"The forest was not haunted by ghosts. It was haunted by hope."
– A Forgotten Tombstone.
We entered expecting silence.
Instead, the forest breathed.
Birdsong and insect chatter wove a fragile harmony overhead, but beneath it lay something far more unsettling: weeping. The cries of men, women, and especially children drifted on the wind, as if the trees themselves mourned their buried dead.
Crude graves lay scattered among the roots and undergrowth. Ethereal figures knelt beside them—endless, tireless mourners. No grass or flowers grew near these mounds. The earth around them was barren, poisoned by grief.
As we passed, some of the spirits lifted their heads. Blood streamed from empty eye sockets. Their faces remained frozen in sorrow, yet I felt the storm beneath:
Anger.Hatred.Envy.Doubt.
And worst of all—hope.
Hope that they and their loved ones might finally rest. Hope that the weeping would end. Hope that we might succeed where they had failed.
I didn't know how I understood them. Maybe it was connected to the strange voice I had heard before.
Trembling hands reached toward us. Some begged us to take them away. Others hesitated, torn between the desire for freedom and the need to remain beside the graves of those they loved. Their fingers always fell short.
The others mistook the gestures for attacks. Several phantoms were destroyed before I could stop them. As the spirits dissipated, their faces briefly showed relief—followed by fresh sorrow. Even in death, they were being torn from their loved ones again.
We pressed on. Grave after grave. Weeper after weeper. Miranda offered quiet prayers at each one. A few spirits seemed grateful. Most were not. They didn't want prayers.
They wanted release.
The forest stayed eerily quiet except for the constant weeping. We stepped carefully, avoiding the graves hidden beneath roots and leaves.
Deeper in, the graves improved. Crude dirt mounds gave way to weathered tombstones—simple stones with names nearly erased by time. The phantoms grew more aggressive here, accusing us of disturbing their dead, screaming that we had stepped on graves we had never touched. Their attacks came more frequently, though most fell after a strike or two.
Then the orphans appeared.
They no longer laughed or mocked. They simply cried—black tears streaming down their faces as they charged. Our barriers held, but every orphan we destroyed seemed to spawn more phantoms. The once-peaceful burial ground descended into chaos.
Fire scorched the earth. Tombstones shattered. The screams of the dying tangled with the eternal weeping of the departed.
We pushed forward anyway.
The phantoms cursed us. They begged us. Many simply asked why. The orphans repeated only one desperate phrase:
"SAVE.US."
Miranda dispatched both phantoms and orphans with almost bored efficiency, occasionally stifling a yawn. Bo hovered protectively near Belinda, which only seemed to annoy her. Belinda fought with raw, frustrated anger.
As for me, I focused on the adult phantoms. Unlike the orphans, most of them didn't truly want to fight. They only wanted an excuse to die—to finally be free.
Eventually, the graveyard fell behind us.
Ahead flowed a river. Crystal-clear water reflected the fractured moon, and schools of silver fish darted beneath the surface, leaping now and then so their scales flashed like stars.
For a moment, it was beautiful.
Then the water turned blood-red.
The fish convulsed violently. Their bodies twisted, rotted, and fell apart before our eyes. Some flung themselves onto the shore in panic, dissolving into black sludge that oozed back into the current.
We waited. As suddenly as it had changed, the river returned to normal—clear, peaceful, innocent.
The crossing was narrow, only wide enough for one at a time.
Miranda went first. Belinda followed. At the midpoint, fish exploded from the water. Both women dodged easily, but when Miranda swatted one aside, its blood hit the river.
The water turned crimson again. Dozens of malformed fish erupted from the depths.
Belinda solved the problem with characteristic impatience, throwing up a barrier around them both. They continued across unhindered. Once the river calmed, Bo and I crossed without incident.
We regrouped and continued beneath the fractured moon.
At last, we reached a small clearing. Moonlight poured through the canopy onto a single grave nestled among the roots of an enormous ancient tree.
I stared at it.
So this is Lily's grave.
FOURTH TRIAL ENEMY DETECTED: THE BACHELOR OF ROOTS
MISSION: SLAY 0/1
The ground trembled.
Dirt erupted as something clawed its way out of the grave.
A man—or what remained of one. Rotting flesh clung to his bones. Thick roots burst from one eye socket and coiled around his left arm. As he rose, his body swelled grotesquely. Muscles bulged. Bones cracked and lengthened. He grew larger and larger until he towered over us.
When the transformation ended, his left arm had become living wood. A berry bush sprouted from his shoulder, and vines and roots bound his decaying form together. His jaw hung slack for a second wooden jaw that had grown beneath it.
The creature wheezed, the sound like creaking timber and snapping branches.
"I… MUST… PROTECT… LILY."
It staggered forward.
"I… MUST… PROTECT… LILY."
The others dropped into combat stances. I raised my rifle.
The creature's remaining eye fixed on us with single-minded desperation.
"PROTECT… LILY… I MUST!"
It roared.
Then it charged.
And the fourth trial began.