The Trembling Giant (2)
Two days had passed, and it was the third day at the mountain lodge perched at 2,700 meters above sea level. Overnight, a deputy sheriff had swung by for an investigation. There's that old saying, "the criminal always returns to the scene," so even we, who had arrived just the day before yesterday, weren't off the suspect list. We cooperated fully with the deputy's impromptu questioning. Our forged licenses were registered properly in the system, and our confirmed movements alone would prove our innocence.
Our official reason for visiting was a company team-building event. After buttering up the deputy and chatting him up, we learned the county sheriff's office was still clueless—couldn't even decide if this was a simple disappearance or something worse. How competent could rural cops be in an area with just four people per square kilometer? Elected officials at that, picked by vote.
The weary-looking deputy let slip that state police support for a search was coming soon. Probably in a few days. Then the feds after that.
Breakfast was grilled perch that had been cold-aged overnight, slathered in mayonnaise sauce—fish mayo style—with salad, coffee, and egg sandwiches we'd bought from the lodge restaurant ahead of time. There was more than enough perch; each of us got one, with plenty left over. We'd spent all of yesterday canvassing, and Kyung-tae had come back with a bundle each time we headed out. The guy's got real stick-to-itiveness.
"Let's sum it up."
After the meal, as we gathered, I took the head seat and locked eyes with my men.
"Confirmed missing persons: at least thirty, conservatively. We don't know where they vanished to, but right now, the forest and the lake are the prime destinations."
The frozen lake's existence, alongside the fog-shrouded woods, was another reason the search was hitting dead ends. Perfect for sinking bodies: pitch a fishing tent, drill a hole, weight the corpse with rocks, wait for the ice to refreeze, then pack up the tent. Crime scene gone. I'd spotted dozens of those tents on the lake at dusk yesterday—hardcore ice fishermen pulling all-nighters. And that poplar cluster wasn't the only forest around. It was just the most likely spot, thanks to the fog and nearby campgrounds and lodges.
"Assume some kind of human hunting is going down here."
I raised my index finger.
"First: no common thread among the victims at this point. To the Round Table nobles, these are worthless lives. Hard to see it as a trap for me, either. Hunter as prey... tsk. What good would provoking the prey's wariness do?"
It soured my mood, but I was still prey for now. No common factors among victims—that was my conclusion after two days of canvassing plus eavesdropping on sheriff radio chatter. Origins, ages, genders, relationships, jobs—all over the map. I couldn't imagine Round Table hounds ripping apart an entire family on vacation, down to a six-year-old kid, for any reason. Trapping someone with the Golden Age's Eye was damn near impossible to begin with. Unless they'd perfectly predicted the forest's state—which they couldn't have without wasting resources on wild guesses.
I extended another finger.
"Second: factoring in the estimated timelines of each disappearance and our canvassing results, even if there's a mystery killer gang holed up here, their numbers aren't huge. Low end: half our size or less. High end: maybe double ours."
Not much threat to me and my crew. Especially deep in that fog-choked forest.
"Third: victims hail from multiple states. Meaning this'll likely go federal. Dragging it out gets messy."
Once the search wrapped officially, they'd lock down the site for "preservation." A vast, uncontrollable forest might be different, but...
"Fourth: as I said before, that forest holds clues and fragments of a new magic incantation... let's call it "code." Just one of many hurdles in collecting that code. How often do code-bearers just bare their guts willingly?"
No avoiding the risk if I had to see it with my own eyes. I folded my fingers.
"Shortest: one day. Longest: four. I need that forest's magic."
And grasping its circuits now would let me probe further later, when the forest's power grew stronger and more complex. I'd hold the key to future analysis. A 6,600-ton single organism's magical potential dwarfed any ordinary woods.
It'll evolve into one of the world's greatest—and worst—labyrinths. Scale-wise, it'll lag behind the Amazon, but...
I was certain the knowledge I gained now would snowball later.
"Objections?"
No one spoke up.
"None, then. We move at 09:00."
The rest, aside from my direct team of one squad, would hold the forest perimeter. I'd promised not to waste them lightly, but if things went south, I'd call them in. Positions chosen for emergency evac, too.
And at 09:30, I crossed the fence into the forest, faint snow flurries swirling in the dim light. First step of the expedition.
Formation: zigzag, me sandwiched in the middle.
"Keep this spacing as best you can. If unavoidable separation happens, hustle back ASAP. This is for your own good."
They knew it already, but Kyung-tae and the other four took my warning dead seriously. Being ready to die didn't mean treating death lightly—especially if that end came via one of the worst diseases imaginable.
Once inside the fog, no need to hide weapons. My men in alpine camo pulled their rifles from packs, assembling quietly and swiftly. Russian Vihyr suppressed rifles—short, light, easy to carry and conceal. With suppressors, about K2 length. Ammo was pricey, though.
"Hyungnim."
"Mm."
I took the rifle Kyung-tae offered, racked the bolt, advanced slowly. Gave it one last check to ensure the round was chambered solid.
Warmer than outside.
The poplar fog trapped heat, too—like how winter water stays warmer than ice. If it were just for holding moisture, some other incantation would've manifested. Dense fog would've blocked photosynthesis otherwise.
I donned my ballistic vest and helmet, exploration prep complete.
"Move out."
No need to micromanage the basic route. We'd preset waypoints via satellite maps and GPS, linking them into a spiral from edge to heart. They'd serve as rally points if scattered, too.
I only spoke when we halted: to sketch circuit diagrams, memorize mana flows, recite them like scripture, mentally mapping the colossal circuit's overview.
Call it circuits or code—assimilating alien code wasn't simple copy-paste. Not unless it spawned ready-to-use incantations.
Nearly 99% of the forest's circuits were bloat right now, compounding the difficulty.
In fog thick enough to choke on, my visibility shrank to about 30 meters—eyes irrelevant; my brain couldn't handle the data flood.
We zigzagged onward. Then, at the edge of that 30-meter limit, a deeply unsettling symbol dangled into view.
"Halt."
The line froze at my low command. I edged forward, scanning meticulously for threats near the symbol—magical ambushes or traps, say. Round Table elite stuff, but better safe.
Double-checked, triple-checked safety. Only then:
"Follow."
I took point for this detour, per prior agreement. Formation shifted: two left-rear, two right-rear.
Kyung-tae spotted a human finger poking from the snow, face hardening.
"This—"
"One of the missing."
The body wasn't normal. Circling the round symbol, I toed away the hard snow with my boot tip—for my men to see the rest and the hidden mark.
A circle fashioned from an elongated, ripped-open human body. Inside: a star poured in blood. Upside-down. Outside the circle: seventy-two Latin characters splattered like a starburst.
Devil-worshippers' sigil, drawing dark power from the Acausal Realm. Their faith was bullshit, but the problem? The star inside was a heptagram, not pentagram.
Heptagram means British lineage.
Traditional devil cults used inverted pentagrams—goat-head shape. But Britain's Satanists favored the heptagram. A shift after real-deal mage Grace joined them, stealing Round Table wisdom. Why her followers were the Heptagonal Knights (O7A).
"Hah."
Kyung-tae, on high alert, side-eyed the filthy sigil. His incredulous snort came from our spotty briefings on potential foes.
"Island Satanists made it all the way here?"
"Nah."
I shook my head.
"Too sloppy for that."
"Which part?"
"The letter sequence is wrong."
The seventy-two letters of Kabbalah's magnum nomen Domini Semenphoras licterarum—ineffable names of God. Devil-worshippers flip crosses, stars, and naturally, write these backward. Grace's hardcore witches screwing this up? No way.
"Probably some Yankee offshoot taking orders from the homeland."
Despite Round Table Cabinet's relentless hunts via state power, the Indian witch's devil-cult strain spread fast worldwide underground. Inevitable: doctrine loss, distortion.
This sigil held zero magic.
Kyung-tae glanced again, frowning.
"Sloppy or not, the body's state is... pretty damn weird, yeah?"
True. Not just torn—the corpse was unfurling like a plant sprouting roots. Veins and capillaries bursting skin, sprawling outward.
I said, "Not a corpse."
"Huh?"
"To the plants, it's just a nutrient lump here."
"......"
Humans tore it; forest pulled it in. Drawing moisture dragged other bits along—roots tasted blood, got hooked. Or sniffed the air's scent.
Proof: the splaying corpse angled toward dense surface and subsurface roots and stems.
Kyung-tae paused, got it, grinned wolfishly.
"So, kill zone where no forensics hassle?"
"To a degree."
"Sounds good to me?"
His "good" factored future forest fights, too. No forensic wizard could glean details from this mangled mess.
But.
"Nah, not all good."
Kyung-tae corrected himself, smile fading to ambiguity.
Right. Couldn't be all upside. An environment where misdeeds vanished easy—or stayed buried—in a labyrinth no normie could enter. Once political-economic stakes piled in? How many lunatics would run wild?
Give anonymity, and Satan possesses men. In this green maze, scum would flaunt their filth shamelessly.
Those human dregs would hinder more than help me.