Chapter Forty-Three: History Repeats Itself

The weapon in his hand effortlessly sliced through the tree branches. Bereft of support, the branches fell to the ground and were trampled underfoot. Wherever the soldiers advanced, any rebellious branch was severed, the vegetation beneath them crushed, as they pressed forward with unstoppable momentum.

They reached the meteor crater. The floating debris above the pit did not concern them; the soldiers leaped down one after another without hesitation.

Little Mountain, seeing them disappear from his sight, felt a sense of foreboding and instinctively wanted to follow. Yet he found himself still rooted in place, just as before—unable to move, unable to utter a sound—forced to observe from the sidelines, powerless to intervene.

A surge of energy gathered in his feet; he refused to remain passive. He wanted to move forward. His ankles strained, his legs, previously weighted down as if filled with molten silver and unable to budge, seemed to loosen.

His legs moved swiftly, his body shot forward. Suddenly, a stone appeared floating in front of him. He instinctively reached out to push it aside but found it astonishingly heavy. His expression changed, veins bulged, and with a burst of strength, he shoved it away.

Dodging one stone, he noticed another ahead. This time, he wised up, shifted his body to the side, and the stone vanished from his view.

In no time, Little Mountain had left the territory of the man-eating trees and arrived at the meteor crater. The crater appeared so abruptly, and he was moving so fast that, caught unawares, he slipped and tumbled into it.

He instinctively curled up, protecting his head with his hands. Shards of stone struck him one after another, leaving red welts and a stinging pain.

Now, time seemed to crawl for Little Mountain. He breathed a slight sigh of relief; he had slid all the way to the bottom of the pit.

He touched the ground, pushed himself up, and stood. A wave of dizziness hit him; he rubbed his eyes and realized the environment had changed.

Before him lay an array of weapons: knives, swords, spears, halberds!

“What—!”

His mouth formed an O, utterly astonished. It was as if whatever he needed had materialized before him.

Scanning the room, his eyes lit up. He fixated on the most dazzling sword, embedded atop a cylindrical pedestal.

He stepped forward, passing countless weapons, and stopped before the pillar.

The sword before him had a black hilt, its face engraved with a square “chip.” The blade was sheathed in a scabbard carved with intricate patterns.

Without hesitation, his right hand gripped the hilt. The textures fit his palm perfectly, without the slightest discomfort; it felt as though the sword had been crafted for him.

He slowly drew it. It felt surprisingly light, easy to pull out—unlike the blunt sword he’d wielded before, which required every ounce of strength.

When he had completely drawn the sword, he was astonished—no, disappointed.

The blade was black, and when he touched it, it wasn’t sharp at all; it felt like stone. How could this possibly cut anything?

Little Mountain was perplexed.

As he drew the sword, the surrounding weapons vanished, dissolving into points of light that floated in the air.

Once the sword was fully drawn, the radiance around him entered his body. The patterns flickered, gradually fading away, disappearing altogether. Little Mountain’s face remained expressionless—he was completely unaware.

Suddenly, a cacophony erupted behind him.

He turned, bewildered.

The sound of marching feet and chaotic voices reached his ears; there was no doubt—a crowd was approaching.

“Not good! The ground is shaking again. Another anomaly is coming! Move forward quickly!”

The voice was heavy and resolute, brooking no argument.

“That’s the sound from outside!” Little Mountain exclaimed in surprise. Shouldn’t those soldiers be ahead of me?

Panic seized him, a fear welling up inside. He wanted to hide, unwilling to be seen.

He looked around. He was in a circular chamber with only one exit—the source of the voices.

Strangely, all the weapons had disappeared.

Did they vanish when I drew the sword? Once I took this blade, the others are denied to me?

Scratching his head, Little Mountain was puzzled.

But now was not the time for such questions. He quickly shifted his thoughts to what he should do next.

Since hiding here wasn’t an option, he might as well leave.

Decision made, he sheathed the sword and ran toward the exit.

He soon reached the mouth of the cave—a round opening, the very way he’d fallen in before.

The stone fragments still floated. Seeing them, he instantly recalled his earlier injuries.

His exposed arms were covered in red welts, some bleeding, aching faintly.

The noise outside grew louder; Little Mountain felt as if the entire ground was trembling.

He needed to hurry, or he’d be trapped at the entrance.

He reached for a stone fragment—it felt solid enough to support him.

He tested it with his foot; joy flickered in his heart. It fit perfectly, and he stepped up.

Looking up, he estimated the height to be three or four meters—not very high.

As the clamor drew nearer, urgency spurred him on.

Using both hands and feet, he climbed as if scaling a cliff.

In no time, he had clambered up, only to be greeted by a crowd.

“Forest Madman?” Little Mountain shouted, utterly shocked.