Jonathan remained on his knees in the steaming sludge, his body broken, his eyes fixed on the shattered medallion before him.
And then he heard it: a whisper.
It did not come from the forest. It did not come from the wind.
It came from within.
A low, muddy murmur, hissing in his mind like larvae crawling beneath his skin.
The medallion, though broken, still pulsed. Tiny fragments on its surface glowed with a faint, deep-blue light — like a diseased eye staring up at him from the earth.
Jonathan tried to pull away, but his muscles stiffened. The veins in his arms bulged, black as pitch, and his hands began to tremble uncontrollably.
The Glawackus was dead — its body, yes.
But what it represented, the ancestral essence of blood and hunger, had not been extinguished.
It had found a new host.
Jonathan collapsed face-first into the dirt, clawing at the ground in desperation. The forest’s invisible claws now dug into his soul, planting dark seeds in his torn flesh.
Somewhere, deep within the forgotten woods, something answered.
It was no longer the roar of a beast.
It was a long, resonant note — a guttural chant that reverberated through the soil and the bowels of the earth.
The forest had accepted the sacrifice.
But, as always, it demanded more.
Jonathan screamed — but the sound was swallowed by the earth.
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