SWNOVELXO Chapter 7: Chapter Seven: Forest Hinoki pt.2
Chapter Seven: Forest Hinoki pt.2
"Sooooo… you guys have any hobbies?"
…
"Oh cool, me too-"
Yup, that was Quin… trying to make conversation with one of the stone imps.
They didn't answer, of course. It just plodded along at his side in eerie silence, its stone wolf-mask angled forward, looking thoroughly uninterested. The pronged greatsword it carried scraped occasionally against the branches, sending out dull thunks as it walked, but beyond that, nothing.
This had been his company for the last thirty minutes. No roads. No signs. No sarcastic commentary to volley back and forth with. And he couldn't exactly count the servo-skulls either: they just relayed data in sterile, clipped tones, occasionally highlighting tree density like that was helpful.
It was plain to say, he would've gone insane if he hadn't already long ago.
He even tried to talk to a slime once. It slid off a stump and squelched away like he'd insulted its ancestors.
That memory alone made him crave a distraction- or a snack.
Which, he took initiative on as he passed a few bushes clustered with small, red berries, picking a couple and rolling them between his fingers. They were firm, slightly shiny, and carried the faintest tart aroma.
He popped one into his mouth.
It took all of two seconds for his expression to sour. He spat it out without hesitation- right onto the side of one of the imps.
The juice splattered across its weathered stone skin, dark red streaks dripping down its side like an accidental bloodstain.
The imp didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just kept marching.
Quin coughed, wiped his tongue on his sleeve, and glared at the bush as if it had personally wronged him.
He picked one more berry just to glare at it before tossing it once he continued moving, having to jog back to the rest.
The forest was rather quiet, with leaves rustling softly above, filtered sunlight casting long fingers of warmth across the forest floor. It was scenic, picturesque even, but the longer Quin remained out here the more he missed the safety of a city, town, hells even a camp... anything without a chance to be suddenly attacked by some godforsaken monsters.
One of the servitor skulls drifted past overhead, interrupting him with the faint crackle of static.
"Tree density remains consistent. Elevation rise: point-eight degrees. No structures detected within immediate vicinity," it droned.
"Thank you, GPS #1," he sighed, shoving those thoughts back intp the reaches of his mind as he responded. "Really useful info. Let me know if a Starbucks pops up, yeah?"
…
…
…
He took a moment as they finally reached the edge of the pine forest, pausing beneath the shade of a particularly twisted tree. The light filtering through the needles cast sharp shadows across the forest floor, and the temperature dipped just enough to make him aware of the sweat clinging to his collar.
For a moment, Quin paused and checked around to make sure nothing was immediately trying to eat him, then raised his hand and summoned the familiar flicker of his system interface.
---
[System Online]
Welcome back, User.
May your delusions of grandeur continue.
---
"Thanks," Quin muttered dryly, flicking his fingers to expand the [Missions] tab he had unlocked earlier in the day.
A new window unfurled in front of him, lines of glowing text neatly etched into the air:
---
[Missions]
Foundations: Establish/Lead a Village or Base of Operations with a population of 10. (?/10)
Soldier: Kill an Enemy with your own hands. (0/1)
Delegation: Kill 10 Enemies using subjects. (4/10)
---
He tilted his head. "A village? Hopefully it counts my summons as subjects, otherwise this will be hopeless"
The second objective made him squint. "Kill one with my own hands… Huh, Sure. Just as soon as I grow claws or something."
That one will have to wait until he gained some form of weapon, until then it was pretty hopeless.
The third mission was at least promising- four Enemies down already. Guess there's a benefit to being in the wilderness.
"Alright," he muttered, closing the menu with a flick. "Now… we have a goal in mind at least, besides survival."
From somewhere behind him, one of the servo-skulls let out a burst of static that vaguely resembled a snicker.
"...At least I'm not just a skull."
The skull responded with another faint bzzt, which Quin chose to interpret as an admission of defeat.
...
They pressed onward through the ever-thickening woods until the soft burble of running water met their ears. A shallow creek meandered through the forest floor, its bed of smooth stones glinting beneath the clear stream.
The two stone imps didn't hesitate. One stepped in first, claws splashing through the shallows without a care. The second followed behind, their heavy greatsword barely rippling the surface. The servo-skulls floated along without care, trailing thin arcs of light as they glided over the water.
Quin eyed the creek warily.
It wasn't wide, barely a leap. But the stones on this side were damp, and his footing was less than ideal. Still, he wasn't about to get shown up by rock puppets and a bunch of floating bones.
He backed up a few steps, braced, and leapt.
His boot slipped the moment it pushed off the stone.
Time slowed for a heartbeat.
Aannndddd
SPLASH
Cold water swallowed him up to the knees and then some, his arms flailing wildly as he stumbled forward, momentum refusing to show mercy. He landed with a loud thwack in the shallows, soaked from elbows to ribs.
A soft thump followed a moment later. He turned his head just in time to see his Mordred plushie, now slightly damp but otherwise unharmed, bouncing once on the far bank before landing squarely on its plushy rear, seated upright like nothing had happened.
It stared at him.
Blankly.
Judgmentally.
"…Traitor,"
Quin groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow as frigid creek water seeped into his pants. "Fantastic," he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Thanks, mother nature… I really did need a bath right about now."
( 👍 No Problem )
He raised a hand and snapped his fingers toward the nearest imp. "You. Help."
The stone-masked creature paused mid stride, its foot still half-lifted from the water as it hesitated, wondering if he was even worth helping.
"Please?"
And only then did it turn and extend a single, clawed hand towards him.
He took it, naturally, letting the imp hoist him upright like a particularly soggy sack of grain.
The good news? His jacket wasn't fully soaked. The synthetic material had repelled most of the water, droplets still beading and rolling off the surface in little rivulets. He gave the hem a flick and watched as a few larger beads splashed off onto the rocks.
"…Huh. Hydrophobic. Bonus points to you Sci-Fi dystopia."
His pants, however, were another story.
He wrung out one of his sleeves anyway, out of spite, then gave the imp a pat on the shoulder. "Thanks, Imp #2. You're growing on me."
The imp didn't respond. It just turned and resumed trudging forward like nothing had happened.
The servo-skulls drifted ahead again, uncaring.
The teen just sighed as he snatched the plushie back up, returning it to its perch atop his hood before continuing deeper into the forest.
They hadn't walked more than two minutes beyond the shallow creek when the trees gave way to a small clearing, quiet and disturbingly still.
A ruined camp sprawled across the clearing, tents sagging under the weight of fallen leaves, cloth torn and blackened around the edges. Cooking pots were overturned, a crate of supplies half-buried in the dirt as if someone had tried to dig it out mid-panic.
And above all else?
A feather, black as pitch and wider than his body jutted from the heart of a collapsed tent- impaled like a war banner left behind. Something big had come through here.
"Nevermore?" he mumbled.
There was no need to guess what had happened here. Whatever had camped here, whether it be hunters or mere hunters, were gone… and whether they survived wasn't exactly up to interpretation.
"Alright uhm… keep your guards up?" Quin commanded half heartedly.
At his command, the servo-skulls drifted higher into the tree canopy, their red lenses pulsing softly as they scanned the perimeter. The slimes oozed protectively toward the front of the formation, almost eager for another fight. And the imps, ever reliable, turned towards him.
"Imp #1," He said, pointing at the one with the still-smeared berry stain on its flank. "Find me something flammable. Firewood, busted crates, hell, grab a chair if it's dry.
The imp gave no response, simply turned and trudged into the surrounding forest.
Quin exhaled and sat at an overturned log, one he could only assume was used as a seat by the previous inhabitants
He stayed seated for a moment, letting the silence settle over him as he waited for the imp to return... he wanted to get dry as soon as possible, afterall. He drummed his fingers on the log, watching dust drift lazily in the air as sunlight filtered through the canopy.
The ruined camp smelled of damp earth, old smoke, and something fainter, something almost metallic just beneath it all.
Eventually, the boredom overpowered the unease.
Quin stood with a grunt and moved toward the half-buried supply crate. It had been clawed at from one side: no, not clawed. Dug. Someone had tried to get into it in a panic. He cleared away the remaining soil and pried the lid open with a nearby stick-turned-lever.
Inside, miraculously dry under the crate's thick lid, were a few tightly wrapped bundles of preserved rations. Vacuum-sealed. Some kind of jerky. Maybe protein bars. He didn't even hesitate to pocket them immediately.
Underneath, a waterlogged pouch jingled faintly when lifted. Coins? No, definitely something glass. Faintly humming. He'd inspect those later.
And lastly, tucked near the edge of the crate, there was a dented metal flask. The side had been scored by a claw, but it hadn't pierced. He gave it a tentative shake.
Still liquid.
Still capped.
"Finder's keepers," he muttered, tucking it into his jacket. "Loser's… probably birdfeed right about now."
He stood and turned to scan the rest of the camp. Torn tents. Crushed gear. A broken rifle snapped clean in half... a pity, he would've liked something to defend himself.
Whatever happened here, it had been fast.
And equally violent.
Before the melancholy could really set in, a sound rustled behind him, soft footfalls and the familiar scrape of clawed stone dragging over forest debris.
The imp had returned carrying something in its claws.
At first, Quin thought it was a piece of leather tent canvas… something scorched and soaked by the elements. But as the imp approached and dropped it unceremoniously at his feet, the details became painfully clear.
It was a bag. Brown leather, or it had been once. Now it was dark, nearly black in places, stiff with dried blood and crumpled as if it had been hastily torn from someone's back. The straps were frayed. One buckle hung loose.
"…Oh,"
He crouched beside it, careful not to touch the worst of the stains.
"…Okayyyy, thanks for the gift? But I don't really need another reminder of how easily I'll die."
He tapped the side of it with a stick, wondering just why this little imp came back with it.
Though, that wasn't getting much done so he unbuckled the flap.
Inside were the remnants of a field kit. A coil of thin rope. A rusted multitool. A cracked mirror. A half-charred map that looked… hand-drawn?
And at the very bottom, tucked into a stitched side pouch, was a journal. The cover was damp, warped by water and worse, but the pages inside looked mostly intact, ink only slightly bled.
He flipped through them briefly. The handwriting was hurried, scrawled in narrow, looping letters. A few entries caught his eye: words like "No sign of backup," and "sound of wings again last night, Nevermore?" and most notably "it's picking us off…"
"Well, that's a horrifying sentence."
The wind chose that exact moment to pick up, rustling the trees above and sending a light flurry of pine needles cascading over the ruined camp.
Quin stood up slowly, closing the journal and slipping it into his jacket.
"We're not staying here."
One of the servo-skulls let out a single, sharp bzzt in agreement.
He looked to the imp.
"Good job. I guess… just don't bring me any more gore-satchels."
The imp turned silently and resumed watching the treeline, ever faithful, ever creepy.
He exhaled, staring once more at the giant black feather skewered through the tent at the clearing's center.
The Grimm who'd done this…
It wasn't far.
And visibility wasn't getting much better.
2178 Words
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Rejoice, for another chapter has been released.
Expect the earlier chapters to get some rewrites in the future, as I've noticed a few minor inconsistencies and plot holes, however the story will remain largely the same so no need to re-read.