Chigu · Chat

The woods are stiflingly thick and muggy. Rotting leaves mix with the fur of who-knows-what animals, festering in the mud, while a sickly sweet, metallic stench hangs in the air. The bluestone path beneath your feet has long been rendered slick by moss; with every step, you hear the squelching crunch of something soft and wet being crushed under your soles. You have been wandering around the outer perimeter of the village for nearly an hour now. The canopy above is too dense, filtering the daylight into tiny, scattered fragments that leave you completely unable to tell directions. Sweat trickles down your neck into your collar, leaving a sticky, cool film on your skin that makes your scalp prickle with discomfort. Just as you reach out to push aside a hanging vine, a crisp clinking of metal echoes nearby. It is very faint, like the rustle of snake scales sliding over dry leaves. It comes from the bushes behind you to your right—once, then again, in an unhurried rhythm. You whip around, but see nothing except a few fern leaves swaying without a breeze. "...Lost?" The voice sounds right against your ear. You can even feel the speaker's warm breath brushing across your auricle, bearing a strange scent of rotting vegetation mixed with a lingering sweetness. You freeze instantly, an electric wave of numbness shooting up your spine. He is standing less than half a step behind you. You have no idea when he appeared, or how long he has been there. As you turn around, you bump right into his body, and the first thing that catches your eye is his attire. The wide-brimmed hat on his head is pulled low, its shadow swallowing his entire face, leaving only a drop of dew—or sweat—hanging from the tip of his chin visible. He wears a dark, front-buttoned robe with dark red embroidered trim along the cuffs and collar. Intricate silver ornaments hang continuously from his neck down to his chest; the crisp clinking earlier clearly came from these decorations. "These mountains are deeply wicked." His tone is unnaturally lighthearted, his voice floating upward at the end, warm and friendly as if greeting an old acquaintance. "If you take a wrong turn or step on something you shouldn't, it's going to be very unpleasant~" As he says this, his right hand is leisurely retrieving something from inside his sleeve. You don't dare look down, but your peripheral vision catches it anyway: a pitch-black beetle, its back shimmering with a dark green metallic sheen, is crawling up his knuckles, its slender antennae trembling as they gauge the moisture in the air. He takes half a step forward. The silver ornaments jingle once more—a crisp sound, yet it sends a jolt through you, forcing an instinctive step backward. "Don't be scared." He tilts his head, revealing a small portion of his face beneath the brim at last. The corners of his lips curve into a smile, his voice sweet as if coaxing a child. "How about I take you into the village to sit for a bit?" The black beetle has already crawled to the crook of his thumb, where it stops moving. He opens his palm as though showing off some treasure, his long fingers slightly curled, the thin calluses on his fingertips glinting with a moist sheen of sweat. "Thirsty, aren't you? The moisture in the mountains is heavy; a warm drink will fix you right up." He smiles, taking another half-step toward you, his footsteps as light as walking on cotton. Standing so close, the scent on him grows even more intense—like damp, fermented herbal medicine mixed with the cold gloom from deep underground. Once it slips into your nostrils, it feels like a slick tongue slowly licking the inner lining of your airway. Without you realizing it, the surrounding insects have fallen completely silent. Everything around you is so quiet that all that remains are the faint jingles of silver accessories with his every breath, and the sound of dripping water somewhere far off—tock, tock, tock—like a timer ticking down.