**Chapter 5: The Thrill of Death**

  The toxic marsh of Circle 2 in the Despairing Black Forest pulsed with a sickly heartbeat, its venomous fumes curling like specters around petrified trees. Their fossilized branches gleamed with ghostly light, casting warped shadows that danced in the Void-tainted mist. The air was thick, suffocating, each breath a bitter sting in the throat. Lucien led the group, gripping his Mosin rifle tightly, his senses razor-sharp despite the physical and mental exhaustion seeping into his bones after endless pursuits in this deadly forest. After trudging some distance, the glow of the Dreamheart Tree appeared ahead, its shimmering orbs—**Dreamspring Blades**—hanging on its leaves, glowing like pearls, surrounded by withered corpses, their faces frozen in dreamy smiles as if lost in eternal sleep. Their goal was within reach, but the flickering lights of the Lantern Widows trailed closer, their malice permeating the air.

  The Lantern Widows were not mere insects but souls forged from anguish. Each was a fist-sized orb of pale, pulsating light, their cores writhing with blackened tendrils that whispered madness. Their glow mimicked fireflies but burned with a cold, predatory hunger, trailing wisps of smoke that formed fleeting faces—grieving mothers, lost children—luring victims to their doom. Their wails, soft and mournful, carried the Void’s corruption, promising peace to those who surrendered. Lucien’s mind was peculiar at this moment; when he looked at them, he saw only floating orbs, but his companions claimed they saw faces of women and children. They said that gazing into them seized their minds, with plaintive cries for help echoing so irresistibly that they felt compelled to approach.

  Lucien halted the group before the Dreamheart Tree, his voice low but sharp: “We’ll likely have to sleep to take the Dreamspring Blades. In the dream, gather the orbs before the tree notices. If we fail, we’ll die in the dream.” He scanned the corpses near the tree, unease rising in his chest. Audrey, sword in hand, frowned: “Sleep? Here? You’re joking, Graye?” But seeing the seriousness in his eyes, she nodded reluctantly. Annie, dagger at the ready, whispered: “I don’t like this, but let’s do it.” Thomas and Kai remained silent, prepared, while Zim clutched his bag, whining: “Sleep surrounded by corpses? I’ll have nightmares!”

  The group lay on the damp ground near the tree’s roots, struggling to stay alert as the tree’s breath—a sweet, hypnotic scent—pulled them into sleep within seconds. Lucien, closest to the trunk, felt his eyelids grow heavy, as if the forest were lulling him. He didn’t resist but bit his lip until it bled, hoping the pain would offer a way out if the plan failed. Finally, everyone sank into the dream. In the distance, seeing their prey claimed by a tree, the Lantern Widows flickered violently, their ghostly light flaring, seemingly enraged.

  In the dream, the group stood on a vast silver meadow, but the most striking sight was the colossal Dreamheart Tree, its branches stretching to the sky, shimmering orbs dangling from them. But the meadow’s peace didn’t last—the ground quaked violently, and shadowy figures, like the corpses near the tree, rose and swirled around, whispering in the group’s ears: “Stay… die…” Lucien, relying on his assassin’s instincts, shouted: “Grab the orbs, now!” He lunged, seizing an orb, but a branch came alive, coiling around his wrist like a rope. He yanked free, tearing the branch, stuffing the orb into his bag.

  Annie, swift as wind, grabbed two orbs, but a shadow corpse lunged, shrieking, staggering her. Audrey slashed at it with her sword, but the blade passed through smoke. “Damn it, they can’t be destroyed!” she growled, snatching an orb before a branch knocked her down. Kai, calm, cut an orb with his dagger, dodging shadows like a specter. Thomas, slower, was caught by a branch around his leg, roaring as it scraped his ankle, but he shattered it with a stomp. Zim, trembling, muttered a light chant that worked remarkably well, destroying some shadow corpses and keeping others at bay, allowing him to grab an orb. But the tree’s scream—a wail from the Void—made Zim dizzy, and he collapsed.

  Lucien, sensing the tree waking, yelled: “Wake up, now!” He bit his tongue, the pain yanking him from the dream. He bolted upright, seeing the group still lying, eyes closed, faces vacant. He shook Audrey, slapped Annie, pulled Thomas, but the Dreamheart Tree quaked, its roots rising like serpents, coiling around Zim. Lucien fired his Mosin at the roots, severing them, dragging Zim free. The group stirred, slightly panicked, but they had six orbs—worth the effort.

  But their triumph was fleeting. A piercing shriek tore through the air. The Lantern Widows, now a swarm of dozens, surged forward like a storm of light. Their glow pulsed violently, their wails turning into screams that rattled the mind. Lucien felt a pressure crushing his skull, as if something impure was trying to invade his thoughts. “Run!” he roared, waving toward the deeper forest.

  The group plunged into the mist, feet slipping on the marshy ground. The Widows were faster, their lights piercing the fog, forming distorted faces that pursued them. Without supernatural powers, Lucien relied on his assassin’s instincts. He grabbed a glinting stone, hurling it into a cluster of trees to distract the Widows, but the swarm wasn’t fooled, continuing their chase, their screams like knives in the mind.

  In the chaos, the group was split apart. Audrey and Kai vanished into a cluster of petrified trees. Thomas, swinging his axe at a Widow, was pushed back toward the marsh. Annie pulled Zim along with Lucien, but a Widow swooped in, its light staggering Annie, her eyes glazing over with illusions. “Zim, run!” she tried to shout, shoving him forward before collapsing, swiftly swallowed by the thick mist. Lucien, seeing this, turned to save Annie, but a wave of light from a Widow struck him, gnawing at his mind, sparking a headache like a hammer’s blow. Unable to resist, Lucien collapsed, rolling on the ground. When he looked up, he was alone, surrounded by flickering lights and the Void’s screams.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Lucien’s heart pounded fiercely, each beat like a war drum in his chest. Fear, a rare admission for him, slithered up like a serpent, choking every breath. Without powers, he felt small against the Black Forest and everything in it, like prey being hunted. The thought of being trapped forever in the forest, consumed by the Void, made him tremble. Loneliness weighed heavily, his companions vanishing into the fog, stirring memories of solitary days in darkness. But alongside fear was seething rage—fury at the Black Forest, hatred for the shadow creature that threw him here to face life and death, resentment at himself for not researching thoroughly, and confusion over why his usual caution had vanished, making him so reckless. He clenched his jaw, resolve hardening: he would survive, to prove he wasn’t weak before death.

  Lucien sprang up, darting through grotesque vegetation, feet slipping on toxic mud. But the deep forest wouldn’t relent. From the shadows, two new creatures emerged, blocking his path.

  Giant leeches, nearly two meters long, their slimy, pitch-black bodies like liquid darkness. Their mouths were spiraling rings of teeth, oozing paralytic toxin. They slithered across the ground, draining life energy, leaving barren earth. Eyeless, their thin head tendrils vibrated, sensing movement. As Lucien saw them, a name flashed in his mind: **Shadow Leech, Rank 8**.

  Following the leech was an ethereal figure, over three meters tall, floating in the mist. Its body was smoke and bone, its face a hollow socket emitting a faint red glow. Its chilling hiss disrupted the mind, conjuring painful memories. Its bone claws could pierce armor, sapping the spirit of its prey. **Mist Wraith, Rank 7**.

  “Damn it,” Lucien, trapped between the Shadow Leech and Mist Wraith, felt despair so intense he couldn’t help but curse. The Leech lunged, its spiraling mouth aiming for his leg. He reacted swiftly, rolling to dodge, raising his Mosin and firing at the Leech, but the bullet only staggered it, unable to kill. The Mist Wraith hissed, its bone claws slashing down. Lucien dodged again, but the strike cracked the earth, pushing him toward a cliff—a pitch-black abyss, its depths invisible, where mist swirled like a vortex.

  Before the abyss, Lucien felt the world shrink, reduced to the Wraith’s hiss and his own frantic heartbeat. Fear was a roaring beast within him, mingled with helplessness—he’d fought, survived countless dangers, yet the Black Forest offered no escape. Memories of near-death moments flashed by, but this time, he saw no hope. Without powers, without allies, he was just a man facing endless darkness. Yet a spark of resolve flared—if he had to die, he wouldn’t let the forest decide. He looked into the void, took a deep breath, and whispered: “If this is the end, I’ll choose how I die.”

  Before the Mist Wraith could lunge and tear his body apart, Lucien didn’t hesitate and leaped, his body plummeting into darkness. Wind howled past his ears, icy, like blades cutting his skin. In that moment, he felt a strange freedom—escape from the Widows, Leeches, and Wraiths, like liberation from this relentless pursuit. He closed his eyes, sensing death approach, but his body struck a soft, elastic surface. A massive leaf, meters wide, floated in the abyss, absorbing the force of his fall. The **Skywing Leaf**, its pearlescent surface shimmering with faint, glowing veins, neutralized all impact.

  Feeling the softness and realizing he was alive, Lucien lay on his back, breath ragged, heart pounding. Fear dissolved, replaced by astonishment and a primal, almost childlike joy: “I’m alive!” But joy quickly gave way to suspicion. Why was this leaf here? Was the Black Forest toying with him? He sat up, hands trembling as they touched the leaf’s warm, living surface. Loneliness surged after the thrill of survival—his group was gone, and he didn’t know if they were alive. Yet a flicker of hope emerged: if he survived this abyss, he might escape the forest.

  The Skywing Leaf drifted downward, carrying Lucien to a cavern hidden in the cliff. As the cave opened before him, he guessed it was an ancient ruin, gnawed by time. Moss-covered stone walls bore glowing blue runes, as if telling a story of a civilization long gone. The ruin exuded solemnity, like a tomb of time. The air was cold, but the runes on the walls emitted a soft glow, whispering ancient secrets. Mirror shards on the altar reflected Lucien’s face, but distorted, as if holding other versions of him—an angry Lucien, a fearful Lucien, a ruthless Lucien. In a far corner, a broken stone statue of a faceless figure held a mirror shard with a grin stretching ear to ear, stirring unease in Lucien. The ground beneath him was dusted with mirror fragments, sparkling like silver sand, each step crunching with the sound of breaking glass. At the center was a stone altar, strewn with shattered mirror shards, glinting like stars. What caught Lucien’s eye was a tattered parchment, still legible, lying on the altar, inscribed with words about the **Shattered Mirror Play**:

  > “The Shattered Mirror Play, power of the deceiver and survivor. Mirrors reflect not just images, but souls. To wield it, you must face yourself in the dark. But beware—each shattered mirror steals a piece of you. When the mirror breaks completely, you will no longer be yourself.”

  Reading the words, Lucien felt a chill run down his spine. He didn’t know what the **Shattered Mirror Play** was, but the words seemed to speak directly to him, as if the forest had led him here. Doubt surged: “Does the shadow creature have something to do with this?” He stared into a mirror shard, seeing his eyes reflected, but deep within was a faint silhouette, not his own. Fear mingled with curiosity, and he picked up the parchment, gripping it tightly, feeling both threatened and drawn to it, tempted to pocket the sudden discovery. But before he could act, the ruin shook violently, dust and debris falling. At the center of the altar, sounds like shattering glass echoed. Before he could panic, countless mirror shards around the altar rose, moving in rhythm with the quaking ruin.

  *Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.*

  Countless shards shot toward the altar, and Lucien was dangerously close. Seeing death looming, adrenaline surged through his body. With an assassin’s reflexes, he dove forward, knowing he’d be injured but better than dying. The shards grazed his body, cutting him all over, blood flowing ceaselessly. Suppressing the pain, he looked at the altar, unable to hold back: “Damn it, what’s happening?” Before him, a massive mirror had appeared, but it didn’t reflect the ruin or him. Instead, it showed a dark void, and near the mirror’s reflection stood a vial of white, pristine liquid—a stark contrast against the shadowed expanse.