Gasping for air, a sharp pain flared in Ritam's chest. Thorns dug deep into his neck, scraping against his collarbone. Thick, oily vines wrapped around his wrists, tightening with every frantic heartbeat. Where was he? His mind met a wall of solid ice, devoid of memories, names, or faces. Only a cold, calculating urge to survive remained, burning hot beneath his ribs. Purple fluid dripped from the bloated stems above. Each drop hissed as it hit the damp earth, releasing a stench of rotting meat. Twisting his wrists, he tried to slip free, but the vines reacted instantly. They squeezed harder, pulsing with a sick, rhythmic heartbeat that echoed in his ears. Panic tried to claw its way up his throat. He forced it down, clamping his jaw shut until his teeth ground together. Freaking out would only hasten his suffocation. He needed to observe. An exit was mandatory. Directly above his head, a jagged shard of slate jutted out from the mud. If he could reach it, he could slice through the fibrous binding. Stretching his fingers, he strained against the thorns, ignoring the warm trickle of blood running down his arm. Inch by inch, his fingertips brushed the cold, gritty stone. A sudden spasm violently shook the vines, pinning his shoulders flat against the wet ground. Groaning through clenched teeth, he arched his back. With a desperate, final lunge, his fingers clamped around the slate. He dragged the sharp edge down against the thickest vine across his chest. Black sap sprayed across his face, stinging his eyes like acid. He didn't stop. Sawing frantically, he hacked through the pulsing fibers until the pressure suddenly buckled. --- Coughing and gasping, Ritam dragged himself across the damp earth. He didn't stop until he was several yards away from the writhing, angry mass of thorns. Looking back, he watched as the severed ends of the vines lashed out blindly, searching for the prey that had just escaped their grasp. They eventually settled, coiling back into a dense, defensive mound. They were alive, but possessed a cruel, low-level sentience. Wiping the black sap from his eyes, he sat up and assessed his injuries. His clothes were in tatters. Shallow cuts lined his arms and torso, but none of them seemed deep enough to be fatal. His hands, however, were shaking uncontrollably. Fear of the unknown was a cold weight in his stomach. Without memories, he was a ghost walking through a nightmare. He had no past to anchor him, no future to strive for. Only the immediate, brutal present. Standing up, he leaned against a nearby boulder to catch his breath. Stone was cold and damp, covered in a patchy, gray lichen that looked dead. In fact, everything around him looked dead or dying. Trees were gnarled, their bark split open to reveal weeping, black wounds. Even the air felt heavy, laden with a fine, gray dust that settled on his skin like ash. It was a world in the throat of decay. A sudden, sharp vibration under his boots made him freeze. It wasn't an earthquake. It felt more like a pulse, a deep, rhythmic thrumming that resonated through the soles of his feet and into his bones. It was coming from deeper within the woods. Driven by a mixture of caution and a strange, unexplainable pull, he began to walk. His movements were silent, instinctive. He kept low, utilizing the shadows of the massive, weeping trees to conceal his advance. Every step felt like a gamble. Forest was a maze of briars and rotting logs, each turn looking identical to the last. Yet, he felt a distinct sense of direction. An invisible thread seemed to be tugging at his chest, guiding him toward a specific point in the gloom. It was a physical sensation, a mild pressure that grew stronger the further he walked. He didn't trust it, but he had no other options. Staying put meant waiting to be consumed by the creeping thorns. Eventually, the dense brush gave way to a small, circular clearing. He pressed himself against the trunk of a massive, dying oak, peering into the open space. In the center of the clearing stood a single, young sapling. It was barely five feet tall, its slender trunk boasting a pale, silvery bark that seemed to glow in the twilight. A few delicate, emerald leaves clung to its branches, fluttering in a breeze he couldn't feel. It was a beautiful, tragic sight. It was the only healthy thing he had seen since waking up. But it wasn't alone. This vine was constricting, slowly crushing the delicate wood. With every pulse of the purple veins, the silvery bark of the sapling grew dimmer, and another emerald leaf withered, turning to black ash. Feeding like a parasite, it drained the very essence of the young tree. Seeing this, an intense wave of anger washed over Ritam. It was a sudden, violent emotion that caught him completely off guard. Why did he care about a tree? Why did its struggle feel so intensely personal? Perhaps because they were the same. They were both fragile things being choked to death by this corrupted wilderness. Stepping out from the shadow of the oak, he approached the clearing. His hand tightened around the sharp slate shard he had kept gripped in his palm. He had to stop it. He had to save it. It felt like a test, a crucial choice that would define whatever existence he had left. As he stepped onto the clearing's edge, the ground soft and spongy beneath his boots, the parasitic vine suddenly froze. It seemed to sense his presence. Slowly, the coils shifted, a portion of the vine sliding off the sapling and rising into the air like a striking cobra. Purple veins along its length flared with a sickly, violet light. A low, clicking sound echoed from the wood, a warning. He didn't back down. He raised the slate, his eyes locked on the writhing wooden serpent. "Get away from it," he whispered, his voice cold, calculating. Without warning, the vine lunged. It moved with terrifying speed, a blur of purple and black. He threw himself to the side, rolling across the damp earth as the vine slammed into the ground where he had been standing. Impact sprayed dirt and decaying leaves into the air. Scrambling to his feet, he lunged forward, driving the sharp edge of the slate into the vine's body. It was like hitting solid rubber. Slate flew from his grip, disappearing into the dark underbrush as the vine whipped sideways, striking him squarely in the chest. Force of the blow lifted him off his feet, throwing him backward. He hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from his lungs in a painful gasp. Already recovering, the vine coiled back for another strike. Sapling behind it was fading rapidly, its silver bark turning a dull, lifeless gray. There were only two leaves left. If they withered, the sapling would die, and he would be next. Desperation sparked something deep within him. It wasn't a memory, but an ancient, dormant power that lay buried in his very blood. His hands began to tingle, a sudden, intense heat blooming in his palms. It felt like a hunger, an empty void that desperately craved sustenance. He didn't understand it, but he knew, with absolute certainty, how to use it. Ignoring the approaching vine, he scrambled forward on his hands and knees. He bypassed the thrashing coils, diving straight for the sapling's base. With a raw, animalistic cry, he threw his arms around the slender silver trunk, his bare palms pressing flat against the weeping bark. World lost all sound, all color, fading into a stark contrast of light and dark. A violent shockwave of energy blasted through his hands, traveling up his arms and slamming into his chest like a runaway freight train. He gasped, his eyes flying wide as his jaw locked in a silent scream. It wasn't a physical pain, but a spiritual invasion. A torrent of raw, unadulterated life force surged out of the sapling and into his body. It felt like liquid starlight, burning hot and sweet, filling the cold, empty spaces inside his soul. But with the power came a terrifying sense of dread. He could feel the sapling's consciousness—a simple, innocent awareness of sun, rain, and soil—being ripped apart, shredded as it was dragged into his own mind. He was consuming it. He was destroying the very thing he had sought to save. He tried to let go. He tried to pull his hands away, but they were fused to the bark, locked in place by the sheer force of the siphon. Emerald light began to coat his skin, tracing the pathways of his veins like liquid fire. Parasitic vine hissed, thrashing wildly as it realized its meal was being stolen from within. It wrapped around his torso, squeezing with bone-crushing force, but he barely felt it. Power flooding his system made him numb to physical pain. "No..." he gasped, his voice sounding distant, drowning in the rush of energy. He could feel his own humanity, his very sense of self, being eroded by the influx of the plant's essence. A terrifying trade-off was taking place. Strength for sanity. Power for memory. Void in his mind was being filled, but not with who he was—with what he was consuming. Parasitic vine gave one final, desperate squeeze before its purple veins suddenly went dark. Deprived of its source, the vine withered, its bloated body turning to dust and crumbling away from his shoulders. He paid it no mind. His entire existence was focused on the dying sapling beneath his hands. Fragments of the sapling's brief life bombarded his senses. He felt the gentle warmth of a sun he had never seen. He felt the cool, clean taste of pure water rising from deep underground, before the rot had poisoned the wells. These sensations were beautiful, but they were also poison to his empty mind. They threatened to drown his analytical thoughts, replacing his survival instinct with the passive acceptance of a plant. He fought back, erecting mental barriers to protect the core of who he was, even if that core was nothing but a blank slate. It was a silent, desperate war fought in the dark corners of his mind. Myriad details of his own identity remained lost, but he clung to his will. Silver bark beneath his palms grew cold, brittle, and dry. Brilliant emerald light began to concentrate, flowing from his hands up into his arms. He could feel it settling, burning a permanent home into his flesh. Hunger inside him slowly receded, leaving behind a profound, aching emptiness that felt heavier than before. He had survived, but he was no longer entirely human. With a final, desperate shudder, the sapling went entirely still. As the last vestiges of the sapling's life vanish, a dark, intricate tattoo-like pattern blooms across Ritam's forearm, pulsating faintly with emerald light.

Chapter 1: Awakening in Thorns