The wind rustling through the trees was not like the wind of Belgrán. It carried a wild, ancient whisper — as if the forest itself were breathing.
Arata's body lay atop a bed of soft roots, panting, while his blood seeped between damp leaves. Each heartbeat was a distant bell, dragging him closer to the abyss. The wound in his abdomen burned like liquid fire. He tried to move, but the pain was merciless, paralyzing.
"Where... am I?" he whispered, lips cracked and dry.
He remembered Elinne's knife — the cold glint in her eyes — the exact moment the blade slid beneath his rib.
And he remembered her voice.
"Nivhan... does not forgive."
That name, Nivhan, echoed inside him like something ancient, something he'd heard before. He didn't know what it meant, but the mere sound of it stirred something unsettling deep within.
Then came the doubt.
"Elinne… why?"
She had been Akiharu's assistant.
What if he was involved too?
"No... he saved me. He… he can't be part of this… right?"
Confusion swallowed him like a swamp. The world spun in blurry spirals. The whispering of leaves turned into something heavier. Not the wind.
Footsteps.
Something large was approaching.
Arata turned his head with difficulty. From within the shadows of the trees emerged a monstrous creature. It had the massive body of a bear, but its limbs were grotesquely long and bony, covered in stone-like hide with jagged mineral spines. Its snout was wide, filled with reptilian teeth, and dry roots jutted from its back, writhing like tentacles.
"Tch… not yet…" Arata growled through gritted teeth.
He tried to rise. One hand against the earth, the other clutching his wound. He barely managed to sit up before dizziness struck him like a hammer.
The beast had noticed him.
It began moving forward — slowly, deliberately — as if savoring the scent of its prey. A low, guttural growl rumbled from its throat.
Arata tried to stand.
But there was no strength.
Only pain.
Then — a gust through the air.
SHUNK!
An arrow struck the beast's rear leg.
But it wasn't a normal arrow — it was made from a green wooden thorn, and upon piercing muscle, it began to grow inward, as though the wound itself were sprouting.
The creature let out a screech. It twisted violently toward the direction of the shot, sniffing.
But no one was there.
Only forest.
Arata looked up. Through his half-closed eyes, he caught the silhouette of someone descending from the trees.
Like a dancing shadow, the figure dropped from above and launched forward. A spear — made of bone and plant — flashed through the air and pierced straight into the monster's skull.
CRACK!
The skull split with a dry snap. The creature shuddered, then collapsed with a heavy thud, raising a small cloud of dust and earth.
The figure landed and stood upright. Slim and agile, their body was wrapped in braided leather and living leaves. A hood of moss hung over long, braided hair, and the spear still in their hand pulsed with green energy — as though it were breathing.
Arata struggled to focus, but his eyelids weighed a ton. He heard a whisper.
"Niralveth… fix him."
Then, everything shattered.
Silence.
Darkness.
---
The sound of water.
Something warm brushing his forehead.
Arata opened his eyes.
Both eyes.
For the first time since waking on that distant battlefield, his left eye didn't hurt. It was no longer swollen shut by infection and scabbing. The scar was still there — but something had changed.
The ceiling above was made of plants. Giant woven leaves. Roots hung like living curtains. The scent of moist earth was strong but not unpleasant.
And his body…
The wound—
It wasn't bleeding anymore.
He tried to sit up, and saw that his abdomen was wrapped — not in cloth, but in fine roots, braided like living threads. They moved slightly, in rhythm with his breathing.
"You're awake, short-ears," said a soft voice.
Arata turned slowly.
Sitting on a stone, legs crossed, body still taut from battle, was the one who had saved him.
An elf.
Her skin was a warm, earthen brown that caught the light as if she were part of the forest itself. Her hair — long and ash-white — fell in two thick braids framing a sharp, striking face. Bone and wood beads were woven into her hair, and her long, elegantly curved ears bore small metal rings that chimed softly with the wind.
Her eyes were a fierce, golden hue — almost feline — glowing with a calm, focused awareness. Eyes that clearly belonged to someone used to the jungle's darkness… and its dangers. A spear rested against her shoulder — simple, but deadly sharp. She wore minimal leather garments, tied with braided cords and decorated with small fangs. Tribal tattoos coiled over her arms, stomach, and thighs — ritual marks, or the symbols of her clan.
There was in her a wild, dangerous beauty — as if the jungle itself had taken form. She didn't need words to command respect. In her hands, she held a bowl of steaming liquid.
"Don't move. The roots are still working," she said calmly.
"Who… are you?" Arata asked, still dazed.
"I'm the one who found you before the Zargron could eat you." She shrugged.
"And the one who asked Niralveth not to let you die."
"Niralveth…" he repeated. That was the name he had heard just before blacking out.
"My Familiar," said the elf, pointing toward a vine growing nearby — one with flower-like shapes that looked like listening ears. "She's a creature of the Forest.
Part of me.
And I of her."
Arata swallowed.
"A… a pact?"
The elf smiled.
"You know of pacts?" she asked, narrowing her golden eyes. "Then… what are you?"
"You don't have long ears like the Elfae. No scales like the Drakari. No tail like the Faunir.
You lack the glowing skin of a Myrr… and the marked body of an Orrin.
So… what are you?"
"I…" Arata tried to sit up, but pain flared in his side. He lowered his gaze, as if searching for something inside himself.
"…I don't really know."
He paused. Took a slow breath.
"I have no long ears. No scales. No tail.
I don't shine. I'm not strong.
They call what I am… human."
He placed a hand over his chest, where a fragile, burning heart beat strong.
"But even among humans… I'm not like the others.
I lost my memories. I woke up on a battlefield. No past. No name."
He looked up at the elf — not with pride, nor shame — but with something deeper:
A quiet yearning.
"I don't know exactly what I am."
Arata lowered his gaze.
His body was weak — but he no longer felt like he was about to die.
"…Thank you.
For saving me."
The elf nodded simply.
"Rest. Later… you can tell me who you are.
Or who you think you are."
Arata looked down at the living roots still tending his wound.
Then closed his eyes.