The forest greeted him with darkness and cool, motionless air.
He had not gone far from the village—just far enough for the lights to disappear from view, while the direction back remained close. If necessary, he could return.
It was quieter here than in the settlement, but not empty.
The forest lived its own nocturnal life: somewhere high above, a branch creaked; insects rustled in the distance; from time to time came the dry crack of twigs under unseen paws. The sounds were not frightening. They were honest.
He walked slowly, listening not only with his ears, but with his body. The ground beneath his feet changed—soft, hard, soft again. He searched for a place where he could lie down without worrying about roots or dampness.
He stopped between two old trees.
The soil here was dry, almost level. The crowns above intertwined, hiding part of the sky, but not all of it. If he lifted his head, he could make out a few scattered stars.
He took off his bag and placed it against the trunk. He spread his cloak on the ground, smoothing it with his palm. He did all of this calmly, without haste.
He did not light a fire.
Light would have been unnecessary here.
And dangerous.
He sat down, leaned his back against the tree, and stretched out his legs. The tree was cold, but reliable. His body gradually released the tension that had accumulated throughout the day. Fatigue rolled over him slowly, like water filling empty spaces.
Images surfaced again in his mind.
Even rows.
Symbols.
Maps.
A colossal tree marked with lines.
And a sound.
"Ba-lo…" he repeated quietly, almost soundlessly.
The word felt strange against the night. Alien. He did not repeat it again.
He closed his eyes and almost fell asleep when something changed.
At first—not a sound.
A sensation.
As if the air ahead had grown denser.
As if the night had lost its evenness.
Then—footsteps.
Heavy. Uneven. Too open.
They were not animals.
And not the forest.
He opened his eyes and froze, not moving. For several seconds he simply listened, letting the footsteps approach, letting them form into a picture. There were several of them. They were not hiding. They were not afraid.
He slowly rose to his feet.
The shadows between the trees shifted, and three figures stepped out of the darkness.
People.
Rough clothing, slightly swaying movements. They smelled of alcohol. One held a short club, another a knife with a worn blade. The third stood a little aside, watching carefully.
They spoke.
The words flew past him without catching on meaning. The language was foreign, harsh. But the gestures needed no translation: a glance at the bag, a step forward, an outstretched hand.
He remained silent.
He made a gesture he had seen during the day: a slight bow of the head, a hand to the chest, a short motion with an open palm.
"…sorry," he said calmly, almost mechanically.
Laughter tore through the night. Rough, unpleasant. One of them stepped closer—almost too close. He could feel his breath.
Too close.
Something clicked inside him.
Not a thought.
Not fear.
Not even anger.
His body simply… activated.
When the hand with the knife jerked forward, he was already moving. He did not have time to think—his grip closed around the wrist on its own. A turn. Precise, as if long known. The knife fell into the grass.
He stepped in. His shoulder slammed into the man's chest. The strike was short and dry. Air burst out with a choked sound.
The club whistled past. He shifted without looking, and his elbow struck a jaw. The body dropped as if something inside it had been switched off.
The third lunged from behind.
He stepped back, lowering himself at the same time. The blow landed where a person bends. Not hard—correct.
It lasted only seconds.
It did not feel like a fight.
More like work.
One lay on the ground, gasping. Another crawled away, swearing. The third raised the knife again, but his hand was shaking.
He stopped.
He did not finish them off.
He did not speak.
He simply looked at them.
His gaze was cold and empty. Not threatening—indifferent. There were no promises in it, and that was exactly why it was more frightening than any words.
They understood.
Their retreat was awkward and hurried. Footsteps, snapping branches, broken voices—and the shadows dissolved among the trees.
He was alone again.
The forest slowly reclaimed its former sounds, as if nothing had happened.
Only then did he feel it.
His hands were trembling.
Just slightly, but noticeably. He looked at them, clenched his fingers, unclenched them. His heart was beating fast, thudding dully in his chest.
"…what was that?.." he whispered.
A chill ran down his spine.
He did not know where those movements had come from. He remembered no training, saw no images of the past. His body knew—his mind did not.
And that was frightening.
He sat back against the tree, pulled his knees up, inhaled and exhaled deeply several times, trying to calm himself.
"I…" he began, then stopped.
The words would not come.
He noticed the knife in the grass. He picked it up, looked at it as if it were a foreign object, and carefully placed it farther away, as though afraid that instinct might take over again.
He wrapped his arms around himself.
"I shouldn't be able to do this…" he said very quietly to the night.
There was no answer.
The forest remained silent.
He decided not to think anymore and simply lie down to sleep.
Tomorrow, a productive day awaited him.