The air wailed between the mountains like An entity that represents a specific concept The sounds of the wind were not just the movement of the atmosphere
, but the weeping of ages folded in the forgotten edges of this world. In a remote place in that bleak wilderness, shadows were carving themselves over the rubble, over the stones, over the eroded statues whose features had been forgotten.
There, amidst the swirling dust, stood an ancient statue, as if sculpted by oblivion itself. Its features were blurred, its eyes etched without expression, and silence hung above it like a curtain over an abandoned stage. Below, at the base of the stone, lay a coffin.
A coffin covered with old rags, frayed wood, and the ends of torn ropes. It was a coffin not for eternal rest, but for the confinement of an entity that had sensed something, something coming, but could not yet rise.
Two weeks passed that felt like two centuries.
The forest was nothing but the skeleton of trees consumed by fire, and the trunks were like corpses hanging from a forgotten massacre. And among those wooden bones sat Mayoth.
He was sitting deep in a cave, daylight touching him only as fragments. His fingers were cracked with dust and smoke, carving a small map with his nails on a piece of burnt wood. Not a map of a country, but a map of his coming escape. Its lines were irregular, as if drawn by a hand trembling between fever and madness.
His eyes were sunken beneath the ashes of intermittent sleep and the blackness of long nights.
He raised his eyes, as if hearing an ancient voice calling him: "It's time to move..." He said it not as a leader, but as a man who had lost the taste for survival but continued to walk only because his feet were accustomed to progress.
In the distance, by the dark riverbed, there was the bloody hoof. A featureless beast, its muscles contracting and bulging, as if it were the embodiment of savagery itself. It drank from the river, its long, open jaws reflected in the water, as if laughing at the universe like a professional killer who had finally found his favorite victim.
On a nearby hill stood Mayoth. The wind whipped his tattered clothes. In his hand, he held a small bag—a bag that held neither gold nor water, but a deferred death.
From the bag, he pulled a small, round, white seed with a grainy surface, as if sown by a forbidden tree. In his other hand, he held a dark gray clay ball, soaked in tar, heavy and sticky, smelling like memories of burned-out houses. On his arm, the old tattoo began to glow black, like a scar that had reopened.
It wasn't a power, it was an awakened curse.
He didn't look back. He didn't think for a moment. He opened his fingers, and death fell.
The explosion was like a nightmare trying to escape its owner's mind. The flames screamed, as if the air itself was burning from within. Branches exploded in a thousand directions, plumes of smoke climbing the sky.
The monster turned slowly. Its eyes were two points of living black, burning without fire. His skin erupted in black shards of burning tar. But he didn't fall; instead, he roared with a sound that made the entire forest tremble to its very roots.
Mayoth didn't back down. Another seed sprang from his fingers, a burst of thorns, hitting the monster's neck, dark blood gushing out like an ancient fountain in the courtyard of an abandoned temple.
But chaos laughs in the face of planning.
The bloody hoof opened its mouth, ejecting a ball of flame the size of a small planet.
Black flames with a reddish tinge in the center, like the embers of ancient tales.
Mayoth froze for a moment, then, "Damn it... I didn't count on this..."
Then he ran.
No, he didn't run. He fell forward, letting his body catch up with his head. Branches snapped beneath him like the bones of ancient corpses, burning leaves clung to his face, his cheeks, his lips.
Behind him, the monster's footsteps sounded like the drumbeat announcing the end of the world.
Emerging from the forest was like giving birth on the edge of a guillotine. And Mayoth came out, breathing like a man trying to remember what the air once was.
A cliff ahead. Not just a cliff, but an abyss of a time yet to come.
The bloody hoof emerged from the smoke, walking through the fire like a nightmare realizing he had no need to fear anyone.
Mayoth, with a smile in which half of his soul was torn apart, ejected the last white seed. He threw it, a scream, a flame, but the beast never dies, the beast always crawls to the end.
An oncoming crash...
"To hell with the end..."
Mayoth slipped, the man a ghost of himself. He planted his spear, the sound a musical massacre of severed strings.
And then... a fall, a crash, black blood forming a small river among the rocks.
Mayoth stood, not really standing, but hanging from a tree like half a hope hanging from an old man's memory.
Behind him, the stone tablet of nothingness floated in the air, surrounded by swirling ash and letters etched like lion fangs in rock.
"Congratulations..."
Gifts of ruin,
new seeds,
another map toward greater chaos,
a set of knives
A paper containing texts from the law
enemy meat ..can be used
"New level: First Ghost."
With time and progress the law will give you New development and new seeds It is also necessary to focus on the power of the spiritual rin, which is the basis for the development of the user's body.
He sat down to eat.
The food wasn't tasty; it tasted like the air in a room where a man had been executed minutes before.
Then... a new voice in his mind.
"Choose a title... if you want."
Mayoth raised his head, ash dripping from his eyelashes.
The tablet began to engrave the name, letter by letter, as if time itself was digging the grave for this name. After hesitation, Mayoth chose his title. It was like absurdity... foolishness... he chose... something
Unique and strange at the same time
.....
[the Madman.]