Jon ventured deeper into the forest, pushing past twisted branches and roots that clawed at his legs like skeletal fingers. The air grew heavier with every step, the trees gradually losing their color—bark turned ashen, leaves dry and curled. The canopy above allowed little light through, painting the woods in dull shades of gray and brown. Not a single bird chirped, no insects buzzed. It was silent. Too silent.
"I sense a dangerous aura," the demon muttered in his mind, voice low and urgent. "Beware."
But Jon—stubborn, prideful, and increasingly reckless—scoffed at the warning. He had power now. He had magic. He had killed before. Why should he fear empty trees?
He continued walking, but the weight on his body grew heavier with every step, as if the air itself resisted him. His limbs ached, and his breath became shallow. His legs trembled. After only a few more minutes, he collapsed beside a dry root.
His chest heaved.
Something was wrong.
"You're just a slightly stronger goblin," the demon growled, rage creeping into his voice. "That's all you are. Nothing more, nothing less. I warned you, but you chose arrogance. I feel it now. We're nearing the territory of something ancient. Something powerful. You're not ready."
Jon gritted his teeth, his fingers digging into the dirt. He wasn't about to turn back now. He believed the demon was trying to scare him away, to claim the treasures that surely lay ahead. The longer he remained in this goblin body, the more feral his mind became—his thoughts growing simpler, his logic clouded.
So he stood up again, ignoring the burning in his legs and the tightness in his chest.
And he walked.
For four hours, he wandered, trees thinning until they gave way to dry, cracked soil. The forest ended abruptly at the edge of a desolate plain—an endless wasteland where no life dared to grow. Sand twisted in the wind like snakes, and the sky above was pale and still.
The moment Jon stepped into the open, the demon whispered again—but this time, there was no malice, no anger. Only dread.
"…I should've known. The air... it's cursed. This is the territory of the God of the Desert. We're already dead."
Jon didn't understand. The name meant nothing to him. He narrowed his eyes and took another step.
Then, without warning, the air distorted in front of him. It didn't shimmer—it twisted violently, like reality itself was being torn apart. A figure appeared, not walking, not flying—just suddenly *there*, as if it had always been.
It was massive. A towering golem made entirely of compacted sand, grains constantly swirling around its joints. Beige armor gleamed on its body, shimmering as if it were glass forged from desert heat. In its hand was a curved saber, golden-brown and humming with a strange energy.
Above its head floated a name:
[Sand Golem Igor – Level: ???]
Jon froze.
"To hell," he muttered under his breath.
Then the golem spoke. Its voice was dry, rasping, as if sand itself were speaking through a hollow windpipe.
"I am a level two soldier of the God of Sand and Desert. You have entered sacred ground without permission. Punishment: death."
Jon's eyes widened. He couldn't even raise his hand. There was no time to scream, no time to run.
In a blur of motion, the golem vanished—then reappeared behind Jon.
A moment later, his head was already rolling on the ground, his body collapsing beside it.
The desert wind swallowed the sound. The wasteland returned to silence.