"Alright, what should I do first?" Darken asked as he surveyed the interior of the house.
The place, though simple, had a certain charm—an odd sense of tranquility, yet something about it stirred a faint unease. Maybe even a sense of danger. After all, just hours ago, someone had been living here… and had since died. The man was now buried not far from the house. Still, for Darken, it was different. Despite the lingering dread, this place was far better than the cell he'd just remembered.
Three years ago, when the Jabelin caravan was still stationed in the southern lands of Ferrel Kingdom , Darken had been thrown into a stifling, sealed prison cell. It was there he used to exchange whispered words with a slave he remembered only as "Aidi," through a hidden crack in the wall between them. But that wasn't the first cell he'd seen back then—there had been another. And it was far worse.
On that particular day, Darken was forced to spend a full week in a cell that already contained a decaying corpse. A man, by the look of it. A stranger. Thankfully, the cell was pitch dark. Had he seen what lay beside him, he might've lost his sanity.
But how did Darken know there was a corpse in that lightless place? Simple. The guard had told him. With a mocking tone, he'd said, "There's a body in there with you… enjoy." The cruel sarcasm in his voice only deepened the terror spiraling in Darken's mind. His scattered thoughts quickly turned into a storm of raw, primal fear.
In any case, those were memories now. Harsh ones—but they were what made him capable of sleeping in a house that had recently belonged to a dead man. Compared to that cell—which, like this house, once held a corpse—this place was far better. On many levels.
The first thing Darken decided to do was head toward the bed. Aidi had told him about it many times, but Darken had never seen it for himself. Now, it stood before him. Real. Tangible. And more importantly… a place he could actually sleep.
He walked over with quiet steps that thudded softly on the aged wooden floor. Standing beside it, he reached out and touched it gently. The surface was soft—just as he'd been told. Comforting to the touch. But what about full-body comfort? That, he had to find out for himself.
He sat down. Instantly, a wave of relief spread through his weary limbs—a body used to sleeping on cold, damp, rotting stone.
Before lying down, something caught his eye. A small table beside the bed. He'd noticed it earlier, but had been too preoccupied with burying the man's corpse to inspect it. Now… curiosity pulled him in.
He reached out and picked up a long feather that had been resting there. He had no idea which bird it came from, but it was beautiful—sturdy despite its age. Still usable.
He placed it back and skimmed the pile of books and journals stacked on the table. None of the words meant anything to him—Darken couldn't read or write. Yet one journal stood out. Its cover was made of what seemed to be raw bearhide, and a word was etched onto its surface—though Darken couldn't decipher it.
He closed his eyes slowly, as if reaching for something deep inside him. A minute passed. Then he opened them again.
To his surprise, he could suddenly read the word on the cover. He whispered, audibly but softly: "Diary."
In a tone that blended astonishment and satisfaction, Darken said: "I closed my eyes unable to read… and opened them able to understand words! I think I can even write now. I don't know how this happened… but it's useful. No—this is incredible. To gain literacy just by blinking? I should be thankful."
He opened the journal to the first page—blank. The second—still nothing. Then the third—empty again. But on the fourth page, he found a single word, written at the top: "Diary."
He flipped the pages carefully—each one fragile under his fingers.
Then, in a quiet voice laced with curiosity, Darken began to read: "My first day in this forest. My name is Karl Loriz—former knight, now retired adventurer. I lived my life in chaos, and I feel no regret… or maybe I do, a little. But who I am now won't change anything."
Darken paused, lost in thought, then murmured to himself:
"So, the man I buried… his name was Karl Loriz. Alright then… rest in peace, Karl."
He felt a strong urge to keep reading. A warm sensation stirred within him—a sense of accomplishment, of doing something he couldn't do before. But the first page ended quickly. He turned to the next.
"My second day in the forest. Finding food isn't easy. Luckily, I learned to hunt during my traveling days. Still, I managed only a medium-sized rabbit. Tasted great though."
Darken raised his eyebrows, wondering aloud: "Is that all he did today? Just this? Or is he keeping it short on purpose? Either way… I'll keep going."
He flipped to the next page and read: "Day four in the forest. The solitude is heavy, but bearable. The birds sing in the morning and evening. Crickets keep me company at night. Helps me stay sane."
Darken ran a finger along the page's edge, commenting softly: "Day four? Seems like he's starting to lose track of time… I'll probably see more signs of that later."
He continued reading: "Day five in the forest. I've begun building a home here. Looks like I'll be spending the rest of my days in this place. I hope construction won't be too difficult. Until it's done, I won't write more. I'll return when it's finished."
This time, Darken didn't say a word. He simply turned the page quietly.
Page nine: "The house is finished, but still empty. I'll need to work hard to make furniture. Luckily, the forest is rich with wood. I'll build my dream home with my own hands! I brought the tools I need."
Page ten: "It's been a month since I arrived. Finally found a flowing river nearby! Luck's turning in my favor. Dinner was grilled fish… perfect meal."
Page eleven: "Three months now. I lost this journal once in the woods—but found it again. Still writing. Still sane."
When he reached page twelve, it was blank. He kept flipping—page after page, over twenty in total—all empty… until he stopped at page twenty-five.
The writing there was different—messy, erratic, as if scrawled by a child. Still, Darken could read it: "Fack them all! This place is paradise! I know they're jealous. While they follow the Adventurers' Guild like dogs, I live like a king! Those sons of bitches! They're slaves—I'm free!"
Darken stared at the page, tracing the wild handwriting, then whispered with quiet pity:
"He lost his mind in the end… Yet he could still write. Still express himself. But it turned violent. Some pages were probably torn during one of his rages."
He brushed his fingers gently over the worn paper—comforting the madness embedded in it.
Then he turned to the next page. And the moment his eyes caught the first word, his chest tightened. He wasn't sure he'd read it correctly. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and focused again: "She came to my house… Elf came to my house. Long, pointed ears. A smooth, flawless face… and her body! Her body was incredible in every way. She was hurt—her ankle injured. She asked for help. But I couldn't… I couldn't resist. I raped her. She couldn't stop me."
Darken's eyes widened. His voice came out in a seething mutter: "That bastard… he raped her? What kind of person does that? Even isolation doesn't excuse this!"
His expression darkened, rage slowly boiling to the surface. The more he remembered burying Karl with his own hands, the more his blood seethed. He forced in a breath and kept reading, hoping for remorse. A hint of guilt.
He found none.
Instead, five full pages followed, describing how Karl used the elf woman as nothing more than an outlet for his desires. No emotion. No humanity. Just flesh, detailed like an object—cold, clinical. He even documented the moment he tied her to the bed as if it were a game… not a crime.
Darken couldn't take it anymore.
His scream erupted through the house, followed by the crash of shattered wood as he smashed the small bedside table. He kicked the chair—splintering it against the wall—grabbed the journal and hurled it across the room.
"That monster… he destroyed her! Damn him!" he shouted in fury.
He stood there, breathless, his eyes darting between the journal, the bed, and the window. Then another outburst—he kicked a nearby cabinet, ripping its small wooden door from the hinges, then kicked it again, shattering the rest.
"I buried him with honor! I stacked stones on his grave… while her body's still lying in the forest like trash! What Facking shame is this?!"
He stood still for a moment, looking at the wreckage. Then he grabbed a torch from nearby, kicked the house door wide open—splintering it—and stormed into the forest. His steps were heavy. Each sound beneath his bare feet echoed the rising fury within him.
The forest was as quiet as ever, but inside Darken, a storm was brewing. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, and every tree he passed seemed to watch him in silence.
"That bastard wrote in his Diary… he dumped her in the forest. Said he was too exhausted to carry her any farther…" Then, in a sharper voice, "Curse you… if only you'd died before you got tired."
His hands trembled from how tightly he was clenching his fists. Every time he recalled the words he'd read, he imagined her expressions, her silent eyes, her forced quiet… and compared them to the screams he himself once shouted—screams no one heard. In that moment, he realized something horrifying: Karl wasn't much different from the tormentors he had faced back in the Dream Caravan.
Jabelyn had tortured him until his blood oozed from under his skin.
Karl had broken that elf woman in spirit before he ever broke her body.
"I swear I'll dig up his grave with my bare hands. I'll make his corpse a lesson. Argh! Damn it!" he roared, the sound tearing out of his throat as he pushed deeper into the forest.
Three hours passed.
Darken searched relentlessly—through shrubs, behind trees, under drooping branches. Time had passed, but he hadn't lost hope. He had only one goal: to find her remains. Even if there was no body left, even if only bones remained, he wanted to give her the dignity she was denied. To bury her properly. And then—carry out his oath.
Finally, just before dawn... he found her.
She was lying on the forest floor, body still, broken, in a position that made his skin crawl. But she wasn't decomposed as he had expected. When his fingers touched her gently, her flesh still felt soft. Her features were intact. Her skin still smooth. Her arms weren't stiff, didn't show the posture of someone long dead. And when he touched her again—he felt warmth.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the shock froze the words inside him. His expression stiffened. After a few silent seconds, he managed to whisper: "Did she… only just die? Or… is she still alive? No. That's impossible. I buried Karl… and she's still here?"
He stared blankly into the trees, then grabbed his head in both hands, struggling to process it all at once.
"No... no… this is wrong. This doesn't make sense. She was here the whole time… alive!? She was here? She was here—while I was burying the monster who hurt her… with respect?!"
Before he could untangle the chaos in his thoughts, an arrow whistled past his face and struck the ground with a solid thud. His head shot up, eyes searching the treetops.
And there they were—on the high branches of the towering trees.
Beautiful faces, almost identical, sharp eyes, long pointed ears, and slender graceful bodies. He didn't need to guess… They were elf—like the poor soul lying beside him.
They surrounded him from every direction. One of them stood tall on the highest branch, his long hair dancing in the breeze. His voice cut through the silence like a blade:
"You're coming with us… filthy human."
Darken didn't move. Didn't speak. He stood among them, silent, unresisting. It was as if his spirit had already left him behind. He didn't know if he was guilty… or simply another victim of a dead man's lies. But one thing was clear—Darken wasn't afraid. The fire in him was still there—raging, smoldering.
Just for now, it was … waiting.