In a dim, foreboding clearing deep within the forest, Lohak stumbled through a shaky recitation of a prayer:
"...With a devoted heart, I beseech your protection... May your radiance make my will steadfast, unyielding like stone..."
His voice faltered, words tangling as he struggled to remember the sequence. When memory failed, he mumbled generic invocations to fill the gaps.
It wasn't that Lohak lacked faith or doubted Leon's warnings; it was simply that his limited education made it impossible for him to memorize the long, intricate scriptures sung by the church priests.
In past communal prayers, Lohak had always relied on the lead chanter, never needing to commit the full text to memory. After all, he had only ever envisioned a future as a soldier in the city of Rolannar, following in his father's footsteps—never as a missionary spreading the Church's teachings.
As he dug a rough, inconspicuous stone out from among the rubble, doubts crept into his mind. Could this really be of any use?
He wasn't exactly skeptical, but the eerie surroundings stoked his growing unease. The chilling tales associated with this cursed land replayed vividly in his mind.
What had once been dismissed as mere folklore used to scare children now gnawed at his nerves.
The legends spoke of countless souls—kings of grand ambitions, noble knights of great courage, and cunning treasure hunters—who all ventured into this accursed wasteland seeking its riches. None ever returned to the world of the living, lost forever to the Plains of Despair.
In rare versions of the tale, some heroes managed to escape with treasure. Yet, upon their return, even the bravest and noblest among them were unrecognizable, transformed into beings corrupted by curses.
This was why the fabled field was called the Cursed Land.
Heart pounding, Lohak glanced toward Leon, who was hunched over the clearing's dirt, scribbling strange markings. That sight calmed him slightly.
Without this companion he'd met in the slave cages, Lohak would likely still be shackled, treated like an animal—or worse, already dead, beaten to death in some reckless clash with a slave master.
Though the group remained in grave danger, Lohak believed Leon had a way to lead them out of this nightmare.
But even if we make it out... what then?
Lohak frowned deeply.
Staring at the worthless stone in his hand, a surge of loathing swelled within him.
Yes, I survived. But what about my sister?
The horrifying scene he'd stumbled upon in a ravaged village recently still haunted his mind: a girl's lifeless body, defiled and discarded. That cruel imagery carved itself into Lohak's soul.
In his daze, the victim's face twisted into the likeness of his sister.
The severed head of a man rolling to the ground bore his father's face, its lifeless eyes brimming with disappointment.
I fled Cantadal... I abandoned my sister to those beasts!
How long would it take to find her?
Was she even still alive?
How much longer could she endure their torment?
Shame overwhelmed Lohak, tears streaming uncontrollably down his face.
I'm all alone now...
Suddenly, a familiar warmth enveloped him.
Startled, Lohak looked up and saw his mother's gentle face.
"Don't cry, my sweet little colt... my brave child..." she cooed softly, gazing lovingly at him.
"Mother... Mother..." Lohak shut his eyes, clinging to her in desperation.
A shrill, maniacal laughter shattered the illusion, jolting him awake in terror.
He was falling. Countless shadowy hands dragged his mother into the abyss. Her body was torn apart before his eyes, desecrated by cruel blades.
Lohak screamed in rage, but no sound emerged.
Everything went silent.
Before him stood his blood-streaked sister, staring at him with a haunting smile.
"You're the only one left... clinging to life... Why, Lohak? Why didn't you save me?"
In his blood-red vision, one figure stood out sharply, a hated silhouette.
Yes, it's him...
He's the one keeping you from rescuing me...
No... that's wrong... He's been helping me all along...
Lohak's face contorted, torn between fury and clarity.
...He's using you. He's a liar who needs your strength. And you? You're just a coward clinging to a false hope of survival.
No! I'm not! I'm not...
A soft voice whispered from behind.
The bloodied girl embraced him, her gentle face close to his ear.
Prove it to me, my dear brother...
Meanwhile, Azerian calmly chanted prayers by the riverbank, diligently searching through the scattered stones for green ones as Leon had described.
Though he didn't fully understand their purpose, he dared not slack off, knowing their escape from the cursed forest depended on Leon.
After surviving two near-death encounters beyond imagination, Azerian had grown certain that Leon was no ordinary person.
He suspected Leon was a rogue sorcerer operating outside the Church's authority—a wielder of magic, not divine miracles.
In Therian, all who displayed magical abilities, regardless of status, were forcibly taken by the Church and conscripted into the institution known as the Arcane Circle.
Those who resisted were executed on the spot. Those who complied either returned as clergy years later—or vanished entirely.
Azerian now understood why Leon had suggested fleeing north to Orland.
Unlike Therian, where sorcery was heavily regulated, Orland's kingdom held a more lenient stance toward magic users.
Gathering the green stones in a cloth bundle, Azerian turned to return to his companions—only to freeze in terror.
"Leon! Watch out behind you!" he shouted.
Startled, Leon instinctively dove aside, narrowly avoiding the strike.
A heavy thud resounded as Lohak's blade embedded itself deep in the ground, destroying the runes Leon had painstakingly drawn.
"Have you gone mad, Lohak?!" Leon scrambled to his feet, shocked and alarmed.
Lohak's bloodshot eyes glared back at him, brimming with hatred and confusion. Tears of blood streamed down his cheeks.
He lunged again, his monstrous strength splitting a tree in half.
Leon stared in disbelief as Lohak's twisted arm snapped back into place.
A soft, disembodied voice warned Leon:
"Run. He's not your friend anymore."