The forest felt wrong almost immediately.
Osric slowed his steps as the light dimmed beneath the canopy, boots sinking softly into damp earth layered with old leaves and moss. The air was still—not calm, but held. Sounds didn't echo here. They vanished.
No birds.
No insects.
Even the wind seemed reluctant to pass through.
Osric stopped beside a fallen log and crouched, resting one hand against the rough bark. His eyes moved, not searching for motion, but for absence.
This wasn't a den.
There were no burrows torn into the ground like the giant rats had left behind. No churned soil. No centralized nest. Whatever lived here hadn't built anything.
It had claimed it.
A patch of bark ahead caught his attention—dull, flaking strips clinging to the trunk of a tree. Shed skin. Thin. Scaled. Still faintly glossy despite the dirt clinging to it.
Osric exhaled slowly.
'So they stayed close.'
He shifted his weight and scanned higher.
There.
A shape pressed flat against the side of a tree, so still it almost disappeared into the bark. Rough, mottled scales the color of wet wood and moss. Its body was compact but powerful, limbs spread wide, claws sunk deep into the trunk.
Its head turned slightly.
Two narrow, yellow-green eyes locked onto him.
The Forest Creeper didn't hiss.
Didn't move.
Its mouth hung open just enough for thin strands of saliva to drip between sharp, uneven teeth and patter silently onto the ground below.
Osric didn't reach for his sword.
Not yet.
His gaze flicked sideways.
Another patch of shed skin near a rock.
Scratches along a fallen root.
A bone—small—picked clean and left where scavengers hadn't dared touch it.
Six to eight, the scouting report had said.
And he had already stepped into the center of their territory.
Osric tightened his grip on the strap of the bag at his side and adjusted his stance, careful not to shift too suddenly.
They weren't surrounding him.
They already had.
The Forest Creeper on the tree blinked once—slow, deliberate.
And somewhere to Osric's left, bark scraped softly against claw.
The Forest Creeper struck without warning.
It dropped from the tree above Osric's left shoulder, claws scraping bark as its compact body hurled itself toward him. Osric moved before the impact—one step sideways, spine low, sword coming up in a tight arc.
The blade bit deep through scaled flesh.
The Forest Creeper convulsed once, its body slamming into the ground with a wet thud before going still. It never made a sound.
Osric didn't look at it.
The forest answered instead.
Scraping bark. Shifting leaves. Dry claws gripping wood.
Six more shapes revealed themselves at once—clinging to trees, crouched atop rocks, flattened against roots and fallen trunks. Their bodies were squat and muscular, mottled in dull greens and browns, scales rough and uneven like old bark. Thick tails twitched behind them for balance. Their mouths hung open, strings of saliva stretching between hooked, venom-coated fangs.
Not coordinated.
But not hesitant either.
They rushed him.
Osric stepped back as the first lunged, sword flashing. He cut low, severing a foreleg, then pivoted and drove the blade through another Creeper's skull as it leapt too early. Its body slammed into him midair, dead weight crashing into his chest, forcing him back a step.
He shoved it off and moved.
Another snapped at his side. Osric twisted, barely clearing its bite—but pain flared as fangs scraped his left arm. One fang broke skin.
He stabbed downward immediately, burying the sword through its neck before it could clamp down fully. The Forest Creeper spasmed once and collapsed.
Osric tore the blade free and backed away.
His left arm burned.
Not pain—something deeper.
Wrong.
'Venom.'
The sensation spread fast, crawling beneath the skin like ice water. His fingers tingled, grip weakening by the heartbeat.
He didn't stop.
Three left.
They leapt together.
Osric surged forward instead of back.
The one directly ahead didn't expect it.
He brought the sword down with both arms, committing fully. The blade split the Forest Creeper from shoulder to hip, scales cracking, organs spilling as the body collapsed in two halves.
The impact jolted through him.
And his left arm went dead.
No pain.
No strength.
It hung uselessly at his side.
Osric barely had time to register it.
The remaining two were already on him.
One hit his sword. He blocked on instinct, iron screeching as claws scraped the blade. The second went low.
Fangs punched into his injured leg.
Deep.
Osric's vision shook as numbness exploded outward from the bite. His leg gave out instantly. He crashed to the ground, breath tearing from his lungs.
The Creeper didn't let go.
Osric roared and drove his sword forward, thrusting through its skull at point-blank range. The blade punched through bone and slammed into the dirt beneath.
The monster went limp.
The sword didn't move.
It was stuck.
The last Forest Creeper shrieked—not in sound, but in motion—and launched itself toward him, jaws wide, venomous fangs glistening inches from his face.
Osric didn't think.
His right hand left the sword and drew the dagger at his hip in one fluid motion.
He thrust upward.
The iron dagger drove straight through the Forest Creeper's chest as it collided with him, piercing deep into its heart. The impact knocked Osric onto his back, the dead weight crashing against him.
The monster twitched once.
Then went still.
Osric lay there, staring up through the canopy.
His leg was completely numb.
His arm barely existed.
His body burned as venom spread through his system.
Blood soaked into the earth beneath him.
He was alive.
Barely.
Relief crashed into him so hard his chest shook with it.
Then the burning intensified—sharp, consuming, spreading everywhere at once.
The System spoke.
And the world steadied.