Interlude: The Spirit Forest's Rules
The man died before he understood which mistake he had made.
He entered the forest just after dawn, when the mist still clung to the ground and the mana currents were at their weakest. The outer boundary of the Spirit Forest had always been dangerous, but predictable. Low-grade spirit beasts. Twisted roots. Unstable terrain.
Manageable.
At least, that was what he told himself.
His name was Hadrien Falk, a veteran adventurer with two decades of experience and one missing finger to prove it. He had crossed the forest's edge more times than he could remember. His boots were reinforced, his blade etched with stabilizing runes. A charm hung at his neck, warm against his skin, humming faintly as it countered spirit interference.
He was careful.
He always was.
The forest did not react when he crossed the boundary.
That was the first rule.
The Spirit Forest does not announce danger.
No wind. No pressure. No sudden shift in mana. The trees stood still, their bark pale and smooth, their leaves unmoving despite the absence of wind. Light filtered through the canopy in fractured patterns that hurt the eyes if stared at too long.
Hadrien took three steps in.
Four.
Five.
He marked a tree with chalk, scratched another with his blade, and kept his pace slow. His breathing was measured, steady. He did not allow excitement or fear to rise.
Emotion fed the forest.
That was the second rule.
The Spirit Forest responds to intent.
After ten minutes, he turned back.
The path behind him was gone.
Not blocked.
Not obscured.
Gone.
The trees were still there, but the spacing was wrong. The shadows leaned in directions that did not match the light. The chalk mark was present—but on a tree that had not been there before.
Hadrien's hand tightened around his blade.
Stay calm.
Panic was a mistake.
That was the third rule.
Emotion alters the terrain.
He adjusted his route, choosing a direction perpendicular to where he thought the exit should be. The forest allowed him to move.
That was the fourth rule.
The forest permits progress. It does not permit retreat.
Minutes passed.
Then longer.
The mist thickened, clinging to his boots, rising to his knees, then his waist. The charm at his neck grew warmer. Not dangerously so—but enough to warn him.
He stopped.
Listening.
There were no sounds of beasts.
No insects.
No birds.
That was the fifth rule.
Silence means observation.
Hadrien moved again, slower now, every step deliberate. He did not draw his blade. Drawing intent too early was dangerous.
That was the sixth rule.
The forest reacts faster than you can.
A shape moved at the edge of his vision.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just… wrong.
He did not turn.
He remembered the seventh rule too late.
Acknowledgment is consent.
Something brushed past his shoulder.
Cold.
Not physical—conceptual. Like an idea passing through him.
His charm cracked.
Hadrien did not scream.
He did not run.
He tried to step forward.
The ground was no longer there.
The forest closed around him without sound, without struggle, without resistance.
By the time night fell, there was no sign he had ever existed.