Realm of Thorns

Facing the Tikbalang

Joaquin's entire body trembled, not only from fear but from the crushing weight of exhaustion. His limbs felt like lead, his legs no longer able to support him. He knelt on the rough, cold ground, his knees scraping against the earth, but the sharp pain barely registered in the haze of his fatigue. His arms hung limply by his sides, too weak to even lift them. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and his vision blurred, the edges of his world darkening as if the forest itself were closing in.

The silence around him was deafening, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves in the distance. The air grew colder, so thick it seemed to press against his skin, suffocating him with its heaviness. He didn't need to turn around to know the tikbalang was there—looming, grinning, watching him with those malevolent yellow eyes. A shiver ran down his spine, colder than the night air, as he felt its presence drawing nearer, the atmosphere thickening with dread.

Joaquin stared at the ground beneath him, the dirt and fallen leaves blurring together as his tears welled up. This is it, he thought. I'm going to die here... in this godforsaken place. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, and for a brief moment, he wished for the strength to fight, but his body was betraying him. He was too tired, too afraid.

Behind him, the soft crunch of leaves announced the creature's approach. Each step echoed louder in the stillness, a slow, deliberate sound that seemed to reverberate through the very marrow of his bones.

"Finally gave up?" The tikbalang's deep, resonant voice came from behind him, the words laced with mockery.

Joaquin's muscles locked in place. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. His entire body was frozen, paralyzed by terror. His eyes stung with the tears that threatened to spill, but he refused to let them fall. This is how it ends.

The creature's footsteps were slow, deliberate, drawing closer with each passing second. As the tikbalang approached, Joaquin's mind began to unravel, memories flashing before his eyes in a chaotic blur. His mother's kind, loving face. Her laugh, her warmth. And then... his father's cold, hard eyes. The sting of his words.

"You're the reason she's gone." The voice in his head was his father's—sharp, bitter, echoing from the darkest corners of his memory.

"It was your fault." The words were like knives, cutting deeper than any wound he'd ever felt.

"You caught the virus first."

"You useless brat..."

Each accusation, each blame, replayed in his mind like a never-ending nightmare, battering his already fragile spirit. And yet, beneath the crushing weight of guilt and fear, something stirred inside him. No. I can't die like this.

Joaquin's fists clenched into the dirt, his nails digging into the earth. He couldn't let his life end here, hating his father. He couldn't die believing those words, carrying that burden. His chest tightened, not from fear now, but from the realization that he didn't want to die with this darkness in his heart.

"I don't want to hate him forever. I don't want him to hate me either."

A sob caught in his throat, but he swallowed it down, pushing the tears back. He couldn't let this be the end. He had to live—not for his father, not for the approval he had always sought, but for himself. His life wasn't meant to end in this twisted game, this cruel forest.

Marco's words echoed softly in Joaquin's mind, cutting through the haze of fear and exhaustion like a lifeline. Marco—his only friend, the one person who had never given up on him. In a world that had seemed cold and indifferent, where his father's approval was a distant dream, Marco had always been there. The memories of their time together flashed before him: their late-night conversations, dreaming of a better future; the way Marco had always encouraged him, pushed him to see beyond the limitations of their small town and his own self-doubt.