Chapter 44: The Dead Forest's Trial
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The Endless March
Time in Hell is meaningless. Days, weeks, maybe months—none of it matters. The sky never changes, the air never cools, and the land never stops trying to kill me.
The swamps are behind me now, replaced by something worse.
A dead forest.
The ground beneath my feet is solid at first—cracked, scorched earth like before. But then, it shifts. Turns brittle, dry, covered in blackened roots that curl like skeletal fingers. Fissures split the land, exhaling thick clouds of ash and decay. The air is colder here, sharp and whispering, carrying sounds that don't belong.
I pause.
Silence.
That's the worst part. Even the distant wails of the damned seem muted.
And then—
The forest moves.
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The First Attack
Something streaks toward me—fast, silent.
My body moves before my mind catches up. The saber rises, steel clashing against rusted iron. Sparks fly.
Hobgoblin.
Bigger than the ones before. Lean muscle wrapped in ashen skin. Eyes burning with malice.
I push forward, shoving it back—
But another moves from the darkness.
A spear whistles toward my ribs.
I twist, barely dodging as the tip slices through my cloak. The air hums with the force of the missed strike.
"Persistent little bastards," I mutter, adjusting my grip.
No time to think. No time to hesitate.
I counter.
My saber finds the first hobgoblin's throat. Blood sprays, thick and dark. The body collapses before it even knows it's dead.
The second one stumbles.
I drive my foot into its knee— CRACK.
It howls—only for my blade to silence it.
Another pair down.
But I'm not stupid.
More are coming.
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The Onslaught of the Dead Forest
The deeper I go, the worse it gets.
Hellhounds stalk me, their molten eyes burning in the shadows. They don't charge recklessly. They're watching, waiting, testing.
Some attack in pairs—quick, brutal. They die fast.
Others? Smarter. Staying just out of reach. I let them be.
The goblins are worse. The smaller ones—vermin. But they attack in numbers. Swarming. Clawing. Biting.
I cut them down, but they keep coming.
Then—slimes.
Not like the weaklings I hunted before.
These ones reek of acid. They leave trails of corrosion, melting the very ground they slither across. My boots burn when I step too close.
They don't move fast, but they're relentless. The moment I get close enough, they lash out. Their gelatinous forms split open, revealing deadly, sharp tendrils that strike like vipers.
I push through them. My blade carves through their bodies with little effort, but each one leaves me covered in a film of corrosive goo.
My skin stings with the acid, but I don't have time to think about it.
More slimes. More goblins. More hellhounds.
And still, they come.
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The Forest Fights Back
The air grows heavier, the sounds of the forest intensifying. The trees creak and groan, their skeletal branches shifting, swaying unnaturally.
The roots beneath my feet twist, breaking through the ground, forming barriers where there were none before. The very land itself is fighting against me, trying to trap me in its depths.
The monsters grow more strategic. No longer do they charge blindly, but instead, they hunt. They adapt. They force me into corners. They push me toward the cliffs, toward the pits of black smoke and molten earth.
The forest itself begins to move.
It's not just the creatures. It's the land. The earth twists, warps. Branches stretch out like claws, grabbing for my limbs. The very ground seems alive, trying to trap me.
But I don't stop.
I've been through worse. I carve through the branches, the roots, and the monsters with nothing but my rage and instinct.
"Is this all you've got?" I mutter, striking down another goblin.
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The Breaking Point
I don't notice at first.
The saber—my trusty blade—begins to crack.
It's small at first. A hairline fracture across the edge. Nothing major.
But then, it deepens.
The metal chips against the armor of a hobgoblin, and I feel the jolt through my arm.
Another strike, and it cracks further.
I parry a blow, and the blade bends.
And then—
SNAP.
Time slows.
The saber shatters in my hands.
The jagged hilt remains, useless.
I barely twist in time to avoid a spear aimed for my throat.
Weaponless. Surrounded. Bleeding.
But I smile.
"Guess that didn't last long."
I drop the hilt, reaching for what I know will work.
My axe. My obsidian knife.
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The Final Stand
They think I'm vulnerable.
They're wrong.
I don't need a sword to kill.
The axe is heavier, but it's reliable. When I swing, things break—bones, flesh, armor.
It doesn't matter.
I fight.
I destroy.
The obsidian knife—light, fast, deadly—flashes through the air, darting between ribs, slicing tendons.
I become something else.
Not a swordsman. Not a warrior.
A predator.
The final wave crashes against me—a horde of goblins, hellhounds, and a massive hobgoblin chieftain.
They think they're enough.
I'm not so sure.
I meet them with steel and fury.
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The Aftermath
The forest is still again.
The corpses of monsters lie scattered across the blackened ground, their bodies a testament to the battle.
My breath comes heavy, but steady. The exhaustion gnaws at me, but it's a familiar feeling.
I survived.
Once again.
I stand amidst the carnage, rolling my shoulders and adjusting my grip on the axe. The saber is gone, but it was never more than a tool.
Ahead of me, the landscape shifts.
The trees thin. The oppressive air lightens, just a little.
And in the distance—
A ruin.
Ancient. Massive.
Waiting.
The next challenge.
I step forward.