"Hey, boy. Where are you hiding?" His voice was cold and amused. "I know you can hear me. There's no point in running. The same fate that found your mother waits for you—and frankly, that would be too kind for a coward like you."
He paused, then went on.
"Did you know? When you ran—when you abandoned her—your mother screamed your name. Over and over. She begged for you. But you weren't there, were you? What kind of useless, gutless, ungrateful son abandons his mother to die in agony?"
I clenched my fists. His words pierced deep, not because he was lying—but because I feared he was right.
"You watched her suffer," he said. "Watched her squirm in my hands. You didn't fight. You didn't cry out. You didn't even listen. What kind of son does that?"
I felt something wet on my face. I hadn't realized until then that I was crying. I didn't even know why. Was it his words? Or my own guilt?
"If you hadn't been born," he continued, "your mother might still be alive. Do you understand that? Her heart shattered the moment you ran. Tell me, how does that feel?"
Every word dug deeper into the wounds I hadn't even known I carried.
I tried to stay silent. I needed to breathe. I needed to focus. I needed to escape.
Then, one of the dogs picked up my scent and began to bark. My hiding spot was compromised. I had to act—now—or I'd be dead.
Baskervilel noticed. Calmly, he approached the tree. As he walked, he bit his own hand. Thick, dark blood poured down his fingers. With a flick of his wrist, he molded it—shaped it—into a spear.
He crept toward the tree and drove the blood-spear behind it.
But behind that tree, he found nothing—only a cloak, smeared with blood, lying over an old leather pack.
The demon's eyes narrowed.
"Hmph. Smarter than I thought."
He turned to his hounds. "Find him."
By that point, I was already sprinting through the trees, sword in hand, heart hammering.
I shut his voice out. I didn't want to believe him.
Instead, I remembered the last words my mother ever spoke to me:
["Survive. No matter what—live!"]
That memory gave me strength. I would not let her sacrifice be meaningless. I would not let her death be wasted. She had given her life so I could keep mine—and so I would.
[I promise, Mother. I'll survive. I'll prove your death was not in vain.]
I ran and ran, until I could no longer hear the hounds. Only then did I feel a shred of safety.
In the middle of the forest, I paused. I couldn't keep running forever. Where would I go? How could I escape him?
That's when I saw it: a house.
Someone lives here! Maybe they can help! I thought, and made my way toward it.
But just as I approached, I let my guard down—and that was my mistake.
A dog leapt out of the shadows and lunged at me.
I had assumed I was safe. I was wrong.
And that mistake could cost me my life.
I noticed the dog attacking just in time and, with a swift motion, killed it using my sword. But it wasn't the only one. I realized that quickly enough.
As I tried to escape and create distance between me and the pack, they blocked every path I took. I had no choice left—I had to start killing them.
First one, then another, then the third—I cut them down one after another. But they were too many. I couldn't handle them all.
Suddenly, one of them lunged from behind and sank its teeth into my leg, dragging me down to the ground. My grip on the sword loosened, and it flew from my hand. The rest of them swarmed me, biting into my arms and legs, pulling from all sides like they wanted to tear me apart.
The pain was unbearable—I screamed with everything I had, hoping someone in the house nearby might hear me and come to help. But then, right above me, Baskervilel appeared… and all hope was lost.
"You're smarter than I thought, boy," he said. "Normally, if you insult someone's family or friends, they'll lose it. They'll fight blindly in rage just to protect their pride."
But Baskervilel didn't kill me immediately. Instead, he stepped closer and snapped his fingers. The hounds released me.
Despite the pain racking my body, I began crawling away.
"You've surprised me," he continued. "My words should've filled you with rage and hatred. But instead, I see none of that in your eyes. I see only the will to live—your desperate struggle to stay alive. What is it that gives you such a craving for life?"
I heard his question, but I didn't want to answer it.
"Seeing how badly you want to survive… I almost feel pity for you," he said with a cold smile. "But I don't intend to go hungry tonight."
Baskervilel flipped me onto my back, forcing me to look up at the sky. I had no strength left to move. The pain made me crave death—death seemed like the easy way out. But if I gave in now, my mother's sacrifice would've been in vain. And I couldn't let that happen. I had to survive. No matter what.
As I stared up at the sky, thoughts filled my mind:
[Is this really how it ends? Was everything I did for nothing? Why am I so weak? If only I were strong like in my father's tales... If I had magic or even just a bit more strength, maybe things would've been different. Maybe my mother would still be alive. Maybe I'd be in my warm bed right now. If I had just one more chance… I'd give everything to become stronger.]
Baskervilel raised his spear, aiming it directly at my heart. It was over.