Isaac watched in horror as the massive horde of possessed approached him, their hollow eyes gleaming with an unholy hunger.
They advanced like a slow tidal wave, an endless mass of decayed bodies surging forward.
His pulse quickened, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
"Shit," he muttered, feeling the ice-cold grip of panic start to squeeze his chest.
"I need to find another way."
He took a step back, glancing frantically around. The possibility of running around the horde seemed slim, but he had no choice.
The thought of facing the sheer number of them—hundreds, thousands—was paralyzing. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, and he listened.
Pushing off from the ground, he started to jog, then broke into a sprint.
His muscles, already strained from constant vigilance and combat, protested, but he forced them into motion.
The air whooshed past him, and his legs moved faster.
His abnormal strength, amplified slightly since his victory over the shadow devil, propelled him forward.
"Woah, I'm so fast!" he marveled.
The adrenaline coursing through his veins pushed him faster than he'd ever run before.
His body, light and agile, seemed to almost glide through the thick fog.
The wind whipped his face, creating a sharp resistance.
His sports clothes—a T-shirt and shorts—flapped against his skin, barely providing warmth in the chilling air.
Despite the cold, his adrenaline kept him focused. He hadn't changed back to his regular clothes, they still had a stench that turned his stomach.
Seconds ticked by as he sprinted.
He dodged around the jagged black stones jutting from the ground, their rough surfaces sharp and unyielding.
Despite his speed, the wall of bodies never seemed to end. It loomed ahead, an impenetrable barrier of death and decay.
The wind lashed at his face, bringing with it the stench of decay from the horde.
As he sprinted around the horde, a gnawing worry grew within him.
"How long is this wall of the possessed?"
He'd been running for about thirty seconds, yet he couldn't see an end in sight. The line of shambling figures seemed to curve in a way that defied logic.
"Why does it look like it's curving?" he wondered aloud, horror dawning in his eyes.
The mass of possessed seemed to form an enormous, sweeping arc. A sick realization settled in his gut like lead.
"Wait!" He skidded to a halt, pivoting sharply to race in the opposite direction.
He had to confirm his fears, but dread made his legs heavy. Every step through the fog felt like wading through a swamp of nightmares.
Isaac dodged more of the monolithic stones, his breath coming in ragged gasps. E
ach moment was a torturous eternity as he ran, his surroundings a blur of grey and black.
His lungs burned with exertion, but he pushed on, praying he was wrong.
After what felt like an age, he saw it.
"Shit," he swore, the word escaping in a ragged breath.
it was Another wall of possessed, marching slowly towards him from the other side. They were closing in, creating an inescapable ring of death around him.
"FUCK!" The word tore from his throat in a strangled cry.
The truth was undeniable now. He was surrounded, trapped in a tightening noose of decaying flesh and hollow eyes.
The realization struck like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs.
"Am I going to die here?" The question hung heavy in the air, the crushing weight of his situation pressing down on him.
He fought to suppress the rising tide of hopelessness.
He had come so far, endured so much, and now he was staring into the abyss. The thought of dying here, so close to the dim red light that promised hope and escape, was unbearable.
Every step in this hellish landscape, every battle fought, every moment of vigilance, seemed wasted. Had all his struggles led to this bleak end?
"Calm down, Isaac. Think, think!" He forced himself to breathe deeply, to focus his racing thoughts.
He had to analyze the situation rationally. If he succumbed to despair, he was as good as dead.
"I have about half an hour," he estimated, watching the slow, shuffling pace of the horde.
The circle wasn't enormous, but the possessed moved with a torturous slowness, giving him a fleeting window of time.
Yet something about their movements was off, unsettlingly deliberate.
They weren't just aimlessly wandering; they were converging with eerie precision.
"Someone or something is controlling them," he realized, a cold, hard clarity cutting through the fog of fear.
The absence of possessed earlier, the sudden appearance of thousands now—it all pointed to a calculating mind orchestrating this nightmare.
Isaac's mind raced through the evidence:
When he first entered the black stone forest, he hadn't encountered a single one of the possessed.
the black stone forest had seemed deserted, a vast expanse of twisted rocks and eerie silence.
There should have been some sign, some indication of the undead lurking within its shadows, yet he had seen nothing.
Now, out of nowhere, thousands of them had materialized. This sudden appearance was far too deliberate to be a coincidence.
Their sheer numbers, emerging from the fog and darkness, defied all logic.
It was as if they had been waiting for the precise moment to reveal themselves, to spring the trap.
Reflecting on his journey, he realized that he had been targeted almost exclusively by shadow devils.
At first, he believed they were the primary threat in this cursed land. The initial attacks seemed almost random.
But as time went on their relentless focus on him, subtly increasing in number and ferocity, had distracted him from other possible dangers.
They made him believe that they were the only significant threat, keeping his guard lowered and his attention occupied.
The idea that someone or something orchestrated this dawned on him gradually.
The schemer had been studying him, assessing his power, and waiting for the right moment to act.
The possessed were not merely mindless zombies; they were tools in the hands of a cunning manipulator.
This schemer had gathered enough of them, bided its time, and then moved to encircle him with a precision that was terrifying.
He could see it now, the cold logic behind the schemer's actions.
First, it had observed him from the shadows.
Then, it had sent shadow devils to probe his defenses, learning his strengths and weaknesses through each encounter.
It was a process of elimination, stripping away his sense of security and gradually tightening the noose.
The encirclement was the final piece of the puzzle.
It was a strategic move, designed to corner him, to leave him with no escape. The horde moved with a methodical pace, their slow advance more terrifying than any frantic chase.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Without him knowing, the schemer had orchestrated this, setting the pieces in place, herding him like prey into a corner.
"But why aren't they running?" he asked aloud, confusion cutting through his fear.
The possessed moved slowly, deliberately, their pace unnaturally languid. They could have overwhelmed him easily, but they didn't.
The realization struck him with a sickening clarity.
"It's toying with me." The schemer wasn't just content with trapping him; it wanted to torment him.
The slow advance, the encirclement—it was a sadistic game, designed to drag him into the depths of despair before the final blow.
It wanted him to feel the hopelessness, to see the noose tighten inch by inch.
"But that means it's watching me," he realized.
Somewhere, the puppet master was observing him, savoring his terror and desperation.
It enjoyed watching its prey struggle, watching the light of hope fade from their eyes.
It enjoyed the spectacle of despair, the slow descent into madness.
This wasn't just about killing him; it was about breaking him.
The schemer's ability to control the horde and shadow devils indicated it could see him, monitor his every move.
But where was it? How far could its influence extend in this black stone forest? If only he could locate the schemer, he might have a chance to fight back.
But the odds were grim. He didn't know the schemer's exact powers or how it observed and manipulated its minions.
Direct confrontation was likely impossible. His only hope lay in escaping this trap, outwitting the unseen puppeteer.
"Sigh~ what can I do? How can I escape?" He scanned his surroundings, his eyes desperate for anything that might offer a chance.
The landscape under the colossal star revealed nothing but the massive black rocks, their jagged forms reaching into the sky.
Some of them towered six to seven meters high, though most were shorter, around four to five meters.
They offered no real sanctuary; the horde would inevitably swarm over them, using each other as grotesque ladders.
The fog drifted, curling and shifting like a living thing.
Hiding in it was futile; the horde would find him soon enough. He was running out of options.
His gaze fell to his rusty black katana, the weapon he had relied on through so many battles.
He stared at it, a thought forming in his mind.
"Wait a second," he murmured, his eyes narrowing with intent. "That might actually work, but I've never tried it."
An idea sparked, a risky, untested plan.
It was a gamble, but it he didnt an options.
He fought to suppress the smile tugging at his lips. If the schemer was watching, he couldn't afford to give anything away.
"I hope I'm good at acting," he whispered
To make his plan work, he had to put on the performance of his life.