The silver Knight

"It is... but that isn't the issue here!" Kaizen jabbed a finger at his chest, where his heartbeat thundered beneath his skin. "See this?"

He pulled the fabric aside, revealing a dark character etched onto his skin—a symbol as black as midnight.

Rai's eyes widened. "The letters—they match! The one on your chest, and the one on the stage—they're the same!"

Kaizen nodded grimly. "Yes. This is the curse given to me and my brother." His voice was heavy, each word weighed down by the memories they carried. "But my brother... he's not alive anymore."

He slipped his long black coat back over his shoulders, the faint tremor of a drop of sweat tracing the curve of his face. "The curse killed him. And it's killing me too. But I don't care if I die—as long as I die after killing the bastard who ruined his life!"

Rai's expression hardened, though there was an edge of unease in his voice. "So, the man who ran in with the scroll—is he the one who cursed you?"

"No!" Kaizen's voice was a sharp snarl, his fist slamming down on the stage . "The man who cursed me—he looks like a god. But that bastard is a devil in god's clothing!"

"And... about this dying thing." Rai hesitated, his voice quieter now, his eyes fixed on Kaizen. "That day, on the boat, you said you'd die if you didn't kill the guy who cursed you. Right?"

Kaizen's gaze burned like embers. "It's more than that. He knows how to remove this curse. I have to make him talk."

Rai watched his friend closely, his chest tightening. Kaizen, like the others, carried a burden heavier than most. A life-threatening curse, a mission fueled by vengeance—it was enough to hollow anyone out. Yet, here Kaizen stood, unflinching, his resolve unbroken.

Deep in the forests, where no man should tread, Giro moved cautiously, his every step deliberate. The silence around him was oppressive, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves underfoot. Somewhere ahead, a wild animal had bolted past him—a blur of fur and ferocity. But what kind of animal was it?

He couldn't place it. It wasn't like anything he had ever seen in his life. Not in books, not in the fleeting glances of nature he'd encountered before. It resembled a bear—thin, wiry, and unsettlingly quick. But bears didn't move like that, didn't carry that same predatory silence.

The thought of moving forward clawed at his nerves. He took another cautious step, his mind clouded with doubts.

Two thoughts pulled him back into focus: first, the mission. He was here to retrieve the scroll from a man working under Zane's orders. A dangerous man. Second, Raze. Raze was missing.

That fool. He had taken off like lightning, running blindly into the unknown. If he wasn't already dead—if that strange beast or the man with the scroll hadn't gotten to him—it was only a matter of time.

Death seemed inevitable for Raze, either by claws or by hands. Giro's jaw tightened at the thought. He couldn't afford to dwell on that possibility. He had to move forward, find the scroll, and ensure Raze didn't meet his end in this forest.

But the creeping dread wouldn't let go. Each step felt heavier than the last, the dense canopy above him swallowing what little light filtered through. Time felt stretched, warped, as Giro walked deeper into the unknown, each step carrying him closer to a confrontation he wasn't sure he could win.

And still, he walked. He had no other choice.

He hadn't gone far when he heard it—a sound so faint it could have been imagined. A soft rustle, just for an instant, the kind of noise that didn't belong to the forest's stillness. Something was moving, something other than him.

He wanted to believe it was Raze. It had to be Raze. Because if it wasn't, the alternatives weren't anything he could face calmly. A cold sweat traced his spine, his forehead damp with fear he wouldn't admit.

Instinct took over. He stepped toward the nearest tree, its trunk gnarled and rough under his palm. With a quick motion, he tightened his kimono, securing it like armor for a battle he couldn't name. Gripping the bark, he pushed himself up, one foot finding purchase, then the other. Slow, deliberate movements.

What was he doing? It felt absurd. But there was a logic to it, wasn't there? Precaution. That was all. Whatever walked beneath him might not climb, or so he hoped. From up here, his odds of surviving felt slightly better. Not good, but better.

The rough bark scraped against his hands as he climbed higher, every inch giving him a little more distance from the ground below. From whatever it was. Because whatever it was, he didn't want to meet it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

As he climbed higher, the world around him grew darker, and for a moment, panic stirred in his chest. It's morning, he reminded himself, a feeble attempt to steady his thoughts. But then he recalled the hours spent traveling in the jeep, the sun's slow descent. By now, it had to be evening—or perhaps night. Yes, night. That made sense. He convinced himself it was so, though unease lingered.

The tree swayed gently under his weight as he reached its upper limits. His hands gripped the rough bark, his body steady but tense. Ahead, there was only darkness, a murky, impenetrable green where the canopy closed in. The leaves formed a thick curtain, broken here and there by pure black voids. Gaps between the trees, perhaps, or simply the absence of light. Either way, it wasn't a path he could discern from here. Whatever lay ahead would only reveal itself step by step, inch by cautious inch.

The trees around him stood close, their branches intertwined like a web. If he needed to, he could move from one to the next without much effort, barely brushing against the rough bark. He could advance, slowly and deliberately, using the branches to navigate. A silent path, hidden from whatever roamed below. If he was careful, he could keep going. And survive. For now.

Giro knew the stakes. Every step demanded precision—one miscalculation, one misplaced foot, and he would plummet. Death, swift and merciless, awaited below. The thought tightened his chest, but he clung to a grim resolve: if faced with a wild beast, he would jump. Better to embrace the fall than endure the claws and teeth of whatever prowled these woods. It wasn't bravery; it was strategy. Or so he told himself.

He steadied his breath, fingers curling around the coarse bark. The license in his pocket was his tether to sanity, his proof of survival, his reminder that he was trained—qualified—to navigate this. I won't die here, he repeated like a mantra. The license meant he could survive, didn't it?

The branches stretched out in uneven patterns, jagged and gnarled. He squinted, inspecting each one, deciding which could bear his weight. It was guesswork, of course, but belief was a powerful thing. If he judged it strong, it would be strong. Another fragile comfort, yet it kept him moving forward, inch by cautious inch.

But the forest wasn't letting go of him so easily. The oppressive quiet pressed down on him, the kind of silence that wasn't empty but filled with unseen menace. His mind teetered at the edge of reason, the creeping madness of isolation gnawing at him. He shook his head, trying to focus.

And then it came again—a sound. Faint but unmistakable. A step. Not his own.

Panic rippled through him as his eyes darted downward, then left, right, behind him. Someone—or something—was out there. Walking.

Giro's head swiveled in every direction, his body twisting instinctively, scanning the shadows with frantic urgency. He even glanced upward, but the branches above were empty, just layers of dark leaves obscuring the sky. Nothing. No movement, no shapes. His breath came shallow, his pulse pounding in his ears.

He considered his veil, the bright energy he relied on for protection and offense. But no, he couldn't use it—not now. The veil's light would pierce the darkness like a beacon, screaming his position to anyone or anything that might be watching. He needed to conserve every ounce of it, a reserve for when it truly mattered—when survival hung in the balance.

Steeling himself, Giro took another cautious step along the thick branch. The bark was rough under his hands, his fingers aching from their tight grip. Then, there it was—a flicker of movement, a shape emerging from the void. Black, indistinct but unmistakable. Someone—or something—was there.

He froze, squinting into the distance, his heart quickening. Could it be Raze? He couldn't tell. The figure was too far, shrouded in shadow. There was only one way to find out.

Giro's instincts screamed at him to climb higher, to find safety in elevation. Slowly, deliberately, he scaled the tree until he felt the branches beneath him could hold his weight securely. Only then did he inch forward, his movements deliberate, testing each branch before committing to it.

The figure remained ahead, an enigma in the darkness. He pressed onward, each step taking him closer to answers—or danger.