They say reality bends for no man. But on some nights, when the stars forget their names and the fog forgets its shape, even truth grows claws.
It was a hazy night. The kind of night that made even the wilderness fall silent. The kind of night that felt too tired to exist.
Animal cries—usually sharp and savage—came faint and sluggish, like echoes from a dying world. The moon carved silver bones into the mist. My head felt light. Sleep teased me like an old friend, whispering promises of warmth.
I curled under the roots of an ancient tree—its gnarled limbs like petrified fingers gripping the soil in fear. In theory, trees breathe in CO₂ during the day—but at night, they exhale it, however little. A scientist might scoff at the idea of suffocation by foliage. But in that moment, I didn't care. I welcomed it.
If I died beneath this root, I would die somewhere old. Somewhere that had watched civilizations rot into myth and monsters crawl from the ashes. Somewhere that remembered before memory was named.
The roots creaked above me, and the air grew dense—like the lungs of the forest were exhaling secrets too ancient for language. I imagined they whispered:
"Here lies another dreamer who walked too far."
It reminded me of an old tale—a forgotten parable from the Age of Fracture:
A man once sought truth in a forest that devoured men. He walked in with questions, but the deeper he wandered, the more he forgot what he was looking for. In the end, the forest offered him one answer: Silence. Because some truths aren't buried—they're grown over.
I clung to that silence. Not because it comforted me.
Because it told me: I was not the first fool to come this far.
And I would not be the last.
My breath fogged in the cold. I could hear my heartbeat echoing against the inside of my skull. I wrapped my coat tighter, shivering—not just from cold, but from the creeping suspicion that I was being watched by something greater than beasts or men.
"Maybe I'm just dreaming," I murmured to myself. "If so, then may this nightmare have an ending."
Suddenly, I heard it.
Wings. Not the flutter of a crow or the buzz of a bat. No—this was something heavier. Larger. Ancient.
I peered through the fog, squinting as a silhouette carved itself across the sky. A man… riding atop a massive birdlike beast. His figure was upright, poised—not clinging to the beast but commanding it.
I almost laughed.
Technology breaks down under radioactive interference. Drones, jets, anything with a chip—it all malfunctions here. But this man… he was flying. Like a myth reborn.
And then I saw where he landed.
Right on top of the tallest tree—right where Maria died.
He stood there a moment. Waiting. Watching. Like a god mocking the earth.
Then he whistled.
From the heavens, it descended. A different bird this time. Roughly the size of a small car, with elongated talons and pitch-black feathers. Its wings were scarred with the signs of evolution gone wrong. Yet it flew with grace. With power. Every beat of its wings stirred the mist into swirls that seemed to whisper names long forgotten.
No cybernetics. No visible harness. Just muscle and mystery.
"How?" I mouthed, instinctively shrinking deeper into my cover. "How is he controlling it?"
Even I, born with the mark that made beasts passive around me, couldn't command them. They ignored me. This was something else entirely.
I felt the boundary of my world shake.
Once, an ancient philosopher told a tale of the Sky-Bringer. Not a god. Not a hero. A man. One who walked so far away from humanity that the sky followed him like a dog. He didn't climb the heavens. He carried it on his back—because the earth refused to hold him anymore.
That fable wasn't supposed to be real.
But the man I saw—he didn't walk on earth. He made the sky his saddle.
He approached the stone. Or what was left of it.
Maria's final message. Written in her blood. Now disintegrated under radiation.
But I had spread a rumor.
That I knew how to restore it.
That I held the key.
It was bait. And he bit.
Just then, I shifted my leg.
A snap. A crack of a twig. A whisper too loud.
He froze. So did I.
Our eyes locked through the fog. His were not human. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… calculating. Like he had expected me.
He moved first.
Dozens of thin, glinting blades flew at me—so fast I didn't hear them until they broke the sound. I dove, barely catching myself midair with a twist I'd practiced during near-death falls. One blade sliced past my cheek. Another embedded deep into a boulder beside me—and the entire rock cracked.
Those aren't ordinary blades…
The fog danced with the aftermath of that strike. Static crackled faintly in the air, a reminder that nature had long since rewritten itself. I could feel the earth hum beneath me. This world wasn't just mutated. It was alive in the wrong places.
I hid. Heart pounding like a war drum. I couldn't breathe right.
"Who are you?" his voice echoed. Cold. Confident. Measured. "Come out now. Mercy's running out, but I still have some left to spare."
I stayed frozen.
He wasn't bluffing. I would die. Not metaphorically. Not eventually. Now.
And yet—something strange settled in me.
The closer you stand to death, the more life reveals its true shape. It's not a gift. It's a gamble. A coin tossed by the void. One side says "live." The other, "die." There is no edge to land on.
I thought about screaming for help. But who was listening?
The "Great Existence" I once believed in?
Gone.
If I died here, it would be without meaning. Another rotting corpse in a world already overfed with death.
But… if I lived…
If I lived…
Then maybe, just maybe, I could rewrite the meaning myself.
I shifted my weight.
And then I heard it: Screeches. Bats. Dozens.
He was calling them. Controlling them. Using echolocation, manipulating their sonar. Their minds weren't broken like regular beasts—they were sharpened.
A beast born blind finds its path by sound. A beast born silent finds its strength in silence. But a man born to control both… is no longer a man.
I hid again. Each breath tighter. My body pressed to the cold mud. My position was compromised.
And yet… he hadn't found me.
I shifted to another corner. A game of shadows and seconds. My body trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of recognition.
This man… wasn't here by accident.
He came for war. He came for knowledge. Maybe even for me.
And then—he landed.
A massive, mutated bat loomed before me. Unlike the others, it didn't flutter nervously. It hovered like a thought waiting to be spoken.
It looked at me.
I looked at it.
Then, slowly… I smiled.
A bitter, exhausted smile. One that said:
"So it ends like this, huh?"
And yet, somewhere deep inside me—something didn't break.
It bent. It adapted.
Because in that moment, I realized:
This wasn't the end.
This was the beginning of something terrifyingly real.
I would not die here.
Not tonight.
Because there were still secrets to be unearthed. Fates to be defied. And gods to disappoint.