The 120 Spirits

The stranger

The men who planted the bombs—outlaws by necessity, not just choice—are fugitives now, their every move dictated by fear and hunger. After the crash, the world feels endless around them, a wilderness stretching in every direction, with no hope of rescue. The plane’s wreckage still smolders in their memories as they trudge onward, boots sinking into mud, shoulders aching from the weight of canvas bags stuffed with explosives. Every step is a silent plea for safety, but the only company they have is the constant, gnawing terror that they’ve run out of luck.

Days pass in a haze of exhaustion and paranoia. The men barely speak; conversation would only remind them of what they’re running from—and what they might be running toward. Food is scarce, water even scarcer, and the bag of bombs, so heavy and so dangerous, feels less like a weapon and more like a curse. Their plan, if they ever had one, is unraveling with every mile.

Eventually, hunger drives them into a clearing. It’s a scene straight from a nightmare: redfoxes—creatures that look human, but only until you see their eyes—are reveling in a macabre celebration. The ground is slick with blood, and the air pulses with the sounds of flesh being torn from bone. Human bodies lie discarded, half-eaten and twitching. For a heartbeat, the bombers freeze, horror-struck. But they’re starving, desperate enough to consider the unthinkable.

They exchange glances, the unspoken understanding passing between them. If they can just get close, maybe they can plant their bombs, maybe they can grab some food—maybe they can survive. They force smiles and step into the m******e, introducing themselves as travelers in need of help. Their hearts hammer with panic, but they play their parts, holding out hope that their ruse will be enough.

But the redfoxes are not as oblivious as they seem. They’ve watched the men’s approach with sly amusement, recognizing at once that these strangers are out of place. To them, humans are prey, and the party is just getting started. Still, they welcome the newcomers, offering platters piled high with suspiciously red meat and goblets of drink that smell faintly of copper. The bombers want to believe in the hospitality, but the tension is palpable—a game played with deadly stakes.

Kia, the youngest of the bombers, feels the wrongness in the air. He can’t shake the sensation that every smile is a threat, every gesture a test. The way the redfoxes move, the glint in their eyes—it’s all too predatory, too rehearsed. As he picks at his food, realization dawns: these aren’t merely dangerous people. They’re the very monsters he was sent to destroy, the ones who hide behind human masks until it’s too late.

Panic overtakes him. Plate clattering to the ground, Kia bolts from the feast, crashing blindly through brush and bramble until he stumbles into the woods. There, fate intervenes—he collides with a girl, seemingly out of nowhere. She’s calm, almost amused by his panic, and questions spill from her lips as she studies his terror. Her presence is a lifeline, but Kia is too shaken to answer, his mind spinning with fear and confusion.

Before they can speak further, a cacophony erupts behind them—the redfoxes, realizing their prey has slipped away, are in hot pursuit. Without hesitation, the girl grabs Kia’s arm, pulling him into a hollow beneath tangled roots. The space is claustrophobic, the air thick with shared breath and pounding heartbeats. I’m there too, pressed against cold earth, every muscle tense as we wait for the threat to pass. The redfoxes’ snarls and footsteps echo overhead, but eventually, silence returns. We emerge, gasping, and slip deeper into the woods, the darkness swallowing us as we flee.

Night falls, and we find shelter in a battered town, little more than ruins and shadows. Inside a crumbling house, we discover three humans—faces gaunt, eyes wide with terror. They’re paralyzed by fear, unable to leave, because outside, prowling through the empty streets, are the fourth knight wolves. These aren’t ordinary predators; they’re nightmares made flesh, relentless and cunning, ruling the town with fear.

Daniel, ever the optimist, insists we make a stand at dawn. I argue against it—the wolves are strongest when the sun rises, their senses sharpened by hunger and rage. But the others are desperate for hope, and my warnings go unheard. As dawn breaks, our ragtag group prepares for battle, nerves stretched to the breaking point.

Damien takes the lead, followed by Elina, Daniel, and Lucian. We move quickly, sweeping through the house, gathering survivors. Five more humans join us: two terrified children—Gregor, barely old enough to walk, and Peter, his older brother; two elderly men, Peter’s father and his wife Alex, both clinging to hope by the thinnest thread; and a baby, John, swaddled and silent, oblivious to the danger outside.

As we ready ourselves to escape, the wolves gather at the door, their growls vibrating the walls. We know the rules—they can’t enter unless invited—but the tension is suffocating. Guns are drawn, but no one dares fire, afraid stray bullets could hit the baby. Then, through the chaos, a voice cuts through the tension: a girl in a dark hood calls Elina’s name. Despite her fear, Elina steps outside, her bravery shining even as her hands tremble.

The hooded girl is Kiara, and beside her stands her brother, Hood. Their calm is unsettling, but their message is clear—they’ve handled the wolves. The bodies lie in a bloody heap at the doorstep, the threat neutralized before we could even react.

Relief floods through us, laughter bubbling up as we pile into the battered car, grateful beyond words to have survived the night. For a moment, hope returns, fragile but real. But as the engine roars to life and we speed away from the nightmare, a painful realization settles over me: in our rush to escape, we’ve left behind the bombers—the men whose actions set all of this in motion, forgotten in the scramble for survival. Their fate remains unknown, a haunting echo in the wilderness we leave behind.