Part 7: At the End of the Forest

Shamane opens his eyes, only to find the furball staring at him with its round eyes.
Shamane: You rascal, I only plucked some of your fur...
Shamane: You didn't have to go this far...
Carbuncle: @#%!
It grabs the herbs in its mouth, bouncing away.
Shamane: Hey, give that back. I'll pluck some of my own hair if I have to!
But before he finishes speaking, the fury thing blends into the bushes.
He gets up helplessly, bearing the pain, following it into the misty forest...

Shamane: "All living beings, souls bound; from beasts to birds, from flowing waters to unyielding stones, all share an equal essence."
Shamane: "Kill and trample not; hold respect within."
He leans down, the carved lines on the stele ancient and too eroded to discern.
Shamane: These strokes.
He goes behind the stele, finding the surface blood-stained from long ago...
Carbuncle: @#%!
The furball ignores the stele, bounding ahead on its own.

Shamane: ...
He smells the mist, frowning.
Shamane: Smells like... mushrooms.
Danger lurks within—an instinct honed over months and years.
Brushing aside some weeds, another stele appears.
The stele is severely damaged, its carvings unrecognizable.
Shamane: "Life is ceaseless as the endless streams."
Shamane: "Those against nature shall suffer..."
Shamane: ...?
Hearing a crackling sound below, he shifts his foot, revealing the bone of a human hand.

Fungi cover the tree trunks, dense like swarming bees.
Sticky fluids seep from the dark green mushrooms, dripping onto withered plants.
Shamane: ...This place was nothing like this before...
Shamane: Something feels wrong... What is this strange place?
He carefully surveys the surroundings, finding a stele wrapped in cyst-like fungi.
Suppressing disgust, he pulls out the fungal bodies, revealing the carved lines on the stele.
Shamane: "Death and life, movement and stillness, all are one."
Shamane: "Thoughts and feelings are but ephemeral shells."
Shamane: ...
This is such an obvious warning.
Shamane: Sigh... I should've known this is another of the old man's traps!
But before entering the forest, it is pointless to question such things.
Shamane: Let's go. What else can we do but enter and look...

The carbuncle stops, excitedly showing him this...swamp.
At the forest's edge, a group of black carbuncles are grouped together, as if deep in discussion.
He realizes this is likely their former habitat.
Carbuncle: @#$!
Shamane: Oh, so you brought me to meet your little friends? Great... Otherwise, the old man would complain about having another mouth to feed.
As he approaches, the strange feeling intensifies...
Shamane: I say...your friends don't seem as chatty as you.
Shamane: Hmmm...this smell is quite rancid.
The rotten stench rushes up his nose, making him gag.
The furry creature's "friends" remain in place.
Shamane: Hey...I brought your friend back—
Shamane: !?
Touching them, the carbuncles roll down, revealing hollowed eye sockets.
Shamane: Little furball!
It jumps onto a rock in the swamp's center.
An orange plant entwined by mycelium sits on it. It's just what he's been looking for.
Carbuncle: @#$!
Shamane: Hey, be careful!
"Crack."
He looks down, and sees a broken shaman mask under his foot.
Shamane: ...Damn it.
Lifting his head, a hand suddenly flies out, dragging him into the swamp without a word...

Shamane: Argh... Blargh...
Shamane: Give it...to me!
Dragging his battered body, he uses his last ounce of strength to ignite a piece of wood, hurling it into the heart of the fungus.
The fungi shriek as the flames scorch them, eventually turning to ashes.
Holding the plant in his arms, he crawls towards the exit on the ground.
Shamane: ...What?
The smell of burnt fungi invades his nose.
Shamane: Oh no...
A sourceless mist fills his mind like water, devouring his legs and gradually spreading to the tip of his nose...
His eyes grow veiled.
...
...
Carbuncle: ...
A black figure emerges in the mist.
Carbuncle: @#$&! @#$&!
Shamane: ...
A loner among the carbuncles, it has carried countless things across the neglected forest—
Fur damp, icicles hang from its frozen snot. The source of water in the harsh winters is the culprit for everyone's growling stomachs.
Sticky, delicious honeycombs that make one swell up painfully are the great lord's tribute.
And the huge, incessant rocks, tumbling down the tall slopes that harm it... Is that not their true purpose?
But this is the strangest thing it carries—a human. It is a warm and rather smelly creature.
What is that? What is...that?
It doesn't care.
Carbuncle: @#$&...
It carries the heavy body, climbing up like always...yet something is different.
Reaching the exit, the mist recedes, and light spills down.
It puts down the body. It’s time ... to go back.
...
... ......