Scealume

A young boy shattered the silence of the quiet night. He ran with all his might, not daring to pause even for a moment. Footsteps echoed behind him—sporadic but steadily closing in. His strength was running low, and despair clouded his eyes. Though he was in a remote and desolate area, the land was eerily open from frequent military passage. In this pitch-black night, there was no place to hide. He had just fought off his pursuers—three against one. He never stood a chance. One of them had stabbed his right arm with a sword, and now he was forced to flee, hoping for a miracle. Fortunately, none of them could use magic. If he kept moving, he might outrun them. Yet the sounds of shouting and pounding feet grew louder and louder. Just as he was about to give in to despair, he saw the silhouettes of towering trees up ahead. A new surge of hope drove him forward, and he ran toward the forest with everything he had left. The woods were even darker. But strangely, he found that he could make out shapes in the near-total darkness. He ran through the trees, only to be caught by countless vines that tangled around his feet. He stumbled, fell, but got back up again. He crawled, scrambled, and ran, thorny vines scraping his legs b****y. His pants were soaked with blood, and the fabric torn to shreds. He was breathless now. Suddenly, the pursuers’ footsteps closed in rapidly. He ducked into a bush and quickly sliced the vines off his legs with a small knife. The men chasing him caught up but seemed completely unable to see in the dark, bumping into trees and cursing in low voices. The sound of swords being unsheathed rang sharply in the silence. The rustling of grass as they moved made it clear they were nearby. The boy didn’t move. He crouched low, hands tightly clamped over his mouth, afraid even his faint breathing would give him away. Time passed—how much, he couldn’t tell. Then the men gathered not far from him and started talking. He inched closer to listen. “This is pointless,” one of them muttered. “We’ve got no fire, and it’s way too dark to find him in here.” “So what do we do? What are we gonna say when we go back?” The first voice replied, “We wait outside. I don’t believe he’ll survive this forest.” “True… I’ve heard this forest is cursed…” “Forget the superstition. He must die.” Cold sweat streamed down his back. They were planning to wait him out. He didn’t move until the sounds of footsteps faded into silence. Only then did he dare crawl out and sit beneath a tree. His expression shifted from pain to exhaustion, and his brows drooped. He clutched his wounded right arm with his left hand. His strength was gone. He looked up at the stars, dazed. The moon seemed especially bright tonight. His vision began to blur. . . . Blinding sunlight forced his eyes open. Groggy, he blinked and stared at the wooden ceiling above him. ...A ceiling? He sat up in shock. He was lying on a wooden bed, dressed in an oversized white shirt. His wounds had been bandaged. He looked around. To his left was a wooden shelf filled with colorful glass bottles. On the right, another shelf held old books—none he could understand. The air smelled faintly of herbs. He turned toward the scent and saw a grassy clearing outside the window, with the forest beyond. He was in a cabin, deep in the woods. Through the half-open door, he spotted someone sitting quietly on a wooden chair outside, basking in the sun. As if sensing his gaze, the person opened their eyes, turned, and smiled: "You're awake?"