The Red Valley was only the beginning—a blood-soaked prelude to something far more sinister. Dylan knew it. He could feel it in the air, thick with decay and unseen eyes watching from the shadows. But he wasn't afraid. He welcomed the challenge with a cold, calculated calm. The real fun would begin now. The horrors ahead promised to be deeper, darker, and far more unpredictable than anything the valley had offered. And that excited him.
Dylan thrived in chaos. The tougher things got, the sharper his instincts became. He didn't hope for control—he knew better than that. But he could manipulate chaos, bend it to his will, and use it to carve a path forward. That was what made him dangerous. That was what kept him alive.
There was no one to trust, no one to rely on. And that suited him perfectly. Allies were liabilities. Sympathy was a weakness. He had no regrets about what happened with Melissa. She served her purpose. She was a stepping stone—one of many. And when the time came, he didn't hesitate. That cold decision, like many before it, only made him stronger.
His time in the Black Forest had hardened him, refined him. He had emerged from that cursed place not just alive, but transformed. More skilled. More ruthless. The forest had taken everything soft in him and burned it away, leaving only cunning, strength, and the will to survive.
Now, with rations tight and energy preserved, Dylan prepared for the unknown. He was alone. But he liked it that way. No one to slow him down. No one to betray him. And no one to get in his way. Whatever this hellish place threw at him next, he would face it head-on—and make it bleed.
Dylan kept moving forward, his footsteps deliberate yet swift. The eternal lantern was secured again at his side, its pale glow trailing behind him like a restless spirit. His sharp eyes scanned every inch of the path ahead. His muscles moved with fluid precision as he leapt between tree branches and dashed forward in near silence. He wasn't just traveling—he was hunting danger.
Suddenly, his instincts tugged at him. His momentum halted. A chilling smile crept across his face as he took in the view before him.
Before him lay the Red Valley.
It unfolded like a painting of dread and wonder. A deep, narrow canyon stretched out before him, its stone walls towering to the heavens, bathed in a palette of dark, muted blue and teal hues. Waterfalls cascaded down the sides, their delicate streams whispering secrets to the rocks below. A misty veil lingered in the air, thick with mystery and forgotten sorrow.
A zigzagging trail of bridges and precarious paths wove up the sheer cliff walls, ascending toward a radiant, mist-shrouded light at the top. The light itself was unnatural—neither dawn nor dusk, but something eternal and distant, like a promise never meant to be fulfilled. Below, a reflective pool mirrored the towering formations above, disturbed only by the occasional ripple from the waterfall's touch.
Near the bottom edge of the chasm, two silhouetted figures stood, small against the colossal backdrop. Travelers, perhaps. Survivors. Or simply illusions. Dylan narrowed his eyes. Every part of this realm tested his trust, even in his own senses.
Above, a flock of birds pierced the sky through the narrow opening at the top. But these weren't normal birds. Their wings were too sharp, their movements too calculated. They flew in formations too tight, as if directed by a singular mind. Dylan observed them with grim suspicion.
"Airhunters," he murmured. Or worse. In this hellscape, normalcy was an illusion. He suspected the creatures were designed to distract and lure prey toward danger—toward traps from which there was no return. He had seen such strategies in other regions. He would not be fooled.
Without hesitation, Dylan pressed on. He stepped onto the first of the narrow bridges. Each board groaned under his weight, aged and rusted by centuries of neglect. Below, the mist churned like a living thing, hungry for his fall. He moved slowly, deliberately, each step a test of balance and nerve. If he slipped, there would be no second chance. Only soul-devouring fog and the infinite void beneath.
The air thickened with whispers.
He heard the screams of those he had killed—a chorus of death that echoed up from the depths. Names he had forgotten. Faces twisted in pain and rage. The bridge creaked, and so did their voices. But Dylan kept his expression calm, his focus absolute. Melissa had warned him about this place.
"They feed on regret. They feed on attention. Give them neither."
He smiled. A dark, confident smile that was both acknowledgment and defiance. I know your tricks, he thought. I will not fall for them.
Step by step, he ascended.
Time lost meaning as he climbed the bridges. Hours passed. Perhaps days. Perhaps it had only been minutes. He couldn't tell. But eventually, Dylan reached the top. His body ached, but he refused rest. The idea of staying still in a place like this was dangerous. He scanned the surroundings: a flat, rocky platform with a dense fog ahead.
He picked up a handful of stones and tossed them into the fog.
Silence.
Then, long moments later, a faint clink.
So, the fog lies, he thought. A sensory trap.
He hesitated only for a heartbeat. Then he stepped into the fog.
It enveloped him like cold silk. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Couldn't hear. Then—he emerged.
He was no longer standing on the cliff edge.
Behind him, the fog had vanished. No bridge. No canyon. Just an endless black tunnel receding into the dark.
Ahead, firelight flickered.
A small campfire burned on a plateau surrounded by tall, skeletal trees. Figures sat around it, bundled in cloaks and armor. Travelers. Warriors. Survivors.
They hadn't noticed him.
Dylan looked down at his hands. His eyes widened, then narrowed with understanding. He was in the body of a child—small, nimble, unrecognizable.
He laughed softly.
"A new party? A new hunt?"
His voice, though youthful, carried his same chilling cadence. His eyes glinted like twin blades in the dark.
"But I'm at an advantage now. Let the fun begin."
He stepped silently into the shadows, moving toward the fire, the misty light behind him swallowed by the growing darkness ahead.
The Red Valley was not a place one passed through.
It was a crucible. And Dylan was ready to turn the flames to his favor.