Fate.
Immutable. Absolute.
No wish, strength, or hope could ever escape it.
And this man knew it. He had always known.
Even now, kneeling in a formless void, surrounded by the crushing weight of something beyond description, he still fought. Chains bit into his wrists and ankles, yet his eyes stayed locked straight ahead.
Five figures watched him in silence. Their wavering silhouettes dissolved into the opaque whiteness, like shadows dreaming they were awake.
One stepped forward.
"This ends here."
The voice was hollow. No anger. Only certainty.
"You've been a thorn in our side for too long. But no more. Goodbye."
Nine gates opened. They weren't made of wood or iron, but of flesh, teeth, and bone, shrouded in profane energy. One by one, they yawned wide with abyssal roars, and the man was dragged into their depths.
He did not scream.
And then, there was no man at all.
Imprisoned.
Forever.
---
Indra jolted awake, his heart pounding in his chest.
The small, stuffy room felt more suffocating than ever. He gasped for breath, drenched in sweat, clutching his head as if something was trying to burst through his forehead. A sharp pain throbbed between his eyebrows.
He sat up in bed, pressing his back against the wooden headboard. He knew he'd dreamed something important—something terrible—but everything slipped away like sand through his fingers. A heavy veil of forgetfulness smothered his memory.
Indra looked around. His bookshelf, packed with manga, manhwas, a few light novels, and tomes on philosophy and history, seemed utterly indifferent to his distress.
Then, like a punch to the gut:
"Shit!"
Today was the day of the camping trip.
Indra leapt out of bed and grabbed his phone: 4:03 p.m. They were supposed to meet at five. And he lived far away. Really far.
"Why the hell was I born in the middle of nowhere…"
He ran to the shower, threw himself under the icy water, and then scrambled to pack his backpack: tent, sleeping bag, flashlight, first aid kit, pocketknife, water filter…
As he zipped it shut, his eyes drifted to the bottom drawer of his desk.
He froze for a moment.
Then he stepped closer. Crouched down. Opened it.
There it was: a chrome .38 revolver. Silently inherited from an incident no one dared mention anymore. Next to it, a small box with a few regular bullets and one silver bullet, supposedly blessed.
Indra didn't believe in those stories. But he believed in being ready.
He tucked the gun and ammo deep into his backpack. He didn't want trouble with the cops—but even less did he want to die like an idiot.
He threw everything into the trunk of his gunmetal gray 2024 Fiat Fastback. He started the engine, let out a shaky breath, and pulled away.
"It's going to be a long night."
---
He parked beside three other cars at a gas station. As soon as he cut the engine, he saw Dean, Ben, and Ottis waiting nearby. Dean glared at him with irritation. Ben offered a resigned smile. Ottis shifted impatiently.
"Why are you always late, man?"
Dean, with long hair and a permanent scowl, crossed his arms.
"I live in the middle of nowhere, remember?"
Indra gave a short laugh.
Ben, the tallest of the group, with a scruffy beard and the look of a laid-back trucker, clapped him on the shoulder.
"Relax. Everyone knows. We only complain for the sport of it."
Ottis, blond, short, with the restless energy of a nervous hipster, didn't waste time:
"Let's move. If it gets much darker, the mountain trail will be dangerous."
Indra nodded. Despite the gnawing sense of unease buzzing at the edges of his mind, he felt a surge of excitement. They chatted, traded a few laughs, and then set off toward the forest.
---
Night had already fallen. The road wound through dense woods. Headlights cut through the narrow path ahead, the darkness beyond swallowing everything else.
Ottis led the way, followed by Ben, then Indra, and finally Dean.
Everything was quiet.
…Too quiet.
Indra's brow furrowed. A shiver crept down his spine. Something made him glance at the trees to his right.
There, drifting between the trunks, something pale floated.
It looked like a plastic bag caught in the wind, but it moved with unsettling purpose. It twirled, trembled, hovered.
Then it began to shift.
Letter by letter, it formed a word:
D.
A.
N.
G.
E.
R.
Indra blinked.
Nothing there.
What did I take…
He leaned back in his seat, trying to shake the creeping dread.
Forget it. Just nerves. That's all.
He didn't know it yet, but something had already crossed over.