Side Story 1.14: Sandeval's Forest Survival
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What a life he had led, but now he was nothing more than a man being hunted by his former employers. Though no signs or tracks of them were visible near him so far, he remained unnerved by the gnawing prospect that they were already on his trail. On most nights, sleep eluded him entirely. He kept his eyes wide open, listening intently to every sound, feeling out the pulse of the forest that he now called home. The gentle coos of birds at dawn and the haunting howls of predators at dusk—everything fed his growing paranoia. Though he was alive, it felt like punishment enough for all the sins he had committed as a retired captain for an underworld organization.
He had never taken direct part in assassinations or the selling of human beings, yet he remained guilty of serving as a travel escort for slave caravans. The weight of that complicity crushed him daily, and now he felt this current existence as divine retribution for his past transgressions.
As planned, before he could fall into the grasp of Rommel and his cronies—before the inevitable reports would reach the higher echelons of the criminal syndicate—he had vanished. He purchased only what was necessary for continued survival, determined to at least find some semblance of peace in whatever remained of his life. The Lonelywood Forest was the only sanctuary he could envision, a place where he had learned survival skills during his first, disastrous slave run as a greenhorn recruit in what he had believed was a reputable mercantile group.
He regretted those choices, of course, but what was done could never be undone. There wasn't much he could accomplish in this unforgiving wilderness except bide his time and savor the small pleasures that remained to him. He was a dead man walking anyway, so each day he wandered several kilometers deeper into the massive forest, always staying near flowing streams or natural caverns where he could find temporary refuge. He hunted small game when possible, foraged for wild fruits and medicinal herbs to sustain his dwindling strength.
The oppressive summer heat bore down mercilessly upon him. He had lost all sense of time's passage, but the sweltering air suggested the season was well advanced. Sweat poured steadily down his weathered face, his entire body drenched as he pushed further into the forest's green depths each day, driven by an instinct he couldn't quite name.
Time had become meaningless in his solitary madness. Days blended into nights in an endless cycle of survival. He hadn't encountered another human soul in what felt like an eternity—only beasts of varying shapes and sizes, all seemingly intent on ending his miserable existence. The isolation gnawed at his sanity like a persistent parasite.
But then, cutting through his delirium, came an unexpected sound: the rhythmic banging of metal on wood. The sharp bite of saws cutting through timber. Grunts of laboring men, the bright laughter of children, the familiar cadence of women's voices sharing gossip and conversation.
At first, disbelief paralyzed him. Why would any family choose to make their home in such a hostile place? His fevered mind conjured possibilities—perhaps they were the escaped slaves seeking freedom in the wilderness? "Am I already dead?" he wondered, various thoughts cascading through his fractured consciousness until curiosity overcame caution.
He crept toward the source of these miraculous sounds, every instinct screaming at him to approach with extreme care. As he drew closer, his heart nearly stopped. People! Real people existed here, and they weren't dressed as primitive forest dwellers but wore clothing similar to his own civilized garments.
Joy flooded through him like a drug, and he resolved to observe these mysterious settlers before revealing himself. He needed to understand who they were, what they wanted, whether they posed any threat to his precarious existence.
But reality, as always, proved far more treacherous than his desperate hopes. In the span of a single heartbeat, what felt like cold steel pressed against his spine. The cheerful sounds of construction work ceased abruptly. All eyes turned toward his hiding place with predatory focus.
Sweat cascaded down his trembling body as the summer heat seemed to transform into arctic cold against his skin. A voice behind him, deceptively young and innocent, cut through the sudden silence: "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
Sandeval closed his eyes, feeling death's icy breath on his neck. Though the voice sounded childish, something primal and ancient within his soul recognized the presence of a predator far more dangerous than any forest beast. This was no mere child, but something with the power to extinguish his life on a whim.
"My... my name is Cornick Sandeval," he managed to whisper, his voice barely audible as he waited for the inevitable killing blow.
But the blade remained motionless against his back, neither advancing nor retreating. An eerie silence settled over the clearing like a funeral shroud. His racing heart thundered in his ears while the forest around them continued its eternal symphony of life and death.
The workers who had been so industriously building moments before now moved with fluid precision toward his position, weapons materializing in their hands as if conjured from thin air.
"I see," came the simple response from his captor.
And so the forest would welcome another wandering soul into its embrace. Whether Cornick Sandeval would prove friend or enemy to the village of Maya remained to be written in the unforgiving pages of survival.