The Trembling Giant (1)
Ten days after sending the custom-order snuff film to the White Chief, on January 20th, I stood before the ancient poplar forest in Utah. A cold wind blew, and the white branches in the hazy mist trembled with a susurrus whisper. I drew a deep breath, gazed entranced, and let out a sigh that bordered on awe.
“Breathtaking.”
The clonal cluster, a forest not of many trees but a singular entity sharing all roots, shimmered with resplendent mana and the radiance of circuits. Compared to this, even The President was just a single reed in a marsh or a grain of sand on a beach. It was a pity that only my eyes could behold this spectacle. To ordinary vision, it would be nothing more than a white snowfield shrouded in white mist and white trees—a somewhat dreamlike scene, perhaps, but nothing more.
Before coming here, I'd stopped first at the state park in Washington, home to the world's largest fungal organism spread. It lacked true magical substance relative to its scale, making this poplar cluster especially precious to me.
“The area's kinda rowdy, huh.”
Kyung-tae was wary of the commotion around us. Even in this remote wilderness with no decent town within a 30km radius, several sheriff's patrol cars had been parked along the roadside on our way in. Dogs barked faintly from somewhere.
“Bad feeling?”
“Kinda creepy.”
“...Yeah?”
I didn't dismiss Kyung-tae's unease. His instincts for danger sometimes felt more reliable than magic itself. The vision from my Golden Age's Eye was still active, but the sheer volume of information here limited effective visibility. Especially toward the forest, where the glow overwhelmed normal perception, it barely extended 50 meters.
It'll shrink even more inside.
My own circuit's repellent field would likely contract to a radius similar to what I'd faced against The President. Even after diligently refining my circuit lately, it was still like this. That meant the forest's dominance over ambient mana essence was overwhelmingly powerful. Exploring its depths would be impossible with a large group of subordinates. I couldn't fully shield them from raw mana exposure.
As my thoughts reached that point, my nerves sharpened too. I'd been so captivated by the sublime sight that I'd overlooked it: venturing inside would leave me extremely vulnerable, my own defenses critically weakened. Kyung-tae had considered as much.
“As your security chief, I'd rather you didn't go in... But just looking from outside like with The President won't cut it, right?”
I nodded toward the mist enshrouding the forest.
“Look at that fog. Doesn't it strike you as off?”
“Been feeling weird about it from the start. The lake area's clear, but the forest's socked in. And at midday, with the sun high...”
“Exactly. It's the product of a ritual that forest has woven.”
“Magic, you mean?”
“Mm.”
By now, he'd understand why I'd stood there in reverent stupor. We'd foreseen non-human life awakening to primitive magic, but witnessing it firsthand was another matter entirely. I was confronting a generational event, an irreversible shift in the world.
...No way the mana density drops now, right?
Kyung-tae scratched his head and made a new suggestion.
“If you really gotta check the depths, boss, better we all go in together—mana exposure, essence poisoning, whatever. Tank it as a team.”
“No.”
I shook my head firmly.
“You're the organization's elite, the core of our strike force. Think of the time and money sunk into training you. Can't waste that before the real war even starts.”
Mana- or magic-induced cancers differed fundamentally from ordinary ones. Even if caught early, neither my abilities nor conventional medicine might cope.
All I have are theories and hypotheses.
Like with The President, this forest's awakening had outpaced my predictions. Who said it couldn't spawn mana essence cancer? Until their own circuits manifested and generated personal repellent fields for self-defense, caution was essential.
“But—”
“No buts. Some risks can't be avoided if you want strength without cost—and I never expected that. We'll shoulder what we must.”
My resolve remained unchanged: I had to evolve into an asymmetrical force beyond the Round Table Cabinet's expectations. I embodied the organization's entire magical capacity and potential; my limits defined theirs.
Kyung-tae sighed and offered an alternative.
“Then at least observe for a day or two. The forest ain't going anywhere.”
“Obviously.”
For now, back to the cabin. Figure out why sheriffs swarmed this backwater and what exactly had Kyung-tae spooked.
The rented cabin was close enough for a walk to the forest. Even in winter off-season, about ten RVs dotted the nearby campground. On one side, folks weighed their catch on a crane scale—ice fishermen fresh from the frozen lake, no doubt.
“'Scuse us, folks.”
Unlike his usual speech, Kyung-tae approached them with fluent, polished pronunciation. One man in a gray Canada Goose jacket eyed him up.
“What can we do ya for?”
“We're tourists here for that forest over there, but the vibe's off. Lotsa sheriffs around. Know if something happened?”
Mastery of regional accents was a handy tool, sowing confusion in investigations or reshaping impressions. Kyung-tae's New York twang diluted any East Asian tourist stereotype.
The man shrugged.
“Just got here yesterday myself, so details are fuzzy. Heard folks went missing in that forest. Not one—whole groups.”
“Whoa. How many?”
“Told ya, don't know. Overheard it from a deputy asking around. Warned everyone to stay out. Fog's been weirdly thick lately, dangerous. They even put up fencing, but folks went in anyway...”
He glanced at his buddy, who nodded.
“Why not fish like us instead? Outsiders come gawking at that ancient forest talk, but inside? Nothin' special. Fallen trees everywhere, tough to navigate. Snow hides your footing too.”
“Haha, thanks for the tip. Fish biting good here?”
“Can't ya see?”
“Could just be skilled anglers.”
Flattered, the man offered to share his catch—no trout, but walleye aplenty. Classic fisherman generosity, or self-satisfaction. Kyung-tae, playing the crowd, scored three hefty ones by pleading group size.
A guy who slit throats without blinking had some balls.
In the ongoing chat, the fisherman pointed to a distant RV cordoned by police tape.
“One of the missing family's rig. More abandoned cars too, and folks vanished from cabins.”
“Got it. Big help—thanks.”
“No sweat. Sucks you're out here in the sticks for nothin'.”
“Trips have their ups and downs. Have a good one.”
“You too. Enjoy.”
After polite farewells, Kyung-tae handed the heavy walleye bundle to a subordinate, wiped his grin, and spoke once clear of the group.
“Boss, this is getting creepier by the minute.”
“Hm...”
“Think the forest itself could be the culprit?”
“Maybe.”
A man-eating forest. Possible—the poplar cluster's extra magical phenomena, or perhaps fog-induced disorientation leading to exhaustion. In China's toxic air, people nearly died lost in their own yards. Even in this mere 43 hectares (0.43 square kilometers), lost hikers were plausible.
I mulled it over and replied.
“It's possible.”
“And you still gotta go in?”
“It might get riskier with time.”
By then, I'd be a more perfected mage, but that didn't guarantee safer access. The Round Table in London would solidify order, new Awakened and their influence would add variables. Global chaos could seal borders. Considering the battles ahead, this was just an appetizer. I'd steeled myself for thornier paths.
Kyung-tae smacked his lips.
“Anything stand out in that trailer?”
I shifted my gaze past the police line, adjusted my vision, then shook my head.
“Nah.”
He tsked again.
“Don't sweat it.”
I glanced back at the receding forest.
“If the forest itself is the issue, I'd detect ritual signs before manifestations. Otherwise, anyone entering pays a steeper penalty than me.”
“Roger.”
As usual, our group split into four-man teams, coordinating intel from multiple spots. Kyung-tae and I hit the resort's main lodge—part general store, part diner—chatting casually with staff. How long had they worked here? Which cabin had guests vanish from? Family or not? Check-in and disappearance times? Anything odd?
Kyung-tae's charm steered the flow naturally. The employee, polite to guests renting three $600/night luxury cabins in off-season, answered diligently.
“Weird folks?”
“Yeah.”
My final question: any suspicious visitors? If Round Table imperialists had sent lackeys, their cultish elect-superiority complex might show.
It's how they breed loyalty.
Round Table masters played prophet, apostle, savior to underlings. Unlike fake cults, their real mysteries made brainwashing easy. It partially applied to me too. But I never packaged myself religiously—not from scruples, but because irrational zeal left tails to follow.
“Hm, weird folks...”
The employee, arms crossed and tapping his bicep, spoke uncertainly.
“Lately, some bohemian types... Y'know? Big grins, carefree, ragged style, heads wobbling like a few screws loose.”
“Yeah.”
“They came and went, but weird? Eh, this is tourist central— all sorts pass through.”
“Fair enough.”
I thanked him, bought a pack of menthol cigarettes, and tipped a hundred-dollar bill. He beamed gratitude. The smokes weren't for me, of course—habitual tracking disruption. Smoking's addictive; brands stick. Menthol's sharp scent was great for shaking dogs if needed. Slim chance of extremes, but ingrained habits hurt none.
Always lived that way. The thought suddenly pissed me off. Why do I have to live like this?
Outside, I crushed the pack and hurled it into the nearest trash can.