GUHIN

Etro’s hooves beat a steady cadence on the forest floor, softened by the dense layer of pine needles. Bokun focused on the trail ahead, where the shadows of the towering trees reached out like dark tendrils, grasping at the last remaining daylight. Guhin’s limp body swayed with the horse’s movements, his head bobbing lifelessly as they pressed onward

The forest gradually thinned, the heavy shadows lifting as the trees became more scattered. Emerging from the final line of trees, they were met with a vast, barren landscape, stretching out as far as the eye could see.

Bokun pulled Etro to a slow trot, his gaze sweeping across the forsaken landscape. Abandoned farmhouses spread across the terrain, their roofs caved in, their walls crumbling. The earth bore the marks of the trolls’ passage—deep, sunken footprints embedded in the soil, a grim testament to the devastation they had wrought. Bones were everywhere—scattered remains of lives lost, bleached white by time and the elements.

A broken mill stood in the distance, its once mighty sails now shattered and limp, creaking faintly in the cold wind. Bokun’s eyes narrowed as they passed by, the scene etched into his memory with every step.

As they approached the heart of the desolation, an imposing figure came into view—a colossal statue of a king, seated upon a throne. The statue's head had been severed, lying a few feet away, tangled in thick ropes. Skeletons surrounded the fallen head, their bony hands still clutching the frayed ends of the ropes. Even in its ruined state, Bokun recognized the face—King Aric, the monarch whose cowardice had doomed Jhorfa.

Bokun shook his head, a bitter edge to his voice. "So, your people brought you down after all," he muttered, his gaze sweeping over the fallen statue and the skeletal remains. "Good riddance, the world has plenty of rats as it is."

Etro neigh's as if agreeing with his master.

Behind the decapitated statue, a long staircase ascended into the distance, leading up to the ruins of the main castle of Jhorfa, the home of King Aric. The once-grand fortress, now a crumbling husk, loomed over the devastated landscape, its towers shattered, its walls breached. Bokun paused only for a moment, staring up at the shattered remnants of the kingdom’s last stand, before urging Etro forward.

As they continued their journey, night began to fall, and the world around them changed. The moon rose high, bathing the ruins of Jhorfa in an ethereal, illuminating it with a clarity that rivaled daylight.

Their path took them past a series of massive statues, each one holding its hands over its heart. From their clasped hands, water cascaded down in great streams, forming waterfalls that vanished into the depths below.

Beside each statue, a staircase wound its way up the mountain, a path of stone that beckoned them to ascend. They followed the stairs, the stone steps worn smooth by countless feet over the ages. As they climbed, the air grew colder, and the wind howled through the mountain passes.

At a high turn in the stairs, Bokun’s eyes fell on a vast, glacial lake behind the statues, its surface an untouched mirror beneath the moonlight. But they pressed on, ascending higher and higher, until they reached the summit.

At the top of the mountain, Bokun reined in Etro, taking in the eerie sight that greeted them. A ring of figures knelt in solemn prayer, their bodies preserved by the harsh elements. Their skin, dry and cracked like ancient parchment, was stretched tightly over their skeletal frames. With their faces lifted toward the starlit sky, they remained frozen in their final act of devotion, hands clasped together in an eternal plea.

Bokun dismounted, his feet sinking into the cold, hard ground. The vibrations that had plagued them earlier were long gone, leaving behind the sounds of night. He surveyed the area, noting the strategic advantage the mountain peak offered. It was a good place to make camp—high above the valley, with a clear view of any approaching danger.

“We’ll rest here for the night,” Bokun said while he cleared his throat. He began to unpack his gear, the fatigue of the day catching up to him as he prepared to settle in. The eerie, lifeless figures around him offered little comfort, but at least for now, they were safe from the trolls below.

Bokun carefully dismounted from Etro, the chill of the mountain air biting at his skin. He reached for his greatsword, still strapped across his back, and unfastened it with practiced ease. Setting it down within arm's reach, he turned to untie a bundle of pelts from the back of the saddle, laying them out on the hard ground. Then, with care, he lifted Guhin from the horse and placed him on the furs, arranging them to shield him from the cold.

With Guhin settled, Bokun turned to Etro. The horse, ever patient, waited as Bokun began to unload the massive bags they had carried all this way. With a grunt of effort, he set them down on the rocky ground. The weight caused the earth beneath to crack slightly, a clear sign to the burden Etro had borne. Etro stretched, muscles rippling beneath his coat as he enjoyed the relief from his heavy load.

Bokun knelt beside the bags, his fingers working methodically to unfasten the leather straps. The first item he retrieved was a large piece of shoulder armor, forged from deep grey iron. Etched into its surface was the stylized head of a bear, its eyes fierce and mouth open in a silent roar. This was no ordinary piece of armor; it was a symbol of Bokun’s nickname—Ursus, the Bear. The craftsmanship was superb, with the lines of the bear’s features sharp and intricate, capturing a lifelike intensity.

Next, Bokun pulled out a pair of armored boots, heavy and reinforced, designed for both protection and the rough terrain they had been navigating. They were followed by leg plates that he could strap securely to his thighs and shins.

But before he geared up, Bokun knew he needed to tend to his wounds. He unstrapped the bloodied pelt of white fur draped around his shoulder, letting it fall away to reveal bruised skin and tender cuts. Stripping off his clothing, he winced as the fabric brushed against his injuries. Reaching into one of the smaller bags, he pulled out a roll of cloth, a jar of salve, and a waterskin. The salve was thick and pungent but effective, and he applied it to his wounds with practiced care.

The deeper gashes had already been treated with the Waters of Kāro, an elixir handed to him by his elders, known in his homeland for its near-miraculous healing properties. Yet, despite the elixir's power, some of the wounds had not fully sealed. Now, he focused on those lingering injuries, covering them with fresh bandages and applying extra salve where the elixir had fallen short.

Then, Bokun pulled on a set of fresh clothes: simple dark brown pants and a sleeveless shirt made from thick bear fur, with a heightened collar for warmth. The coarse fur brushed against his skin, grounding him with a familiar reminder of his homeland.

Once he was dressed, Bokun reached for his armor. He started with the boots, their weight a familiar comfort as he secured them tightly. The leg plates followed, locking into place with a series of buckles that clinked softly in the night. Finally, he took up the shoulder armor, placing it over his left shoulder. The bear’s head rested on his upper arm, the metal cool against his skin, its presence both a protective talisman and a fearsome declaration of his identity.

To complete his attire, Bokun retrieved a vambrace and an armored glove from the bag. The vambrace was crafted from the same deep grey metal as the rest of his armor, extending from his wrist to just below his elbow. It was designed to offer both mobility and protection, with overlapping plates that moved fluidly with his arm. The glove, reinforced with steel along the knuckles and back of the hand, slid on easily, its fit snug and secure. When he was done, his left arm and shoulder were fully armored and encased in metal.

Bokun flexed his fingers, testing the feel of the armor. It was heavy, yes, but it was also reassuring. This armor had been with him through countless battles, each scratch and dent a story of survival.

With the last piece in place, Bokun took a moment to gather himself. He reached back and tied his long black hair into a tail, the simple act signaling his readiness.

He scanned the darkness beyond their camp, his eyes keen for any sign of movement—yellow eyes or shadowy forms lurking in the night. The moonlight provided enough illumination to see without lighting a fire. He had decided against making one; the risk of drawing unwanted attention while they were so exposed was too great.

But then Bokun noticed Etro shivering slightly, his breath misting in the cold air. The sight gave him pause. He took a deep breath, sniffing for any hint of the rancid stench that trolls often carried, but the air remained clean. His gaze swept the surrounding shadows once more, searching for any hidden threats. There was nothing—no yellow eyes glinting in the dark, no movement among the trees.

With a reluctant sigh, he conceded. “You deserve some warmth my friend,” he murmured, glancing at his loyal steed. He gathered dry wood and kindling from the surrounding rubble, arranging it with care. Striking a flint, he coaxed a spark into a small flame. It quickly grew, the fire's warm glow casting flickering light over the campsite.

Bokun settled beside the fire, pulling a piece of dried meat from his pack. As he chewed thoughtfully, his eyes kept drifting back to Guhin, who lay a few feet away on the furs, still motionless under the dim light.

Bokun's mind raced with questions. How could someone so young have such raw power? He remembered Guhin’s earlier outburst—his uncontrolled rage, the sheer force he had displayed. It had been like facing a beast, not a trained warrior. Guhin had looked at Bokun with an intensity that had seemed almost primal, as if he were ready to end Bokun’s life in an instant. It was a fierce, almost terrifying display of unrestrained power.

Bokun continued to chew on the dried meat, his thoughts swirling around the events of the day. The masked warriors who had attacked Guhin earlier weighed heavily on his mind. Who were they, and why did they want him dead? The memory of their silver masks was still vivid, a haunting image that left him restless.

As Bokun mulled over his thoughts, Guhin stirred, rolling closer to the warmth of the fire. Instead of moving him back, Bokun added more wood to the flames with a mischievous grin. The fire blazed brighter, its light dancing across Guhin’s face, casting flickering shadows.

As Bokun’s grin widened, a crow descended from the star-filled sky, landing gracefully on a nearby rock. Fukujin, perched silently, his dark eyes fixed on Bokun. He watched, as Bokun continued to stoke the fire instead of moving the unconscious Guhin.

“What, you move him then, you creepy bastard.” Bokun's voice cut through the night air, but Fukujin remained silent, his gaze unwavering.

Just as Bokun's words echoed in the night, an ember popped from the fire, landing squarely on Guhin’s nose. Guhin let out a yelp of pain, his eyes snapping open.

The pain from the ember was sharp, and as he instinctively grabbed at his nose, a fresh wave of pain surged through his head—pain from the aftermath of his uncontrolled rage.

Guhin's hands flew to his head, gripping it as if trying to stop the pounding headache that now accompanied the burn. He sat up abruptly, his face a mix of confusion and discomfort as he tried to process the sudden onslaught of sensations.

Bokun couldn’t contain his laughter at the sight. Guhin’s struggle was both painful and oddly amusing, the tension of the day melting away in the warmth of the fire and the absurdity of the moment.

As Bokun’s laughter echoed through the still night, Guhin blinked rapidly, his vision struggling to adjust to the dim light of the campfire. He instinctively reached up to touch his face, feeling the tender, raw skin where the ember had landed, but it was the pounding in his head that truly caught his attention.

For a moment, Guhin just sat there, trying to piece together the fragments of his memories. Images of the battle flashed before his eyes—Bokun's bloodied figure, the hunters’ silver masks, and the overwhelming darkness that had consumed him. His breath quickened as the memory of that uncontrollable power surfaced. It happened again...

Then, like a shadow creeping over his mind, the darkness stirred, its voice seeping into his thoughts. You can’t hold me back forever, it whispered, each word sinking into him. Why resist? You know how good it feels to let go… to let me take control.

Guhin clenched his fists, fighting to silence the voice. But it lingered, a quiet, insistent reminder of the power within him, like a beast lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest crack to break free.

Bokun’s laughter finally registered in Guhin’s ears, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. He looked up, blinking away the haze that clouded his vision. The sight of Bokun, grinning like a mischievous child, was almost surreal. For a second, Guhin wondered if he was still dreaming.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Bokun said, his tone half-teasing, half-relieved.

GUHIN!