Everyone huddled in a circle around the old man, clutching sticks they had picked up from the ground—sticks that looked pitiful next to his enormous sword.
But he didn't attack.
The old man just stood there, calm and steady, gripping the hilt, waiting.
And there was a reason for that.
The branches had stopped four steps away, not coming any closer, but slowly sealing off the path both ahead and behind. They weren't attacking. They were herding them in.
It all happened too fast.
The old man silently raised his sword, and a flash of light enveloped him. One step forward, a sudden thrust—and a sweeping strike cut through the darkness.
For a moment, it felt like his blade was the only thing lighting this world.
The torches flickered weakly, like distant fireflies—their glow nothing compared to this brilliance.
The air rang from the force of the blow. A radiant aura tore through the dark, but only a few branches shattered into splinters. A waste of strength.
The old man frowned but didn't hesitate. Instead, he barked—
—FORWARD!
They broke into a run.
The old man surged ahead, his speed overwhelming. It looked like he was wielding his massive sword like a walking stick, swinging it without the slightest delay.
The branches rushed in to cut them off, but his blade cleared the way faster than they could block it.
And then the rain intensified.
Not ordinary rain—this one burned. It sliced the skin, like thousands of tiny blades.
Screams rang out in the dark.
Torches flared and died out, one after another. Torches that should have held up against rain—but this wasn't normal. It was something else entirely.
Even the moon disappeared, hidden behind pitch-black clouds.
Only the sword's light remained, tearing through the gloom.
—YOU'LL SAVE US, RIGHT?! —someone shouted.
His voice trembled, full of fear and uncertainty.
There was no reply.
Then Vale spoke, his voice shaking:
—Guys... if we die here... just know... that I love you…
Ars silently searched for any possible way out.
He was trying to stay logical, to think clearly—but nothing worked. No method proved effective.
Lark took a different path—he clenched his hands tighter and began praying in his usual way.
Gloomer gritted his teeth.
Was this really the end?
His whole life had been suffering. And now it was going to end like this? He hadn't even seen the world…
Damon instinctively looked at his notebook. THE PAGES WERE BLANK!
And yet, somehow, this didn't feel like true danger to him.
Suddenly, letters began to appear on the page, forming words.
He leaned in closer.
"Low-tier spatial knot. Key to passage: see through the illusion."
This notebook... I thought it was just ordinary! —the thought shot through Damon's mind.
His brain exploded into a whirlwind of thoughts. Possibilities. Risks. Paths to survival. A thousand options flickered before his inner eye.
He instantly cast aside everything unnecessary.
Suddenly, without a word, he broke into a sprint—straight toward the branches.
The old man felt it immediately—shock.
That boy... I knew it. He's a Miracle-Bearer! —flashed through the old man's mind.
Damon clenched his jaw, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the knot. Just a little more and—
Click.
The world shuddered.
Everything around him trembled. The illusion shattered into inky sparks, revealing what was hidden. For a moment, his eyes met the old man's.
But it was too late.
Something glinted faintly in the old man's hand. An artifact.
Just one second—and everything changed.
Damon froze in disbelief.
The air thickened, as if soaked in the very essence of nightmare. The spatial knot roared—its nature twisted, surrendering to a new power. The illusion didn't fade—it consumed Damon.
Damon was trapped.
The spatial knot was no longer low-tier — because of the old man's hidden interference, it had become stronger.
The space tightened, the air grew heavy, and the surrounding reality warped, turning into a deadly labyrinth.
The others froze, unable to grasp what had just happened. But it was already too late.
In an instant, every person was caught inside.
It seemed like the old man had been the first to fall among these powerless people.
The branches closed in tighter, walls of darkness sealing them in from all sides.
Forty beggars, with no strength, no magic, no hope.
Gloomer held his breath, watching as a sharp branch drew back, ready to strike—
And then fire burst forth.
Not the light of the sword.
A bright, blazing flame erupted off to the side—coming from... a pickaxe?
A man. Gaunt, broken, covered in wounds—but holding fire in his hands.
Arlo. The same beggar the old man had questioned earlier.
He raised his hand, and the flame surged in a wave, forcing the branches to retreat.
The shadows scattered, as if they had never existed.
Gloomer breathed heavily, unable to believe what he was seeing. It had all happened so fast.
— Damn, feels like I'm watching a play again… and like always, I don't get a thing.
— Relax, — Vale muttered. — In this play, we're all just minor characters.
And then... a man stepped out from the darkness.
He swung his sword.
And the world changed.
The branches vanished. The moon returned.
But the rain still poured.
It was the Old Man!
He crossed his arms and looked at Arlo.
— So now you're going by Arlo, is that it?
Gloomer sharply turned toward him, not understanding what was happening. After what he'd just seen, he now noticed the desperation in this man's eyes.
At this moment, the old man was completely serious.
Gloomer looked at the situation from every angle.
So all those moving branches had just been an illusion?
These damn strange Anomalies...
Arlo clenched his fists.
— How... how the hell did you know it was me?
The old man smirked.
— Don't insult me. Your wounds, your excuses about the eastern part of the island... even your "comrades" wearing different clothes. You don't need to be a tracker to see through that.
The crowd stood in confusion, but instinctively began to back away from Arlo.
The old man continued:
— Honestly, I wasn't sure you were the one I was looking for. The one I came out here to find. But how lucky that this spatial knot worked in my favor.
— Clever move: first, you betray and abandon your comrades to see if I know about you, and then, once I've killed them, you change your face and try to sneak into our group like a pathetic refugee.
Everyone suddenly remembered that group that had lied about the cave being destroyed.
Arlo suddenly burst out laughing—loud, strained, almost hysterical.
— So this is it… my cursed luck!
His voice broke into a ragged roar.
— HOW, HOW, HOW THE HELL, HOW—NO, WHY DID IT ALL TURN OUT THIS WAY?!
He threw his head back, his eyes burning with rage.
The old man looked at him with pity. He spoke a single word:
— Trash.
— You have no right to judge me. Born in comfort, and now you think you're better than the rest?
He laughed—low, bitter, filled with contempt.
— …You're just garbage that got lucky.
Silence.
Only the rain tapping against the ground.
Arlo slowly turned to the crowd.
— You pathetic fools… You really believe you can escape this hell just by working hard?
He shook his head, smirking.
— It doesn't matter how hard you try. It doesn't matter how talented you are. Even if the gods themselves bless you. Even if luck smiles down on you…
His eyes narrowed.
— This world is built to make sure you're always missing something. To keep you as pawns. To throw you away the moment you're no longer needed.
Then he spoke the final line:
— Because all of you… are just background characters.
He opened his mouth to say something more—
But fire suddenly engulfed Arlo himself. The pickaxe lit up with an unnatural glow, and he screamed as the flames began to consume his flesh.
He tried to throw it away—but it was too late. In seconds, only a charred shadow remained.
Even the artifact rejected this outcast, refusing to acknowledge him.
The old man didn't need to move.
Wordlessly, without a trace of emotion, he lifted the burning pickaxe.
Without turning to the others, he said:
— Don't take him seriously, — the old man said coldly. — Just a thief who stole an artifact from the mines.
He paused.
— Let's go. We've reached the cave.
He didn't question the group that had come with Arlo.
He got what he needed — and handled everything like a professional.
He had already pieced it all together.
Arlo and his companions had stolen the artifact and fled the cave—but ran into the old man, who had been sent to find them.
When they met him, Arlo slipped away, and the others were killed trying to lie their way out. Hiding under a new face, Arlo joined another group, hoping to disappear among them. But the old man had suspected him from the very beginning.
Still, he wasn't entirely sure. Others were under suspicion too—especially Damon.
In the end, the unexpected spatial knot helped the old man expose Arlo.
Gloomer stared at the dead eyes at his feet.
Just out for a walk, huh, old man…
The look on the corpse's face was... strange.
But he shook the thought off.
Survival came first now.
A lot had happened.
But whatever this was — things felt just a bit better for the four of them.
Gloomer shook himself, took a deeper breath.
He raised his head.
And walked forward.
Damon stared at the old man in awe. The notebook was right. It was a spatial knot! And he remembered what that meant.
Spatial knotes — places where contradictions in reality collide, demanding resolution. This one had been tied to illusion, disguised as truth. And the answer had been laughably simple: just recognize the lie, and it would fall apart.
He cursed under his breath. He'd been thinking irrationally, let himself slip for a moment. But now he knew. Now he could see through it all.
Too bad he didn't solve the knot in time — the old man had collapsed on purpose the moment Damon moved.
The old man clearly had some artifact that strengthened the knot. And he had used it—intentionally, for his own goals.
Damon looked at him more closely.
This old man...
He was clearly far more than he seemed.