Mortal's Journey to Immortality

Chapter 4: The Bone-Forging Cliff

Jack’s fingers locked hard around the flint. The stone was cold, slick with sweat and soot. Below him, the cliff edge crumbled, sending gravel hissing into the abyss. The green light from the pillar pulsed, a sickly heartbeat in the dark. He didn’t look down. Looking down meant falling.

He scrambled over a jutting rock, his boot slipping on wet moss. His shoulder slammed against the stone wall. Pain flared, sharp and hot. He bit down on his lip until he tasted copper. Keep moving. The air smelled of burnt wood and ozone, thick enough to choke on.

A shadow detached itself from the fog below. It wasn’t a bird. Birds didn’t move with that jerky, insectile precision. Jack froze. One foot planted. Breath held. His heart thudded against his ribs like a trapped rat.

The shape rose. Long limbs, pale as bone. No face. Just a smooth surface where features should be. It stopped directly beneath him. Ten feet down. Twelve.

Jack backed up. The cliff wall was rough, biting into his palms. He reached for his knife. The hilt felt greasy. He wiped it on his sleeve. The fabric crunched with dried blood and char.

“Jack!”

The voice came from behind. Not from the fog. From the trail.

He spun around. Harvey emerged from the mist, coughing, one arm dragged by Ethan. Harvey’s eyes were wide, pupils dilated. He pointed at Jack. Then he pointed at the ground behind Jack.

Jack looked down. The rock he had just stepped on was blackening. Cracks spread across it like spiderwebs. Smoke curled up from the fissures. Not fire. Heat. Intense, dry heat.

He jumped sideways. The rock shattered. Dust exploded upward, filling his nose. He coughed, gagging. The stone fell away, revealing a hollow space underneath. Roots. Thick, gnarled roots wrapped around the cliff face. Some were green and living. Others were grey and brittle.

Ethan hauled Harvey onto a flat ledge. They collapsed, gasping. Ethan looked at Jack. His lips moved. No sound came out. Too much wind. Too much noise from below.

The thing in the fog tilted its head. It had heard the rock break.

Jack’s fingers pressed deep into his palm. The pain grounded him. He looked at the roots. They dangled into the mist, disappearing into the white. Down. Or across.

He climbed toward them. His boots scraped against stone. Sparks flew from his nails. The green light intensified, blindingly bright. It wasn’t just light. It was pressure. Weight. Pushing against his chest.

He reached the first root. It was thick as his thigh. Warm to the touch. Vibrating. He wrapped his arms around it. Pull. Muscles burned. Veins stood out on the back of his hand. He swung his legs out, clearing the cliff edge.

“Jack, no!” Harvey shouted. The voice cracked. “It’s a trap.”

Jack didn’t listen. He kicked off the stone. Swung.

The root groaned. Twisted. A c***k appeared along its length. Grey dust puffed out.

He landed on the next root, ten feet to the left. It was thinner. Brittle. He felt it give way under his weight. Panic rose, cold and sharp in his throat. He threw himself forward, grabbing the next root with his left hand. His right hand scrambled for purchase on the cliff wall.

The thing below shrieked. A sound like tearing metal. It rose higher. Closer. Its limbs lengthened, stretching out of the fog. Fingers brushing the air where Jack had been standing seconds before.

Jack hung there. One hand in a root that was breaking. The other scraped against wet stone. Below him, death. Above him, the pillar’s gaze.

Ethan pulled himself up. He grabbed Jack’s ankle. His grip was iron. Harvey followed, clutching Ethan’s shirt. Three weights pulling him down.

Jack looked at the root in his left hand. It snapped.

He fell.

The wind rushed past his ears. The green light expanded. For a second, he saw the truth of it. Not light. Eyes. Thousands of them, stacked in the pillar’s core. Winking open.

Then the ground hit him.

Not stone. Mud. Thick, sucking mud. It wrapped around his legs, pulling him down. He thrashed, kicking out. His boot caught on something hard. Metal. A grate? A cage?

He rolled onto his back. The sky was gone. Covered by mist. The green light filtered through, casting long, distorted shadows.

Harvey and Ethan were nowhere to be seen.

Jack lay still. Breathing ragged. He lifted his head. The thing in the fog was gone. Replaced by silence. Heavy, absolute silence.

He tried to sit up. His right leg wouldn’t respond. Numbness spread from his hip. He pressed his fingers into his thigh. Nothing. No sensation. Just dead weight.

A drop of liquid fell on his face. Warm. Salty. Sweat? Or blood?

He touched his head. His fingers came away sticky. Red.

Below him, in the mud, something moved. Pale. Slimy. Tentacles? Or roots? They uncoiled from the ground, wrapping around his left ankle. Cold. Damp.

Jack kicked out with his good leg. The tentacle slipped back into the earth. But two more took its place.

He reached for his knife. His hand was trembling. Not from fear. From shock. He gripped the handle. The steel felt real. Solid.

The mud shifted under him. Pulling deeper. Faster.

He drove the knife down. Into the ground. Anchoring himself. The blade sank in to the hilt. Mud splattered onto his chin. Cold and gritty.

Above him, through the thinning mist, he saw a sliver of grey sky. Dawn? Or just lighter fog?

The tentacle tightened around his ankle. Pain shot up his leg, sharp and electric. He gritted his teeth. The sound of grinding stone echoed from below. Not roots. Machinery. Large, heavy gears turning in the deep.

He pulled the knife out. Cut the root-like tendril wrapping his waist. It burst open, leaking clear fluid that smelled of ammonia. The stench burned his nostrils. He gagged, turning his head away.

The mud was at his knees now. Pulling him down inch by inch. He couldn’t kick it back. Not fast enough.

He looked up again. The green light had faded to a dull glow. In its place, shadows moved. Tall figures. Robed. Standing on the cliff edge above him. Watching.

One of them raised a hand. Pointing down.

Jack froze. His breath hitched in his chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stared at the figure’s boots. White leather. Spotless. Against the mud and filth below.

The figure lowered its hand. A gesture. Not an attack. An invitation. Or a claim.

Jack’s fingers curled into his palms, nails biting into skin until he felt the prick of blood. He looked at his trapped leg. Then at the knife in his hand. Then up at the figure.

He stood up. Kicking free of the mud with a sickening squelch. The pain in his leg was a dull roar now, distant and manageable. He staggered forward. Toward the cliff edge. Toward the white boots.

The white boots did not move. They stood planted on the jagged lip of the Bone-Forging Cliff, unmoving as statues carved from frost. Jack’s leg dragged behind him, the numbness in his right hip spreading up to his waist like spilled ice water. Every step forward was a negotiation with gravity. His left boot scraped against loose shale, sending a shower of grey dust skittering down into the abyss. The sound was too loud. It echoed off the cliff face, bouncing back to him in jagged fragments.

He stopped ten paces from the edge. The mist here was thin, translucent ribbons of white smoke curling around the ankles of the robed figure. The scent hit him next—not blood or rot, but something dry and ancient. Crushed chalk. Bone dust. The air tasted metallic, coating his tongue with the phantom flavor of old pennies.

Jack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His sleeve was still smoldering faintly from the earlier fire. He pulled it away. The fabric was stiff with soot.

The figure in white did not speak. It raised a hand again. This time, fingers splayed wide. Palm facing Jack. Not an attack. A dismissal? Or a warning?

Jack’s breath hitched. He looked down.

Below the cliff edge, the fog churned. Thick, black tendrils rose from the depths, weaving together to form shapes that had no business existing in nature. Limbs of solidified shadow stretched upward. Eyes opened within the gloom—hundreds of them, blinking in unison. Green light pulsed from the pillar far behind him, casting long, distorted shadows across the mist. The pillar’s eye was gone. Replaced by a slow, rhythmic throbbing that seemed to sync with Jack’s own heartbeat.

*Thump-thump.*

*Thump-thump.*

The figure in white tilted its head. A gesture of curiosity? Or recognition?

Jack’s fingers dug into the dirt. Skin pulled taut over his knuckles. He could feel the grit under his nails. He couldn’t stay here. The fog was rising. It wrapped around the figure’s legs, and for a second, Jack thought he saw the robes dissolve into mist before reforming. The figure wasn’t entirely solid.

He turned away from the cliff edge. Not to run back—that would lead him straight into the pillar’s gaze—but to move along the ledge. To the left. Towards the dense thicket of twisted ironwood trees that clung to the rock face.

His right leg buckled. He caught himself on a protruding root, fingers scrabbling for purchase. Bark dug into his palm. Sharp pain flared, grounding him. Good. Pain was real. The thing below wasn’t.

He began to crawl. Alongside the cliff. Body parallel to the drop. Each movement sent a jolt of nausea through his stomach. He didn’t look down. He focused on the root ahead. The next one. And the next.

Behind him, a sound emerged from the mist. Low. Guttural. Like stone grinding against bone. Not words. A hunger.

Jack froze. His chest tightened. He waited for the roar to grow louder. To follow him. It didn’t. Instead, the green light below flared brightly, blindingly white for a split second. In that flash, he saw them clearly. The figures above him weren’t just standing there anymore. They were stepping forward. Off the ledge. Into the fog. Falling? No. Gliding.

Jack scrambled faster. Fingers locked hard around a gnarled branch. Wood snapped. He fell halfway into the void before catching himself on a smaller root below. His shoulder screamed in protest. Adrenaline burned through his veins, hot and sharp. He pulled himself up. Over the root. Onto the ledge again.

The ironwood trees were here. Their leaves were needle-thin, black as oil. They scratched at his face as he pushed through. The air grew colder. Damp. The smell of ozone vanished, replaced by the rotting sweetness of deep forest decay.

He emerged into a small clearing. A natural amphitheater of rock. In the center stood a single tree, its bark silver and smooth. Beneath it, embedded in the earth, was a bone. Human-sized. Vertebrae-like segments stacked vertically, glowing with that same faint green light.

Jack staggered towards it. Not because he wanted to. Because his leg refused to carry him further left. He collapsed against the tree trunk. Back sliding down bark.

He looked up. The silver bark was warm. Pulsing gently under his hand. Veins of green light ran through it, deep within the wood. Or stone? It felt solid. Heavy.

A drop of sweat ran down his temple. Into his eye. Salt stung. He didn’t blink.

From below, the grinding sound returned. Closer. The fog was rising up the cliff face. Consuming the ledge. Consuming the white-robed figures who were now mere silhouettes against the green glow.

Jack pressed his ear to the tree trunk.

Inside, he heard it. Not a heartbeat. A voice. Muffled. Distorted. Speaking in a language that wasn’t spoken but felt. Vibrating through the wood into his skull. Words he couldn’t understand but could *feel*. They tasted like ash. Like regret.

*“Forge...”* the vibration seemed to say. *“Break...”*

He pulled back. Chest heaving. His hand trembled as he reached for his knife. The blade was still in his pocket. Cold steel against his thigh. He didn’t draw it. Not yet. The tree was absorbing sound. Everything around him was silent except for the thrumming in his head.

Above, the sky turned a bruised purple. Dawn wasn’t coming. The light below was growing brighter. Intensifying. The green pulse became a strobe. Flash. Dark. Flash. Dark.

With each flash, the mist above the clearing thickened. Coalescing into shapes. Humanoid. Hundreds of them. Surrounded him. Silent. Waiting.

Jack’s fingers curled into fists. Knuckles cracked. He looked at the silver tree. Then at the approaching shadows. His right leg throbbed with a dull, burning heat. The numbness was gone. Replaced by something worse. It felt like needles were being driven into his nerve endings. One by one.

He needed to move. But he couldn’t stand. He had to choose. Climb the tree? Break the bone? Run into the mist?

The shadows stepped closer. Their faces were blank. Smooth stone where features should be. One of them raised a hand. Pointing at the silver tree.

Jack’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. His lungs burned. He gripped the bark until splinters pierced his palm. Blood welled up. Warm. Sticky.

The shadow didn’t flinch. It didn’t blink. It just waited.

Jack closed his eyes. Listened to the tree. The voice was louder now. Clearer.

*“Bleed... to see...””*

He opened his eyes. Looked at his bleeding hand. Then at the shadow.

His fingers uncurled. Slowly. He let the blood drip onto the roots of the silver tree.

The ground beneath him shuddered.