Raindrops fell faster now, each one more pointed than the last. What began as a light sprinkle had grown steady, a beat against my skin, a steady drumbeat of sothing approaching. The clear sky, painted in starlight, was being eaten up by swirling clouds, thick and dark, claiming the heavens piece by piece.
The wind carried whispers of what was approaching. A storm churned on the horizon, restless and ready, its presence felt in the distant rumble that barely touched the air. The scent of rain grew stronger—earthy, electric, with the promise of thunder.
The night was transforming. The glow of the dying starlight continued in a phantom touch on my flesh before completely fading away. The cold encroached in its wake, not catastrophically, but sneakily, a stealthy insinuation through bone and neuron, through the gaps between breathing and thinking. The air was thickening, laden with the weight of sothing unvoiced, sothing struggling to erupt.
A storm was coming. The skies trembled with anticipation, heavy with the scent of rain and the distant thud of thunder. The wind sang its warning, blowing through the leaves, rustling them with a gentle accompanint to chaos.
A rain would be coming, heavier than the drizzle that now lightly kissed my skin. I would be able to sense each drop as it fell, each individual, each carrying its own weight, its own shape, its own story.
I could anticipate where the next raindrop would strike before it did. So struck my forehead, cutting and cold. Others dripped down the sides of my cheeks, slow and deliberate, mapping out invisible paths across my face. So accumulated in the crevices of my collarbone, hesitating before slipping further down.
I could feel their texture even before they touched . So were soft, hardly perceptible, a faint wetness before they vanished into the material of my clothing. Others were thick, heavy, stabbing like little needles, a reminder of the storm's growing ferocity.
I would know what they tasted if I opened my mouth. So would taste of the sea's brine, carried inland on the reach of the storm. Others would taste acrid, flavored with the scent of ground, as though the rain had extracted things from the ground to drop upon .
Each drop would be different, yet all would be the sa—part of sothing vast, sothing inevitable.
And I would stand beneath it, feeling every single one.
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Nothing.
Nothing happened.
I didn't get swallowed. I didn't return to the Cathedral. I didn't step back into the fog. I didn't see the kids again. I didn't learn more about the realm. I didn't understand why the Seven Sins ca out of .
I got nothing.
I only wanted answers. I only wanted to thrive.
You gave a reason—then left in silence. You never spoke more on it. You never told what I needed to hear. I want answers. I want to smile.
I scraped every last shred of blood-jelly from the hole in my skull. My fingers dug through the wound, searching, desperate. Yet, nothing.
Nothing happened.
I went there without cause. Without affirmation. And now, when I wish to return, you reject ?
It isn't fair.
I just want to know if the kids are safe from the clash of red and blue. I just want to ask the kid one more question.
I just want...
No. What I want doesn't matter, does it?
But I made a promise. I told the kids I would bring them sothing yummy—sothing that wouldn't rot their teeth. I promised to bring them a bigger fla, a stronger one, sothing warm enough to cook a feast.
A pinky promise.
And I intend to keep it. Not for myself—but to see them smile a little longer.
I pinky promised, after all.
I will keep that promise. Along with the others.
The storm moved in, swallowing the stars. The wind howled its warning, and the night deepened, heavy and cold.
I let the raindrops fall. Every single one.
I let the rain wash away everything I didn't need.
Everything except my promise.
A second. A minute. A hour. A day. A month.
I don't know. Ti blurred, lost in the endless rhythm of falling rain. The world outside faded, drowned beneath the storm. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the weight of the promise I carried. The rain fell, and I stood beneath it, waiting. For what, I wasn't sure.
I sighed. Another promise that is hard to complete. Yet I still want to fulfil it.
I have gone mad. I really have gone mad. But I like this mad.
I let out another sigh. Now is not the ti for sighs. I need to reach to civilization and try to explore the Cathedral in hopes to see the smile once more.
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I looked above . The cloud spoke of a storm that was coming. The wind carried a tallic scent laded with salt and moisture. The ground laid barren except for clinging to it barnacles, no buggers.
I glanced at the blood-layer. It was still there. Pale. Dead. Hollow.
I crouched and pressed my fingers against it. Even with the rain pouring down, it remained dry. No slimy film. No sentient blood wriggling beneath my fingers. I dug my fingers and pulled. the layers peeled effortlessly.
Layer by layer, I uncovered what lay beneath. I expected more decay, so lifeless abomination. but no, It was wood. Blood red but wood.
I felt a familiarity with it. Not the color but the wood. So, I kept pulling, stripping away the dry layers.
And there it was. Four pieces of log bound together.
No matter how soaked in blood it was, I knew what I was looking at. A raft. My raft.
Blood red, yes but mine unmistakably.
A coincidence? Maybe. But after what I had seen—the Blackish Red, the Blue, the Cathedral, the Seven Sins, the Fog, the 404 System, my unnatural healing—it was hard to believe in coincidences anymore.
Everything was connected.
Thinking about it wouldn't give answers. Not yet.
For now, I needed to figure out how to use this blood-red raft.
I kept pulling at the dried layers, stripping them from the wood until the top was completely clear. Then, I braced myself, digging my fingers beneath the logs, and tried to flip it over.
Damn. It was heavier than I expected.
I lifted it a few inches before my arms gave out, dropping it back onto the wet ground. My muscles ached from the effort, the weight pressing down like sothing more than just wood.
Looks I can't use you for now, my friend.
The raft remained where it was, blood-red and unmovable. A presence, yet not a solution. **Not yet.**
I glanced at my surroundings. Nothing but barnacles to the south, clinging stubbornly to the lifeless ground. East and west offered no better prospects—just an endless stretch of uneven slopes, barren and uninviting. And beyond them, perhaps kiloters away, the ocean.
That left only one direction. North.
A risky choice. The storm was coming from the North, rolling in with its cold breath and dark clouds, swallowing the last traces of the sky. It was a path filled with unknowns. But was it any worse than the alternatives? Three directions promised nothing. One carried the potential for sothing—good or bad.
The answer was clear. North, it is.
I walked. The rain followed.
Every step I took, the droplets hit harder, piercing against my skin like icy needles. The wind, once a gentle breeze, had grown restless, howling through the empty landscape. First a strong gust, then stronger. Then a force that threatened to pull back.
But my legs didn't stop.
The light faded. One by one, the stars were devoured by the encroaching clouds, swallowed whole until nothing remained but the weight of the coming storm. The world dimd, the shadows stretched, and the cold wrapped around , sinking deeper into my bones with every step.
North. Forward. Into the storm.
There was no turning back now.
Like I had any way to turn back.
With every step, my shadow stretched longer and thinner, barely clinging to before vanishing into the darkness. The light was fading fast, swallowed by the storm rolling in above . Soon, there would be nothing left to see—only the cold weight of the night pressing down on my skin.
I kept moving. North. Forward. Into the unknown.
The ground beca slick beneath , each drop of rain turning it into an uneven, slippery path to tread on. I didn't slip often—my feet, wrinkled and rough from exposure, found grip where they could.
But the world around was vanishing.
With every step, the darkness grew thicker, creeping in from all sides. The horizon blurred. The sky and the land beca one. Shapes lost definition. Depth and distance beca aningless. My world shrank down to the feeling of rain against my skin, the bite of the wind in my ears, and the sound of my own breath.
There was a certain horror in walking through pitch black.
An instinctual fear. A knowing.
The kind of fear that clings to the bones, whispering of unseen things, of sothing watching, sothing just beyond reach. It wasn't just the unknown that unsettled —it was the idea that sothing could be there, hidden in the dark, and I wouldn't know until it was too late.
No wonder humans seek the light. **It's not just about seeing. It's about knowing.**
But here, there was no light. No stars. No guiding glow. Nothing but the storm and the path ahead.
My only saving grace was the south, a distant outline, barely visible even through the storm. It was weak, blurred, fading, but it was there. A tether to the world I was leaving behind.
For now, I kept walking.
My feet got cut. A sharp sting, then warmth, then wetness.
I had stepped on barnacles.
I gritted my teeth and glanced ahead. Even in the dark night, I could see the direction I was heading in was crawling with them, a field of jagged shells, waiting, unmoving, indifferent to my presence. A logical person would circle around, avoid the pain, find another way to proceed north.
But I had abandoned logic the mont I chose this path.
So, I walked.
The first few steps were sharp, sudden—edges digging into my soles, slicing through the skin with every movent. But pain, when repeated enough, dulls into sothing else. Sothing manageable. Sothing you accept.
My feet bled. Skin peeled. Flesh tore. But I kept moving, step after step, into the unyielding swarm of barnacles. I still feel it. But I had co to accept pain.
The air slled of salt, iron. At least to .
I walked.
The wind scread past , cold and furious, but the barnacles didn't care. They bit deeper, burrowing into my steps like they were feeding on my hesitation. Every shift of my weight sent fresh pain lancing up my legs. But stopping wouldn't make it better. Turning back wasn't an option.
So, I walked.
Blood dripped. Skin tore.
Maybe ten minutes passed. Maybe more. Ti had lost aning. The world had shrunk down to the feeling of rain against my skin, the wind howling in my ears, and the relentless tearing of barnacle edges beneath .
Each step was a decision. A choice to keep moving despite the pain.
And so, I did.
I walked.
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