were neither rare nor shocking; they were simply part of the system's records.
"Body intake?" the clerk asked, voice flat but professional.
Michael nodded. Two attendants, dressed in plain gray uniforms with functional utility belts, appeared quickly. They were not guards or soldiers, but trained personnel whose sole job was to carefully and respectfully transfer the deceased from those unable to carry them.
Moving with practiced efficiency, they lifted Alexei onto a narrow, wheeled bier, battered but sturdy, bearing scratches and faded paint from countless previous uses.
Eden instinctively stepped forward, her hand reaching out to touch Alexei's sleeve, seeking connection, but she stopped herself mid-motion.
The attendants gently rolled the bier away with practiced care, disappearing into the corridor without ceremony.
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