THE LAST GUARDIAN OF GREYFENWOOD

Chapter 4: Echoes of Another Dimension

Finnian ran, but something was wrong. Not with his legs, not with his burning lungs, but with his head.

The pain came suddenly, slamming into his temples like an invisible sledgehammer. It wasn’t a normal headache from dehydration or concussion. It felt... foreign. As if a giant tuning fork had been struck right inside his skull, sending high-frequency vibrations that made his teeth ache.

"Argh... damn it," Finnian groaned, stumbling over a protruding tree root.

He grabbed onto a massive tree trunk to steady himself. When he opened his eyes, the world before him shifted.

The Greyfenwood he knew—the oaks, the underbrush, the mud—suddenly blinked.

For a split second, the tree in front of him wasn’t wood and bark, but an arrangement of corrupted neon purple geometric code. Falling leaves didn’t float; they lagged, stuttering in the air like a video game suffering a severe glitch.

"Am I poisoned?" Finnian rubbed his eyes roughly. "Did that Aconitum sap get into my wounds?"

He slapped his own cheek. Focus, Finn. You’re being hunted.

The sound returned. Closer this time. A low-frequency mechanical hum mixed with the click-clack of metal striking stone. And the smell... the scent of ozone mixed with rotting flesh.

Finnian looked back. In the darkness of the forest, lit only by the residual fires, he saw three pairs of glowing red eyes. They moved with unnatural speed, leaping between trees like fluid shadows.

Hellhounds. Thorne’s dogs from hell.

"Robot dogs? Seriously?" Finnian snorted, though cold sweat poured down his back. "That old man really watches too many sci-fi movies."

Finnian pushed his legs again. He knew he couldn’t outrun quadrupedal machines. He needed a tactical advantage. He needed difficult terrain.

Ahead of him, the forest topography dropped steeply toward an area known by locals as the "Valley of Whispers." A narrow gap between two granite cliffs where compasses were rumored to spin madly.

Finnian’s headache intensified as he approached the valley. His vision doubled. The sound of the Hellhounds’ footsteps behind him sounded like an echo played in reverse.

Vrummm... Vrummm...

A low hum began to fill the air. The fine hairs on Finnian’s arms stood up. Static. The air here was charged with immense static electricity.

One of the Hellhounds leaped from the cliff above him, attempting an ambush.

Finnian slid across the dirt, dodging the hydraulic jaws trying to chew his head off. The cybrid dog landed hard, its steel claws tearing up the earth, creating sparks as they scraped against granite.

"You are one ugly bastard!" Finnian yelled, firing his looted Sig Sauer.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three bullets struck the dog’s head. Two ricocheted off its steel skull plate, but one managed to shatter its left optical sensor lens.

The creature roared—a deafening sound of a blown-out speaker—and lunged again. The other two appeared from the left and right, cutting off Finnian’s escape route.

Finnian was cornered in the middle of the narrow valley. Stone walls on either side, three steel monsters in front.

"Okay... this is bad," he muttered. "Very bad."

Suddenly, the hum in the air reached its peak. The sky above the ravine changed color. Not the black of night or the red of fire, but... negative. Inverted colors.

The world tilted.

Not figuratively. Gravity in an area the size of a basketball court suddenly reversed and spun.

Pebbles floated up into the air. Rainwater puddles didn’t fall to the ground but formed liquid spheres that hovered.

Finnian felt an overwhelming nausea. His body felt light, then heavy, then light again in a matter of seconds. But strangely... he remained planted on the ground. It was as if his feet had invisible roots anchoring him to this reality.

The Hellhounds, however, were not so lucky.

The three cybrid dogs were lifted into the air. The gyroscope sensors inside their bodies screamed errors, unable to process the sudden shift in the laws of physics.

CRUNCH!

The sound of metal being wrung out was horrifying.

Gravity at the point where the dogs floated increased a hundredfold in a second, then vanished the next. Their steel bodies were crushed inward like empty soda cans stomped on by a giant.

Hydraulic fluid and oil sprayed out, floating as black droplets in the distorted air.

One of the Hellhounds exploded as its core battery failed to withstand the pressure.

BOOM!

The explosion produced no fire, but a blue shockwave that threw Finnian against the cliff wall.

"Ugh!"

Finnian hit the stone. His vision went black for a moment. When he opened his eyes, the anomaly was gone.

Gravity returned to normal. The wreckage of the Hellhounds crashed to the ground, now just mounds of smoking scrap metal.

Finnian slumped to a sitting position, breathing heavily. Blood dripped from his nose.

"What... what the hell was that?" he whispered hoarsely. "Did the forest... did the forest just eat them?"

He looked at his hands. The veins beneath his skin glowed a faint green, then faded back to normal.

Finnian barely had time to process the insanity when a dry crack echoed from the distance.

Ping!

A sniper bullet struck the rock right next to his ear, sending sharp fragments into his cheek.

"Damn! Sniper!"

Finnian rolled, seeking cover behind the carcass of the largest Hellhound. A second and third bullet slammed into the scrap metal, making loud clangs. The sniper was up on the cliff, outside the anomaly zone.

Finnian crawled fast, dragging himself behind rocks toward a small cave crevice at the base of the cliff for cover.

Inside the narrow gap, he was safe from the shots, but he wasn’t alone.

There was a corpse.

Finnian clicked on the tactical flashlight he had stolen from the Sergeant earlier. The white beam illuminated a figure sitting propped against the cave wall.

The corpse was wearing an Iron Fang combat uniform. But its condition was strange. The body was dry, mummified, as if it had been dead for ten years. Yet the uniform and combat gear were the latest models—even more advanced than what the troops attacking him tonight were wearing.

"Who are you?" Finnian muttered, checking the body’s dog tags. The metal was heavily rusted.

The name was illegible. But Finnian noticed the corpse’s chest pocket was slightly open. A photograph poked out, wrapped in protective plastic.

Curiosity outweighed fear. Finnian pulled the photo out.

The flashlight beam hit the glossy paper. Finnian’s breath hitched. His heart seemed to stop for a second.

In the photo, two people were smiling, arms around each other.

One was a woman he didn't recognize.

The second person was himself.

But the Finnian in the photo was wearing a high-ranking Iron Fang uniform, black with gold accents. His face was clean-shaven, his hair neat, and his eyes... his eyes looked cruel and proud. In the background, the Greyfenwood forest had been clear-cut and replaced by futuristic skyscrapers.

In the corner of the photo, a date was printed: October 12, 2030.

"This... this is five years in the future," Finnian trembled. His hand gripped the photo tight. "What is this? Deepfake? Hallucination?"

The headache returned, this time accompanied by indistinct whispers in his ears. Overlapping voices in a language he didn't understand.

...The bridge has cracked... The Guardian must choose...

Finnian looked at the dried corpse again. Now he realized something horrifying. The skeletal face had a bone structure that was all too familiar.

It was the face of Lieutenant Miller—the man who had just been shot dead by Thorne at the dinner table ten minutes ago (though Finnian didn't know that yet). But this corpse looked like it had been dead for years.

"Time..." Finnian backed away, his back hitting the cold cave wall. "This place... this forest isn't just a place. It's a door."

Outside the cave, the sound of search drones could be heard approaching again. But Finnian was more afraid of what he held in his hand than the thousands of troops out there.

Reality had fractured. And he was standing right on the crack.

"I have to go," he whispered to himself, shoving the photo into his pocket. "Before I turn into a mummy like him."

Finnian killed the flashlight. He peeked out. The darkness of the forest felt different now. The shadows of the trees seemed to move on their own, forming silhouettes of giant hands trying to grasp the sky.

He had to keep moving. Toward the larger waterfall, toward the crystal cave his father had once mentioned in drunken fairytales.

Finnian ran again through the night. But this time, he wasn't just running from Thorne. He was running from his own eroding sanity.

***