When he opened his eyes, there was no blinding light, no echoing explosion—just a strange silence... and the sound of birds. For the first time in what felt like ages, there were no roars of beasts or screams tearing through his ears. Instead, there was the distant trickle of water, and the gentle rustle of leaves playing with the wind.
He slowly pushed himself off the ground, his palm sinking into soft, dewy grass, his eyes wandering wearily and with wonder. Everything was green. Towering trees swayed as if breathing, their glossy leaves catching the gentle rays of sunlight, and the ground was blanketed with small plants and wildflowers. No sand. No suffocating heat. No desert horizon. Nothing resembled the desert.
"Where… is the desert?"
He sat on his knees, looking around like someone waking up in a world he didn't belong to. He tried to recall the last step he took before losing consciousness, but only jumbled images came to him: dust, violet light, the stone, the sword... and the book.
He lowered his gaze to his right hand, still clutching the sword. Slowly, he raised it and examined it closely. The sword felt heavier today, as if everything it had been through had made it quieter… deeper. Its color was a pitch-black, cold like stone, yet delicate crimson engravings ran across the blade, twisting from hilt to tip. They didn't glow, but they seemed alive—like they were placed there to tell a story, not in words, but in feeling.
He ran a finger across the carvings. They were rough, as if etched by someone who had bled through every stroke.
"This isn't an ordinary sword. It's not fully mine… but it's in my hand now. That's enough."
Then he felt the weight at his side. Reaching down, he pulled the book from its pouch. It was still there, silent. Its cracked black leather cover hadn't changed, yet the sensation it gave off when touched hadn't faded. He opened it slowly. The pages seemed dormant—no glow, no whisper. As if they had chosen to sleep... for now.
He closed it and returned it to its place, then stood up. He looked at the tall trees, the sun scattered through the branches, the green earth he never thought he'd see again. Something about this place felt calming… but not entirely. The beauty here wasn't innocent—it was silent in a way that whispered unease.
The raven's voice hadn't been heard. He looked around, but there was no sign of it.
"Did it leave me? Or was it swallowed by the earth? No… the raven doesn't leave that easily. Maybe it's watching me… from afar."
He took a deep breath. The scent of the forest was real—earth, moisture, dew… and a faint trace of freshly formed mud. He walked slowly between the trees, avoiding low-hanging branches, watching the ground closely in case he stepped on something unseen.
Everything was quiet. Too quiet.
"The desert is gone… so the place has changed. Did I cross into another realm? Or did time twist without me noticing?"
He stopped under a towering tree, larger than any around it. Its trunk was wide and cracked, as if it had witnessed centuries pass, its leaves casting shadows that beckoned rest. He sat beneath it for a moment, resting his back against the bark, staring at the stretching horizon.
There was a path between the trees, as if nature itself had carved a way for him, untouched by any hand. It wasn't clear, but it was there. And within it, the shadows of the trees were denser—as if the forest itself was waiting for him to enter.
"There's no other way… and no turning back. If this is the new beginning, then let it start among the trees."
He stood once more, brushed off as much dirt from his clothes as he could, tightened the sword on his back, and secured the book at his side. Then he took his first step toward the path.
With each step, the sound of the wind shifted—
As if the forest had begun to breathe… with a new rhythm.