A wanderer

History did not begin with the clash of swords or the coronation of kings.

It began with a man in his forties.

Unmarried.

Restless.

Untamed.

He bore no crown, commanded no army, followed no map leading to glory.

What he carried was far rarer; a soul that refused to sit still.

With quiet steps and eyes brimming with curiosity, he wandered across the corners of the world.., collecting stories, relics, and forgotten truths. Everything he touched, he documented. Every object, every whisper of legend.., his journal thickened with the weight of wonder.

His friends, experts in science, archaeology, and history, waited eagerly for his returns. They studied what he found in their labs and lecture halls. Some examined ancient minerals under microscopes; others decoded symbols from lost languages. For him, every discovery was a verse in the poem of existence.

He didn’t travel light.

Alongside his notebooks and pens, he wore three cameras; one strapped to his forehead, another at his chest, and one behind his head, capturing the world from every angle, like a living archive. In his weathered backpack: a foldable dagger reminiscent of old assassin tales, a pistol tucked neatly for emergencies, sketchbooks, dry rations, medical kits, and his most treasured possession; a vintage Polaroid camera that froze time into tangible memory.

Two days before this story truly begins, he arrived on Mages Valley Island, nestled within Lioraen country, a place veiled in mist, where the wind whispered forgotten legends through the forest canopy. The island holds hundreds to thousands of history, culture and legends. But he got zero interest in other things on this island except the mystery of the abandoned forest! He heard of it from a foreign friend of his in his previous travels in Melisie, a neighbouring country of Lioraen. His visit here only stands by one reason, to uncover the truth behind it! His untamed souls gave him a high devotion to dig out the mystery for once or never!

For two days, he wandered the village’s edge, speaking with elders and curious children. He asked about the forest, a place untouched for generations. The villagers had a name for it:

“The Veil of the Forgotten.”

No one had entered it since the days of their great grandparents’ youth. It's been almost a century. One day, without explanation, the people who lived there abandoned it completely. No screams. No conflict. Just silence and the pull of the sea. They relocated and rebuilt their lives along the coastline and never looked back.

But this man... he was built from questions.

And the unknown?

To him, it wasn’t a warning.

It was an invitation.

On the third morning, before sunlight kissed the horizon, while the village still slumbered under the breath of the sea breeze, he packed his belongings and set off, on foot, toward the forest. Sixty-five kilometers of steady steps. Time blurred. By the time dusk returned and the moon quietly claimed the sky, he arrived at its edge.

There it stood the threshold of the forgotten.

The forest loomed like an ancient sentinel, its trees towering, its vines coiled like forgotten verses. The air was damp, heavy with stories untold. Something inside him stirred, a primal sense that only awakens when danger is close.

He hesitated.

Night in the forest is unlike the night in cities or farms.

It watches.

It remembers.

He stood still for a long time, listening.

Then, with a heavy sense of wisdom, he turned away. He returned to the village and rented a modest room at the nearest homestay. Dropping his bag onto the mattress, he fell back, exhausted, and was pulled into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Sleep well, wanderer,

for the forest is waiting.

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