Chapter Text
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That forest was one without a name.
The unfortunate souls who had the bad luck to wander those forgotten paths considered it a waste of time to assign a label to such a despicable expanse of earth and trees.
In the archives of the Holy Dragon Kingdom of Lugunica, that forest did not appear with a name either. In fact, sometimes it did not appear at all in the kingdom's official documents. To the royal cartographers, it was a cartographic void.
It was a general consensus that the few who acknowledged the existence of that shadowed grove had not bothered to grant it the privilege of a name.
In the world, there existed ancient and cursed forests; some were beloved, others were even objects of veneration. But the one that stood lost on the horizon beyond the southwestern outskirts of the city of Flanders, past the fields on the northwestern edge of the Shamrock valley, was one that the world's memory had relegated to silence.
And within that desolate silence, in the very heart of that forgotten land, lay a scorned dirt path.
The landscape surrounding it was a moor that seemed to have been cursed by the very essence of life itself. A perpetual mist rose oppressively over the entire place. So dense was it that anyone stretching their arms into its mantle would struggle to see past their own elbow.
Emerging through the fog, what could only be described as the sad remnant of what was once a carriage trudged forward.
It was a pathetic sight.
The carriage, wide, with its arched profile and open sides, camouflaged itself as just another black stain against that threshold of trees. The wood had lost all color, faded to a grayish tone, and the dark reinforcements resembled veins of petrified filth.
Without a doubt, a walking monument to ruin.
At the reins of that decaying carriage stood a decrepit figure. A being weathered by time wearing the degraded garments of the holy Knights of Lugunica. The fabric was worn and discolored, many of the seams frayed and on the verge of giving way—a physical reminder of the uniform's many years of service. The details lay dull and corroded from years of neglect. The cape had been lost long ago.
At his waist rested, sheathed in its scabbard, an old sword with a grip worn down by decades of battles fought in the past.
His dull gaze remained fixed both on the dirt path ahead and on the ground dragon pulling the vehicle. His eyes never wavered, not even at the unsettling scenes that unfolded along the way.
As they advanced, the trees bordering the path rose like twisted specters; their tangled, barren branches wove against each other in a gnarled, grayish web. The undergrowth was a snarl of black thorns rooted perfectly in the inert soil. The air imposed a piercing sensation of heaviness upon the body, and it smelled of damp earth, but especially of advanced decay.
And how could it not be?
That place was, after all, a breeding ground for mabeasts. The very absence of life made it the perfect terrain for those abominations---to which Od Laguna, in its inscrutable design, had granted the privilege of existence.
The shrill howls and screeches formed a ghastly melody that perpetually resonated in the forest's darkness. Only Od Laguna could know the true number—be it tens, hundreds, or thousands— of beasts that dwelled within the depths.
The most likely fate for any foolish enough to set a single foot in was to be ambushed by swarms of wolgrams and reduced in the blink of an eye to a puddle of blood, mangled organs, and shattered bones.
Should it be of any comfort, those who traveled the moors could find solace in the fact that these beasts were drawn primarily to the accursed miasma of the Witch of Envy.
At the very least, they worked as an excellent repellent for followers of the Cult.
A useful and macabre function that the few aware of this forest's existence knew of... and exploited.
The carriage continued its advance, rocking along the path's ruts upon that sea of fog. The elderly knight barely moved the reins, letting the ground dragon do all the work.
The old knight's tranquility was shattered when multiple sharp, dry cracks broke the ghastly symphony of howls to which his ears had grown so accustomed. These sounds did not come from afar, but from the immediate thicket bordering the path.
From within the undergrowth, a pack of wolgarms burst forth. Their lean, muscular bodies moved with a disturbing agility. The small yellow horns on their foreheads, like twisted crowns, complemented their grotesque nature. The beasts ran, flanking the carriage with utmost ease, as if they had performed such a maneuver countless times. Their paws generated a thunderous clamor of rapid steps upon making contact.
One of the beasts—whether the boldest or the most starved—leapt into the air with a ragged snarl, aiming its fangs directly at the wood of the carriage's open sides.
Faced with such a situation, many would succumb to fear, but the elderly knight did not even flinch. He merely sighed, a weary sound lost to the mist, as if this hostile display were a repetitive and tedious image he was forced to endure.
Just at the moment the beast's jaws were about to sink their fangs into the wood, a thin shroud of whitish light —which, were it not for the pervasive gloom, would have been nearly invisible to the naked eye— enveloped the carriage in the blink of an eye. Then, a dry crack, like the sound of a breaking bone, echoed through the air.
The reckless wolgarm was instantly engulfed in silent flames that seemed to consume its very essence. The beast fell to the ground, twisting in a terrifying silence, unable to howl. Its body convulsed in a horrifying dance as the spectral fire devoured it from the inside out, reducing it in a matter of seconds to a pile of black, smoldering ash.
The rest of the pack halted abruptly. Their aggressive snarls turned into ones of confusion and fear. Fixing their red eyes on the charred remains of their unfortunate packmate and then on the carriage, they understood the unexpected role reversal: they were now the prey. With several barks of frustration and terror, they scattered back into the thicket, their black forms being swallowed once more by the mist from which they had emerged.
The carriage never once halted its journey, continuing on its way unperturbed. Gripping the reins a little tighter, the old man let out another sigh from his gaunt lips, for he knew all too well that the vehicle was protected by a high-class barrier spell, an expensive and complex enchantment carved into its very structure.
Its function was not to repel, but to incinerate. Any beast that attempted to cross the carriage's perimeter would activate the purifying fire enchantment. It was a necessary security measure for the knight and his cargo, a guarantee that ensured the Kingdom's waste would reach its final destination and not become a feast for beasts along the way.
However, the old man guiding the carriage was, in truth, what one might call a pale mirage of knighthood.
His uniform was a lie; it was not that of a true knight. At least, not in the honorable and pure sense the word evoked.
He had ceased to be that many years ago.
Despite that, he still served the kingdom. He was a veteran of countless battles, which was why he was permitted to retain the title of kingdom knight despite his advanced age and having retired from active service. He had survived where most perished before even reaching adulthood, and that resistance to death had made him a resource just practical enough not to be discarded.
It is for this reason that this old knight, a survivor and witness to a thousand horrors, was the perfect candidate for the disgusting task for which he traveled that deteriorated dirt path.
His role was clear: to dispose of the kingdom's most despicable filth forever.
And what was more abhorrent, more detestable and infamous, than the filthy bodies of dozens of the monsters responsible for the attack in the Watergate City of Priestella?
They were the scum of the scum, the final residue of a nightmare the kingdom was eager to bury and forget.
Seeing the piled bodies of those aberrant beings who carried the very pestilence of the Witch provoked a profound feeling of satisfaction in the kingdom and its inhabitants.
After all, no fate was cruel enough for those creatures who had caused so much suffering across the world.
And so, the grave-keeper knight continued on his path, delving deeper into the gloom of the cursed forest. His final destination awaited him, the place where he could finally free himself from the repulsive load of his carriage.
—Just a little longer.
Uttered the old man in a rough whisper, as he faded further and further into the dense mist.
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