Amukelo: The Burdened Path

The next morning, Amukelo woke up to the bitter sting of cold against his skin. The fire had long since died, its last embers buried beneath the ash, leaving only the faint warmth of the coals beneath the charred wood. The stiff fabric clung to his skin, still carrying the scent of blood, dirt, and sweat, but it was better than the damp chill that had nearly frozen him the night before. 

Amukelo pushed himself upright, groaning as the sharp aches in his body reminded him of the toll his journey had taken. Every movement sent a dull, burning pain through his limbs, his muscles sore, his ribs tight with every breath.

For a moment, he simply sat there, staring at the fading traces of his fire. He could barely move, barely stand, but he had to keep going. Staying in one place wasn't an option—not when he was still too close to the mountain. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself onto his feet. He didn't have a map anymore, not since his makeshift home had been destroyed, but he still remembered the general direction of the town from the map he had studied before.

His progress was painfully slow, every step feeling like dragging a dead weight behind him. His injuries made every movement a struggle, forcing him to rest far more often than he wanted. Each time he stopped, he scouted for a safe place to sit and recover, always making sure he was far enough from open spaces where he could be seen. He rationed what little he had, drinking sparingly from his water supply, eating only when the sharp pangs of hunger became unbearable. 

In the following days, the landscape around him began to change. The cold bite of winter was fading, giving way to the first signs of spring. The air was growing warmer, little by little, and though the nights were still harsh, the daylight offered him a small comfort. It was easier now, at least in one way—he no longer had to fight against the cold.

But even with that small blessing, the feeling of loss still lingered.

Every so often, as he sat next to a fire, staring into the distance, he would remember the small cave he had called home. It had never been much—just a space in the mountain, a shelter where he could gather his strength, where he had built something for himself. And now, it was gone. He had no place to return to, no sense of stability. But he still kept pushing.

One evening, as he sat beside a small fire in a secluded spot, eating from the small animal he had managed to catch, he found himself staring at the sky. He watched the clouds drifting lazily overhead, the stars beginning to reveal themselves in the darkening sky, and without thinking, he muttered, "Ahh... why do I even try so hard?"

His voice was quiet, as if he were asking himself a question he didn't truly want answered. His grip tightened slightly around the piece of meat in his hand, but he didn't take another bite. What was he doing all of this for? Was it simply to survive? To keep moving forward without a real destination?

His mind drifted, and in the silence, his mother's face came to him. Not the twisted, nightmarish version from his dream, but the real one—the warm, gentle smile she had always worn, the way her eyes held so much hope, even when things were at their worst. He swallowed, his throat tight, and after a long pause, he murmured, "Right... because I promised her."

The words felt hollow. He had made that promise long ago, but was he even capable of keeping it? Could he truly do what he had set out to do? Could he become strong enough to become like Elian, like he promised to his mother?

His gaze stayed on the sky for a moment longer before he muttered, "But can I even do it?"

Another silence stretched between him and the empty night, but this time, he found himself answering his own question. "I don't know... maybe."

The words left his lips before he even thought about them, and he almost laughed at how pathetic they sounded. Maybe. After everything he had been through, after all the battles, the suffering, the near-death experiences, all he had left was a weak, uncertain maybe. Yet, somehow, that was enough.

A small, tired smirk formed on his lips as he shook his head, half amused, half resigned. "Isn't that weird? Even I doubt whether I'll do it. But that faint maybe is enough to keep me pushing through all the shit I'm going through. How weird is that?" His voice was dry, tinged with the smallest trace of humor. "Even I sometimes don't believe in that. But for some reason... I just keep pushing."

"But to be honest, once I get to the town—Llyn, I think it was—it should only get better," he muttered, more to himself than anything. He exhaled sharply, then let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head again.

"Until then, I just need to make sure I go in the right direction."

His smirk widened slightly, though it was laced with exhaustion. "As if that's easy without a map."

With that, he took another bite of his food, letting the fire warm his aching body. The road ahead was still long, still uncertain. But for now, he would keep moving. Because despite everything—despite the doubt, despite the pain—he was still here. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

After some time Amukelo healed, and the terrain had shifted slightly, the sparse trees giving way to denser forests as he traveled. The change in season made things easier—food was more plentiful, and the cold no longer drained his energy. Despite that, there was still an underlying sense of unease that followed him.

One evening, as the sky turned a deep shade of orange and the last remnants of daylight stretched through the trees, he found himself walking into a particularly unusual section of the forest. The trees here were much taller than those he had passed before, their trunks thick and gnarled, their branches extending so high that they seemed to disappear into the dimming sky. The canopy above was so dense that it blocked most of the light, casting the entire area in an eerie twilight even though the sun had yet to fully set. 

Amukelo moved cautiously. The atmosphere of this place felt off. His instincts screamed at him to be on alert, and years of surviving alone had taught him to trust those instincts. His grip on his sword tightened, and his eyes darted around, scanning the shadows between the towering trees.

Then he heard a faint rustle. His body reacted before his mind could fully process it. He spun around, swinging his sword blindly. The blade met resistance—something soft yet firm, something moving fast. A dull, wet sound followed, and whatever it was fell to the ground next to him, severed.

Amukelo blinked, his pulse pounding in his ears. He turned his gaze downward, his stomach twisting in disgust as he saw a massive abnormal moth.

It was unlike any normal insect he had ever seen. The thing was grotesquely large, its wingspan nearly the length of his arm. Its body was covered in strange, fine hairs, and its legs were too long, too unnatural. Its black, segmented eyes bulged unnervingly, even in death. A thick, translucent fluid oozed from the wound where he had cut it in half.

Amukelo grimaced, wrinkling his nose as he took a step back. "Ughh… that's disgusting," he muttered under his breath. The sight of the creature sent a chill up his spine. If one had come at him, there were probably more nearby. He needed to leave before the forest was swarming with them.

But then he heard a scream. His entire body tensed. Another voice followed, sharp and urgent. "Idin! Don't let it bind you!"

Amukelo's mind raced, trying to process what he had just heard. There were people nearby. That was the first time since leaving the village.

Without hesitating, he moved, pushing forward toward the direction of the voices. His instincts told him to be careful, but he couldn't ignore the urgency in that shout. Someone was in trouble.

As he ran through the dense undergrowth, another voice rang out, desperate. "No, Bao!"

Amukelo burst into a small clearing, his eyes immediately scanning the scene. 

Three people lay on the ground, unmoving—each with a massive moth clinging to their face. The creatures' grotesque wings fluttered slightly as their segmented legs wrapped tightly around their victims' heads. The sight was horrifying—as if the insects were feeding off of them.

Standing in the middle of the clearing was a fourth person. A man, clad in robust leather armor reinforced with metal plates, gripping a longsword. His stance was solid but frantic, his chest heaving as he fought against the three remaining moths that swarmed around him.

He had short-cropped blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and a tall, lean build. His movements were swift and controlled, swinging his sword whenever one of the creatures got too close, but he was clearly struggling. The moths were quick, darting unpredictably, forcing him to constantly adjust his strikes. One wrong move, and they would overwhelm him.

Amukelo remained hidden behind the bush, crouching low as he observed. He hadn't seen another person since he had left his village, and now here were four of them. He didn't know who they were, or whether he could trust them. Even if he helped the blond-haired man, there was no guarantee that they wouldn't turn on him. He had nothing. If they wanted to rob him, they could do it easily.

The situation was bad. The man might have been well-equipped, but he was outnumbered, and exhaustion was creeping into his movements. The others were completely immobilized, the strange moths covering their faces like some kind of parasitic nightmare.