Chapter 3: The Shattering

  Mundane World, Poland, Day of The Shattering

  The early autumn chill nipped at Pawel's skin as he trudged along the forest path, his breath fogging faintly in the crisp air. Bundled in layers—a thick fleece jacket zipped to his chin, wool gloves, and sturdy hiking boots that crunched over frost-kissed leaves—his backpack hung heavy on his shoulders, packed with essentials: a thermos of coffee still fresh and hot, energy bars, and a flashlight for the deepening evening shadows .

  The scent of damp earth rose from the trail, mingled with the sharp tang of pine resin from the evergreens towering overhead, their needles whispering in the gentle breeze. Birds called sporadically from the branches, their songs crisp and echoing, while the distant rustle of small animals in the underbrush added a rhythmic undercurrent to his solitary walk.

  Pawel savored the solitude, his blue eyes scanning the surroundings with quiet appreciation. Two years ago, he'd been a different man—out of shape, glued to screens and warehouse drudgery, his body soft from neglect.

  But something had snapped: a realization that life was slipping away in pointless routine.

  He'd started exercising then, pushing through runs and hikes until his frame toned and strengthened. Now, in good shape and loving every trek into nature, he couldn't fathom how he'd given up the forest explorations of his childhood—those endless days scrambling through woods, imagining quests and challenges.

  "What a fool," he muttered with a wry smile, the words swallowed by the rustling canopy.

  As he passed a cluster of chokeberry bushes, their dark berries clinging stubbornly despite the season's turn, he plucked a handful. The fruits burst tart and juicy on his tongue, a wild sweetness undercut by their astringent bite. He chewed thoughtfully, spitting the small pits into the mossy verge, where they vanished among the spongy green carpet.

  In those two years of training, he'd dove into survival skills and herbalism, learning to recognize most plants and their uses for food or healing. Planning for expected homelessness after quitting his job.

  These chokeberries? Good for jams or immune-boosting teas, he noted idly.

  His gaze drifted to the sides of the dirt road, where patches of moss clung to fallen logs and tree roots like velvet shrouds. He spotted a few edible mushrooms—sturdy boletes with their earthy caps peeking through the foliage, and chanterelles glowing golden in the dappled light.

  He knelt briefly to inspect one, inhaling its faint, nutty aroma, but left it untouched. No need to harvest today; identifying them was satisfaction enough, a small ritual that grounded him in the wild.

  Gradually, he veered onto narrower, less-trodden paths, the trail narrowing to a thread of packed earth overgrown with ferns and brambles. The forest thickened around him, the air growing cooler and heavier with the scent of decaying leaves and hidden streams.

  "No truly wild places left in all of Europe," he muttered to himself with regret. Everything mapped, everything tamed—yet here, at least, he could pretend otherwise.

  He crested a small hill, his boots scraping against exposed roots, and paused at the top, breath coming in steady puffs. On the other side lay a grove that stopped him cold.

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  He blinked, turning in a slow circle to orient himself—the familiar ridge to his left, the faint trickle of a brook somewhere below. He knew this stretch of woods like his own pockets, but that grove? It hadn't been there before. Mist lingered in the low spots, swirling like ethereal smoke, veiling the trees in a soft, otherworldly haze that carried the faint, clean scent of morning dew.

  Under the canopy, a lush thicket of bushes sprawled beneath a stand of ancient trees, their leaves a riot of fading greens and early russets.

  Pawel squinted, spotting clusters of apples hanging amid the foliage—red and inviting, their skins dappled with sunlight.

  An old abandoned orchard, maybe?

  Odd that he'd never seen it in all his hikes. Curiosity tugged at him, overriding the strangeness. He pushed through the bushes, thorns snagging at his jacket with soft scratches, the air thickening with the sweet, fermented tang of overripe fruit and the earthy musk of disturbed soil.

  The mist wove between the trunks, casting shifting shadows in a mesmerizing dance, lending the place an almost mystical aura.

  Pawel felt a shiver—not from cold, but from the weight of it all, like stepping into one of those ancient legends about places of power, where the veil between worlds thinned.

  Nature had always been his refuge, pulling him into a meditation-like trance he could never achieve in the confines of concrete walls.

  In those two years, he'd caught the habit of meditation, but it was hard at home—distractions everywhere. Here, amid the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a woodpecker, his mind quieted almost naturally, thoughts flowing like the mist itself.

  This place is beautiful, he thought, a mystical feeling washing over him as he emerged into a clearer spot. No bushes choked the ground here; instead, a single ancient oak dominated the center, its gnarled trunk twisting skyward, bark rough and etched with time. Other trees encircled it at about ten meters' distance, forming a natural ring. Underfoot, perfect specimens of edible mushrooms sprouted—plump porcini with their meaty caps, and parasols unfurling like delicate umbrellas, their earthy scent rising invitingly.

  Awe settled over Pawel like a warm cloak. He felt privileged, as if he'd been granted entry to a sanctuary untouched for ages, the air humming with an unspoken invitation. He contemplated picking the mushrooms or hunting for those apples that had lured him in, but fairy tales flickered in his mind—warnings about taking from enchanted places, how it rarely ended well.

  This encounter felt like a gift, though he couldn't pinpoint exact nature of what is being offered.

  Of course, he didn't believe in such nonsense, but disturbing the peace here seemed like sacrilege.

  The grove exuded immense serenity, calling him to simply sit beneath the oak and meditate.

  So he did, shrugging off his backpack and settling against the trunk, the bark cool and textured against his back.

  His mind cleared almost instantly, absorbing the sensations without judgment: the soft sigh of wind through leaves, the faint chirp of insects, the rich loam scent of the earth.

  He tried to hold the emptiness, but thoughts drifted in lazily. Relaxed, eyes closed against the filtered light, he slipped into blissful sleep.

  He woke sometime later—the sun had shifted, casting longer shadows, but the mist still clung.

  Rubbing his eyes, he considered the mushrooms and apples again, but decided against it. This was a perfect spot for regular meditation; he'd return. As he shouldered his pack and pushed back through the bushes, he glanced out—and froze.

  The forest and valley were gone. The immediate area around the grove was cleared of high vegetation, the grove itself perched on a gentle hill, open sky stretching above.

  The surprise barely registered before a wind-like force slammed into him from behind, hurling him forward. He faceplanted into the soft earth, tasting gritty soil and crushed leaves, the metallic tang of blood from a cut lip filling his mouth.

  A secondary blast followed—a massive push that flung him and clods of soil farther, accompanied by a deafening BANG! that left his ears ringing like struck bells.

  Shaking off the daze, Pawel pushed to his feet and turned.

  Aside from minor bruising ,cut lip and the disorienting hum in his head, he was unharmed.

  The grove had disappeared. In its place loomed something immense, stretching skyward.

  Too close to grasp its full form, he saw uneven swirls of purplish mist so dense that it formed an opaque wall almost immediately, reaching out into the sky like an enormous pillar or a building of ethereal fog.

  Fascination gripped him, almost hypnotic, overriding common sense. He edged closer through the churned soil, its fresh, upturned scent heavy in the air.

  Reaching out, he plunged his hand into the swirling mass.

  Resistance built rapidly, his arm pushing as if submerging a buoyant beach ball in water. At elbow depth, he could go no farther.

  Clarity pierced the trance: This is stupid. What am I doing?

  Mild stinging prickled his skin, and a force shoved him out, sending him sprawling on his ass.

  Purple fog clung to his arm, the stinging intensifying.

  He shook it frantically, but the mist adhered, shifting from purplish color to greenish hues before seeping into his skin like absorbed vapor.

  Panic surged. He scoffed at his own idiocy—sticking his hand into an unknown anomaly?

  Heart pounding, he scrambled back, putting distance between himself and the pillar.

  Calmer now, farther away, he examined his hand , recalling the greenish tint seeping into his body.

  No mist remained, but the stinging lingered, a warm tingle under the skin.

  "I am sure this will be fine" - he said - convincing nobody.