The forest swallowed all sound except the rhythm of Miles' footsteps. Each step deeper into the [Dark Forest] peeled back another layer of unreality. Stories didn't just echo here. They bled, dripping from leaves like dew, seeping from the trees as ink.
Miles walked with his katana in hand, but it felt like holding a pen more than a weapon.
The air around him shimmered faintly, a distortion he had come to associate with the pressure related to a Story. [The Crawling Chaos] wasn't present, but it was active. Watching. Listening.
It wanted something.
It wanted freedom.
He paused beside a fallen tree, its bark hollowed out by runes that rearranged themselves when he looked too closely. Pressing a hand against the wood, Miles felt it breathe.
"It's not a dungeon anymore." He muttered. "It's more like a page made manifest."
He moved on, his breath fogging in the air that should've been warm. The further he pushed, the more the forest stopped being a forest in and of itself.
