Late at night, the camp fell into an unnatural silence.
Skala gathered a few core believers—Toka, Siye, Gollon, and several other trolls he was sure were the most deeply converted and most steadfast in will.
They sat around an old stone slab, the firelight dim and their divine emblems hanging on their chests.
Skala got straight to the point.
He spoke of the mural he saw, the blue-gray fire, and its subsequent reappearance.
He spoke of the changes in the divine emblem, how it heated up, and how the discrepancies in directions, memories, and objects were expanding.
He stated his judgment: something was changing their reality, and they themselves were unaware of it.
These words should not have been spoken so openly.
But he said them anyway, because he knew that if he waited any longer, they might even forget "who they were."
After listening, the believers fell silent.
There was no panic, no questioning. They nodded, exchanging confirming glances.
Toka said, "I'll set up a marker nearby tomorrow to see what happens."
Siye suggested recording dreams, carving the content of each night's dream onto wooden boards to find patterns.
Gollon, however, said nothing, only taking off his divine emblem and placing it by the fire, watching the ripples of light reflected in the flames.
They talked until very late before dispersing.
At that moment, Skala almost believed he had succeeded.
The next morning, Skala woke up very early.
The sky was gray, and the clouds in the distance were thicker than last night.
As he walked out of his tent, he saw Toka eating breakfast.
"When are you putting up the marker?" Skala asked.
Toka looked back at him with a blank expression: "Did we discuss that yesterday?"
Siye was also nearby, staring at Rhunok's bone charm as before: "Dream records? Why would I write them? … I just had a dream, it was messy, nothing special."
She didn't seem to be feigning ignorance; she genuinely didn't remember.
Skala's expression gradually became solemn as he looked towards Gollon not far away.
The old soldier was sharpening his spear, a blade of grass in his mouth, and winked at him: "Didn't you sleep well last night? I remember you also said the wrong direction."
Skala said nothing.
But his hand, gripping the divine emblem, slowly tightened.
They had all forgotten.
Everything was forgotten.
It wasn't just details forgotten, but the entire previous night.
He suddenly realized that this wasn't just memory interference, but a form of "editing"—a conversation not in the script had been directly excised from their memories.
Only he himself still remembered.
Skala knew very well that he was nothing special. It could only be because of the divine emblem.
His Lord was protecting him.
But he couldn't help his companions.
As the wind swept over the ridge, Skala looked at those familiar faces.
They were still laughing, still doing things.
They were all still alive.
But they were becoming unlike themselves.
The first to become stranger were a few young hunters.
When they took turns on night watch, they would always patrol the camp three times, without fail—even in a blizzard, as if stuck in some rhythm.
Once Gollon curiously asked them why they circled three times, they just paused, unable to answer.
"I thought… we 'should' do it that way."
The second anomaly came from a few trolls responsible for cooking; they started using the same order of seasonings every day, even maintaining a consistent stirring direction.
Even if an ingredient was missing, they would still hold the empty bottle and sprinkle it three times.
Siye tried to remind them once, but they just looked at her, saying expressionlessly:
"This is how it tastes right."
Then, the songs they sang also changed.
Originally, two accompanying youths liked to hum old songs while sharpening their knives in the evening.
But now, every day, they hummed the same melody, so slow it was almost like a ritual chant, and they never changed the lyrics.
Skala listened a few times and realized that the melody didn't resemble ZulDrak tradition at all; it was more like a repeated echo of some beat.
As if it were "calibrating" something.
Finally, even Toka had a problem.
Every morning, he would carve a piece of wood with a bone blade.
No one had ordered him to do this, nor had he ever explained why.
Skala observed from a distance and gradually discerned the outline of the wood carving—
A snow leopard, body low to the ground, tail curled like a bow, individual mane hairs picked out, almost certainly a totem image of the snow leopard loa Hakkah.
But the totem's face was never carved completely.
At first, the lines were just blurry, then it became a blank space.
He carved slowly but very carefully, his gaze focused, as if he was trying to squeeze a certain image from his memory.
But whenever he was about to complete the face, he would become agitated.
He would suddenly raise his hand and ruthlessly hack into the totem with a knife.
"Crack."
Then another cut, and another.
Without anger, without emotion, just like completing a program etched into his very bones.
The bone blade scraped, sending wood chips flying, until the entire face of the totem was shattered, and the whole piece of wood was twisted beyond recognition.
Then he stood up, as if nothing had happened, and threw the fragments to the edge of the fire.
The next day, he picked up a new piece and started carving again.
This continued for three days straight.
Carving, destroying, silence, repetition.
Skala tried to help him, but it was no use.
Any hints or awakenings would be quickly "edited" out, and Toka would soon resume his carving.
All Skala could do was record these behaviors.
He no longer told others about these anomalies because it was useless.
He just silently carved the names of those who showed repetitive behavior onto a bone plate, observing them daily to see if their actions changed.
After three days, those people had not changed once.
It was as if their lives had been edited into a short behavioral segment, only able to loop those few lines and actions.
Skala knew that the corruption was accelerating.
He looked down at the bone plate in his hand and suddenly realized a problem:
How did he remember that these people "weren't like this before"?
And how was he sure that he himself… hadn't changed?
Just as Skala himself was starting to fall into confusion.
Things got worse.
The person appeared too naturally.
As if he had emerged from a corner of the camp, carried by the wind and snow, wrapped in a rough hide robe, draped in a tattered cloak, holding a runic witch doctor's tool in his hand, his face aged, with two bronze protective cords wrapped around his forehead.
A witch doctor's attire, standard ZulDrak style.
He was talking to two young hunters, his voice calm, his smile gentle. The hunters listened intently, nodding from time to time, and even offered him food.
Skala was startled.
He was certain he had never seen this person before, nor had he arranged for any external witch doctor to join the team.
He quietly asked Siye beside him: "Who is that?"
Siye looked at him as if she didn't understand: "Who?"
"That old witch doctor."
Siye followed his gaze, blinked, and showed a strange expression.
"...Are you talking about Tuke? Haven't you seen him?"