Traveler's Will: Chronicles of the Lost Worlds

The figure in the chair twisted violently, ropes writhing like serpents around his limbs, their knots cinching tighter with a sickening, wet squelch. Pale candlelight flickered, casting jagged shadows that danced across walls that shimmered and rippled like oil on water. The air hung heavy, saturated with the cloying stench of rotting lilies, the acrid tang of burnt sugar, and the musky odor of damp fur.

From the shadows, the old man lurched forward, his limbs contorting at unnatural angles, as if his bones had been shattered and clumsily pieced back together. His grin stretched grotesquely across his face, exposing blackened teeth that gleamed like wet coal. 

In one hand, he clutched a fan, its surface alive with swirling patterns that writhed and twisted as he waved it. His other hand gripped a staff, its wood warped and splintered, as though torn from the heart of a dying tree.

He was wrapped in tattered robes of deep dark browns and black that seemed to absorve the surrounding light. His sagging hood barely concealed his pallid, withered features beneath a cascade of tangled silver hair. 

He hummed a nursery rhyme, the melody distorted and played backward, each note clawing at Lisandra's nerves like a jagged blade. His voice cracked as he sang:

"The madden moon, she casts her net. To catch the souls who won't forget. The fisherman's line, it cuts so deep. To bind the dreams you cannot keep."

His movements grew more frenzied, his dance a chaotic spiral around the chair, his limbs flailing as though he were trying to escape his own skin. The figure in the chair screamed again, but the sound was swallowed by the room, leaving only a faint, hollow echo that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Lisandra stumbled back, her boots clinging to the floor with a sickening squelch, as if the ground were coated in tar. The sensation crawled up her spine, the sticky resistance of the floor echoing the suffocating weight of the room.

"What is this?" she whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible over the old man's humming and the faint, wet sound of the walls rippling.

The old man halted mid-dance, his head jerking toward them with a sharp crack that reverberated through the room. His grin stretched wider, and he thrust the fan toward them, its patterns swirling faster, distorting their vision.

"Welcome," he croaked, his voice a guttural rasp that seemed to crawl out of his throat like a living thing.

A sudden gust swept through the room, carrying the acrid scent of charred wood and the briny tang of saltwater. Lisandra's hair lashed around her face as the walls stretched and warped, their surfaces rippling like storm-tossed water. 

The wood groaned and splintered, the sound of cracking timber mingling with the choir's crescendo, as if the walls themselves were screaming in agony.

The candles, once scattered randomly, began to writhe, their flames stretching into thin, serpentine tendrils. They slithered across the floor in eerie unison, forming a perfect ring around the chair. The flames flared brighter, casting grotesque, writhing shadows that danced across the walls.

Then, with a sudden, violent motion, the fire surged forward, crawling like worms toward the bound figure.

Lisandra's breath hitched as the flames engulfed the boy. His uniform was unmistakable. The fire gnawed at the fabric, devouring it with a ravenous, almost sentient hunger. The boy's screams were swallowed by the room's suffocating silence, but his face twisted in agony, his eyes wide with unspoken terror.

She tried to move, to scream, but her body betrayed her, frozen in place by the room's invisible, crushing grip. She could only watch, helpless, as the boy's body convulsed, his skin splitting and charring, his form crumbling into ash and glowing embers. 

The old man hummed, his voice threading through the choir's mournful dirge like a strand of insanity. His fan swayed in rhythm with the music, each motion unleashing tendrils of mist that coiled through the room. The walls blurred and dissolved, melting into a swirling, gray fog. 

Only the burnt figure in the chair remained, his form crumbling into the circular scorch mark on the floor.

With a sudden, violent motion, the old man slammed the fan against his chest, the impact resonating like a gunshot. The mist thickened, swallowing everything but his face, which hovered in the darkness like a grotesque, leering moon. His laughter erupted, a guttural, shrill cacophony that seemed to emanate from every corner of the room.

As abruptly as it had begun, the chaos faded. The mist dissipated, unveiling a new scene: a clearing encircled by dense, shadow-cloaked trees. The path ahead was strewn with shards of broken glass that glimmered faintly in the dim light. The burnt figure had vanished, leaving only a scorch mark and faintly pulsing cracks in the ground, as though the earth itself were alive.

Lisandra staggered to the left, her body lurching as if released from invisible bonds. She crashed into Miranda and Walden, their breaths coming in ragged, uneven gasps, as though they had just emerged from underwater.

Lisandra's vision blurred, her skin prickling with a sickly, feverish heat that left her both nauseated and unnervingly alert. Her blood roared in her ears, her heart hammering like a war drum.

"That… that…" Miranda stammered, her voice shaking as she fought to find words. "What the hell just happened?"

Lisandra's legs trembled as she approached the scorch mark, her boots crunching over the brittle, charred earth. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Her eyes widened as a voice — cold, mechanical, and utterly alien — reverberated in her mind: "4 dead, 1 captured, 25 active."

She froze, her breath catching. The words weren't just heard; they were felt, like a blade etching itself into her mind. Her hands balled into fists, nails biting into her palms as she fought to steady herself.

"He…" Walden's voice cracked, his words stumbling as he stared at the scorch mark. "Died?"

The question lingered, unanswered. Their eyes flicked between the blackened circle and each other, struggling to reconcile the horror before them with the cold, mechanical voice in their minds. It felt as though reality had splintered, trapping them in a nightmare with no escape.

"He was one of us," Lisandra said. "From my academy. And I…" She trailed off, her throat tightening as the weight of her helplessness pressed down on her.

Miranda shut her eyes, her nails biting into her thighs as if the pain could ground her. "We couldn't do a damn thing," she muttered, her voice laced with bitterness.

"Not a single goddamn thing. Hell, we couldn't even move." She let out a hollow laugh, sharp and brittle, like glass shattering. "Guess we're just here to watch the show, huh? Front-row seats to this nightmare..."

Walden tilted his head toward the sky, his face ashen. The gray clouds churned in unnatural, wave-like patterns, their edges jagged and sharp, as though the sky itself were alive and watching. "Will he… Will he survive it?" he whispered, his voice trembling.

Lisandra and Miranda turned to him. Walden met their gaze, his eyes wild and desperate. "This is madness," he said, his voice climbing. "In the first hours, five of us are already dead. Five! We heard it, didn't we? Corrupted! Damn it all, Corrupted!" He spat the word like venom, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

"Nothing about this is what they promised," Walden snarled, kicking the ground so hard that ash sprayed into the air. He spat, his face contorted with disgust. "I can't die here. I won't die here. Not like this. Not in this… this hellhole."

Lisandra watched him, her chest constricting. Her mind raced, thoughts of her family flooding in unbidden. Her mother's voice echoed in her memory, soft yet unwavering: 'You're stronger than you think, Liss. Don't let fear take you.'

But this wasn't just fear. It was something deeper, something primal. Her instincts screamed at her, a relentless drumbeat in her skull. 

'Something worse is coming. Something worse than death.' It felt like a clock ticking toward midnight, each second pulling them closer to an unknown, inevitable horror.

She glanced at the scorch mark again, the faint pulse of the cracks in the ground sending shivers down her spine. 

'If all of us die here…' The thought chilled her to the bone. 'What happens then? What happens to our home?'

Miranda's voice sliced through her thoughts, sharp and bitter. "Nothing about this is right. Nothing. They lied to us. Every damn word was a lie."

Walden let out a strangled laugh, his hands clawing through his hair. "Yeah, no kidding. But what do we do now? Sit here and wait? Or move? Or else?"

"We keep moving," Lisandra said, her voice steadier than she felt. "We don't have a choice. If we stop, we die. And if we die…"

The trio stood in silence, their breaths gradually steadying. Around them, the clearing seemed to pulse with life. The rustling of leaves in the shadowy trees grew louder, a rhythmic whisper that filled the air.

The buzzing of insects joined the chorus, their hum low and steady, like the heartbeat of the earth. For a moment, it almost felt peaceful.

Lisandra stared ahead, her gaze locked on the path. Her voice cut through the silence, quiet but firm.

"Did…" she began, her eyes narrowing as she searched for the right words. "Did any of us even read him? With the System?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She already knew. None of them did. It had all happened too fast — too sudden, too absurd, too horrifying. The door, the old man, the boy consumed by fire, the room that twisted and screamed.

Her thoughts shattered, scattering like shards of glass in her mind. She tried to piece them together, to make sense of what had happened, but every time she thought she had a grip, they slipped away, leaving her with a hollow ache.

'Is this real?' The question surfaced unbidden, but it felt meaningless. Reality here was fluid, grotesque, and impossible to pin down. Trying to define it only made her head spin. Her thoughts spiraled into a void of absurdity, each one darker and more disjointed than the last.

She straightened her shoulders, her jaw clenching as she forced her mind to focus. Her eyes, once wide with fear, now blazed with determination. She didn't need answers. She didn't need to understand. All that mattered was survival. 

'Survive. Survive. Survive.' The word echoed in her mind like a mantra.

"Let's keep going!" she said, her voice sharp and commanding, slicing through the stillness.

Miranda and Walden turned to her, their faces a blend of exhaustion and doubt. Miranda's arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her nails still biting into her skin, while Walden's hands hung limp at his sides, his fingers twitching around his bow.

"You sure about that?" Miranda asked, her voice laced with skepticism. "Because last time we 'kept going,' we walked straight into a goddamn horror show."

Lisandra didn't flinch. "We don't have a choice. Staying here won't save us. We need to find the others. We need to escape this place."

Walden let out a shaky breath, his eyes darting to the trees. "And what if the next thing we find is worse? What if—"

"Then we deal with it," Lisandra interrupted, her tone firm and unyielding. "But we don't stop. Not now. Not ever."

Miranda snorted, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. "Easy for you to say. But I guess... Well… Let's keep moving."

Lisandra shot her a look, her expression stern but not unkind. "We're all scared. But if we let it stop us, we're dead. So let's move."