The simultaneous screams, Gordon's a raw, animalistic cry of terror, the spider-head's a high-pitched, chilling shriek, filled the library, a chaotic symphony of madness. As the head clung to his ankle, Gordon instinctively channeled his power, forming a spear of wind in his right hand. He was ready to unleash it, to obliterate the grotesque creature.

  But before he could act, the spider-head, with a sudden, repulsive movement, spat a cloud of thick, black smoke. The smoke billowed out, enveloping Gordon, a suffocating, acrid miasma.

  Immediately, Gordon felt his body weakening. His muscles turned to jelly, his grip loosened, and the spear of wind dissipated, the energy fading into nothingness. His mind grew foggy, his thoughts sluggish. He felt a wave of nausea, a sense of overwhelming weakness that sapped his strength and will.

  He collapsed to his knees, his body trembling, his breath ragged. The spider-head, still clinging to his ankle, let out a triumphant, high-pitched laugh, a sound that echoed through the library, filled with a malevolent glee.

  Gordon's head swam, his vision blurring. He felt a chilling sense of despair, a feeling that he was losing control, that he was being consumed by the darkness. He tried to focus, to summon his power, but his body wouldn't respond. The black smoke had taken its toll, leaving him weak and vulnerable.

  Gordon's world went black. The insidious smoke had finally claimed him, his consciousness fading into a swirling void. The spider-head, sensing its victory, released its grip on his ankle and skittered up his limp body, its spindly legs clicking against his chest. It settled over his heart, its grotesque face looming above his unconscious form.

  Then, it began to mutter, a series of low, guttural sounds that resembled the babbling of an infant. The strange, rhythmic chant filled the silent library, a chilling lullaby that seemed to vibrate with a sinister . The spider legs began to merge with Gordon’s chest, the skin around the legs melting and reforming to encase them, leaving no trace of the grotesque limbs.

  Gordon awoke with a start. He found himself standing on the familiar, dusty trail leading to the hunter's trial. The sun was high in the sky, the air warm and still. He looked around, his brow furrowed in confusion. He remembered this place, this moment. It had already happened.

  He felt a strange sense of déjà vu, a feeling that he was reliving a past experience. He tried to piece together his memories, to understand what was happening, but his thoughts were hazy, fragmented.

  "This is… strange," he muttered to himself, his voice echoing through the quiet forest. "I've already done this."

  He looked down at his hands, his fingers trembling slightly. He felt a sense of unease, a feeling that something was wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

  He tried to recall the events that had led him here, but his memories were blurred, like a dream fading upon waking. He remembered Mr. Suhat's house, the unsettling atmosphere, the strange occurrences. He remembered the library, the laughter, the head. But the details were hazy, indistinct.

  He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He felt a growing sense of confusion, a feeling that he was losing his grip on reality.

  "It doesn't matter," he said to himself, his voice firm. "I need to focus. I need to complete the trial."

  He began to walk, his steps slow and deliberate, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. He tried to ignore the nagging sense of unease, the feeling that something was terribly wrong. He tried to focus on the task at hand, to complete the trial, to become a hunter.

  The feeling of confusion and unease soon faded, he was fully focused on the trial, and all his previous concern was forgotten.

  Gordon walked alongside Markus, Sharon, and Edi, the familiar trail stretching before them. But something felt off. His steps were clumsy, his balance unsteady. He kept stumbling over roots and stones, his feet seemingly unable to find solid footing.

  Edi, their instructor, his face already a mask of impatience, finally snapped. "Gordon! What in the blazes is wrong with you?" he barked, his voice sharp and accusatory. "Are you trying to trip yourself? Or are you just naturally this incompetent?"

  Gordon flushed, his cheeks burning with shame. "I… I don't know," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm just… a little unsteady."

  "Unsteady?" Edi scoffed, his eyes narrowed. "You're a disgrace! A stumbling, bumbling fool. You'll never be a hunter at this rate. You're a waste of space, Gordon. A burden!"

  Gordon's heart sank. He knew he was clumsy, but Edi's words were like a physical blow, each insult a searing brand on his soul. He looked to Markus and Sharon for support, for a word of comfort, but they stood silently, their expressions… strange. They weren't angry, or even concerned. They were… sneering.

  Sharon's lips curled into a cruel smile, her eyes filled with a cold amusement. Markus, usually a bastion of support, simply watched, a similar smirk playing on his lips.

  Gordon's confusion deepened. He didn't understand. Why were his friends acting this way? Why were they so… hostile?

  "You're pathetic, Gordon," Edi continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "You're weak, you're useless. You'll never amount to anything."

  Gordon's vision blurred, tears welling up in his eyes. He felt a wave of despair wash over him, a feeling that he was truly alone, that no one cared. He felt a deep sense of wrongness, but he ignored it.

  They came upon a small deer, its eyes wide and innocent, grazing peacefully in a clearing. Edi, his eyes gleaming with predatory anticipation, barked an order at Markus. "Markus! Take it down!"

  Markus, with his usual calm precision, drew his bow and took aim. The arrow flew, swift and silent, finding its mark with a sickening thud. The deer collapsed, its life extinguished in an instant.

  Edi erupted in praise, his voice booming with admiration. "Excellent shot, Markus! A clean kill! You have the eye of an eagle and the hand of a master!" He clapped Markus on the shoulder, his face beaming. "You'll make a fine hunter, a credit to our village!"

  He turned to Gordon, his expression twisting into a sneer. "And you, Gordon," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "couldn't hit a barn door from ten paces. A disgrace."

  He gestured towards the deer carcass. "Carry it," he ordered, his tone dismissive. "We'll find a place to cook it."

  Gordon, his heart sinking, struggled to lift the small deer. It was heavier than he expected, its limp body awkward and cumbersome. He staggered, his legs trembling, his grip slipping.

  Sharon, watching his struggle, let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Look at him," she sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "The great hero of Oakhaven can't even carry a deer. What a pathetic display."

  Gordon's cheeks flushed with shame. He tried to ignore her words, to focus on his task, but the weight of the deer, combined with the humiliation, was almost unbearable. He stumbled again, nearly dropping the carcass.

  "Careful, Gordon," Edi said, his voice laced with a cruel amusement. "We wouldn't want to waste such a fine meal, would we?"

  Gordon gritted his teeth, his grip tightening on the deer. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him fail. He would carry the deer, no matter how heavy, no matter how humiliating.

  After walking for several minutes they found a suitable clearing, a small, sheltered area where they could set up camp and cook the deer. Markus and Edi quickly set to work, erecting a makeshift frame of sturdy branches to skin the carcass. Gordon, still reeling from the exertion of carrying the deer, nearly fainted as he watched them work.

  Sharon, with a practiced ease that bordered on the uncanny, began to skin the deer. Her movements were swift and precise, her knife gliding effortlessly through the hide. Gordon watched, his eyes wide with disbelief. There was no way she could do it this efficiently, even the most experienced butcher in the village would be hard pressed to match her skill.

  "Gordon," Edi barked, interrupting his stunned observation. "Start the fire. We'll need it to cook the meat."

  Gordon, his mind still groggy, nodded and gathered some dry twigs and kindling. He knelt by the makeshift hearth, striking his flint and steel. Sparks flew, but the dry tinder refused to ignite. He tried again, and again, but the wood remained stubbornly unlit.

  He was desperate, confused. How could he be so incompetent? Lighting a fire was a basic skill, something every child in the village learned. He had done it countless times before, effortlessly. Yet now, he couldn't even coax a flame from dry wood.

  He remembered countless nights sitting around a campfire, the warmth chasing away the chill, the flames casting dancing shadows on the faces of his friends. He remembered the comforting crackle of the burning wood, the smell of smoke mingling with the scent of roasting meat.

  But now, the wood remained stubbornly unlit, his efforts futile. He felt a wave of panic rising within him. Was he losing his mind? Was he becoming truly useless? The familiar feeling of wrongness was growing.

  Gordon's hands trembled as he struck the flint and steel again and again, sparks flying uselessly into the pile of dry tinder. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He was sweating, his forehead slick with a cold sheen, but the wood remained stubbornly unlit.

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  He felt a growing sense of despair, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. He couldn't understand it. He had lit fires countless times before, effortlessly. Now, he couldn't even manage a flicker.

  "Really?" Markus spat out, his voice laced with contempt. "We've done all the heavy lifting, and you can't even light a simple fire?"

  Gordon flinched, his gaze falling to the ground. He couldn't meet Markus's eyes.

  "What are you, a baby?" Markus continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Can't even handle a little spark?"

  Gordon's cheeks burned with shame. He felt a lump forming in his throat, a mix of humiliation and frustration. He wanted to say something, to defend himself, but he couldn't find the words.

  He tried again, his movements frantic, his desperation growing. The flint scraped against the steel, sending a shower of sparks into the tinder. Still, nothing.

  "Just give up, Gordon," Sharon said, her voice laced with a cruel amusement. "You're useless. Always have been."

  Gordon's heart sank. He felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him. He was failing, utterly and completely. He was a burden, a disappointment. He was nothing.

  The rest of the trial was a torturous procession of failures for Gordon. Every task, every challenge, became a new opportunity for Markus, Sharon, and Edi to heap scorn and ridicule upon him. He fumbled with knots, missed his targets, and stumbled through the forest, his every misstep met with sneers and harsh words.

  Markus, once his closest friend, now seemed to relish Gordon's humiliation, his voice dripping with sarcasm and contempt. Sharon, her eyes glittering with cruel amusement, never missed a chance to deliver a cutting remark, her words like poisoned darts finding their mark. Edi, their instructor, his face a mask of disgust, berated Gordon with relentless ferocity, his insults echoing through the silent forest.

  "Clumsy fool," "pathetic excuse for a hunter," "useless burden"—the words became a constant, agonizing drone, hammering against Gordon's heart and mind, chipping away at his self-worth. Each failure, each insult, deepened the wound, fueling the growing sense of self-loathing that consumed him.

  He felt a profound disconnect, a sense that he was watching himself from a distance, a helpless observer in his own life. He couldn't understand why he was so incompetent, so utterly useless. He remembered being capable, competent, even heroic. But now, he was a shadow of his former self, a broken, hollow shell.

  By the time the trial ended, Gordon felt nothing but a deep, gnawing hatred for himself. He was a failure, a disgrace, a burden to everyone around him. The words of his tormentors echoed in his mind, their voices a constant, mocking chorus. He felt a profound sense of isolation, a feeling that he was utterly alone, abandoned by everyone he had ever cared about. He was broken, and he felt like he could never be fixed.

  Gordon walked back to his cottage, his steps heavy, his spirit crushed. The forest, once a place of adventure and wonder, now seemed to mock his failure, the trees whispering his inadequacy. He felt hollow, empty, the cruel words of his companions echoing in his mind.

  He reached his cottage, the familiar sight offering no comfort. He opened the door, expecting a warm smile, a comforting embrace. Instead, he was met with a barrage of angry words.

  "Gordon!" his mother snapped, her face flushed with anger. "What do you think you're doing? Taking the hunter's trial without even talking to me? Are you completely out of your mind?"

  Gordon flinched, his gaze falling to the floor. He couldn't meet her eyes.

  "Don't you realize how stupid and useless you are?" she continued, her voice laced with contempt. "Taking the hunter's trial? It's a waste of time. You'll just fail, embarrass yourself, and maybe even get yourself killed. And then what? Who's going to take care of me? After all the money I've spent feeding you, clothing you, trying to make something of you?"

  Gordon's heart sank. He had expected disappointment, perhaps even anger, but not this. Not this cold, cutting disdain.

  "You're a burden, Gordon," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "You've always been a burden. You're weak, you're clumsy, you're utterly useless. And now, you're going to throw your life away on some foolish dream of becoming a hunter?"

  He felt a wave of nausea, a feeling that he was being suffocated by the weight of her words. He wanted to scream, to cry, to run away. But he couldn't move. He stood there, frozen, his body trembling, his mind reeling.

  "You're a disappointment, Gordon," she said, her voice dripping with disgust. "A complete and utter disappointment."

  That night, Gordon curled up on his bed, his body wracked with sobs. His heart felt like it had been shattered into a thousand pieces, the pain so intense it was difficult to breathe. He cried until he was exhausted, until his tears ran dry, and then he drifted into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

  When morning came, he rose with a heavy heart, his eyes swollen and red. He felt empty, hollow, like a ghost drifting through his own life. He decided to go to the goat farm, hoping that the familiar routine would offer some semblance of comfort.

  But as soon as he arrived, he realized that something was wrong. No one greeted him. No one even acknowledged his presence. He walked past his coworkers, offering a hesitant "Good morning," but received only cold, stony silence in return.

  Everyone gave him the cold shoulder, their gazes filled with a mixture of disdain and disgust. Even Lukas, his best friend, avoided his eyes, his expression a mask of contempt.

  Gordon, confused and hurt, approached Lukas. "Lukas, what's going on?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly. "Why is everyone acting like this?"

  Lukas turned to him, his eyes narrowed, his lips curled into a sneer. "Why did you come back here?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Aren't you too good for this place now? You're a hero, aren't you? A hunter. You should be out hunting squirrels, not mucking out goat pens."

  Gordon's heart sank. He couldn't understand the sudden hostility. "But… but I just wanted to work," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I thought… I thought things would be normal."

  "Normal?" Lukas scoffed. "Nothing's normal anymore, Gordon. You've changed. You think you're better than us now."

  "No, Lukas, that's not true," Gordon pleaded, his eyes filled with desperation. "I'm still the same Gordon."

  "You're not the same," Lukas said, his voice cold and hard. "You're a hero now. And heroes don't belong here." He turned away, leaving Gordon standing alone, his heart aching with a profound sense of betrayal.

  Gordon, his heart heavy, resigned himself to working alone. He moved through the goat farm, performing his tasks with a mechanical precision, milking the goats, storing the milk in the warehouse. The silence was deafening, broken only by the bleating of the goats and the clinking of the buckets. No one spoke to him, no one even looked at him. He was an invisible presence, a ghost haunting the familiar grounds.

  The hours dragged on, each minute an eternity. The weight of his isolation grew heavier, crushing him beneath its oppressive weight. He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare, a cruel parody of his former life.

  Finally, the workday ended. He walked out of the goat farm, his footsteps slow and deliberate. But instead of heading towards his cottage, he found himself drawn to the familiar path leading to the hill overlooking the village.

  He climbed the hill, his gaze fixed on the old tree, the silent sentinel that had witnessed countless moments of his childhood. He reached the tree, its gnarled branches reaching out like… well, like a silent, unjudging presence. He sat beneath its shade, his back resting against the rough bark.

  He closed his eyes, his mind flooded with memories. He remembered playing here as a child, mostly with Lukas. They'd sought refuge beneath this tree, a haven from the bigger kids who liked to torment them. It wasn't a place of grand adventures, but a place of quiet escape. He remembered Lukas's outlandish stories, the whispered plans to avoid the bullies, the shared, nervous laughter.

  Now, all those memories felt like distant echoes, like fragments of a life that no longer existed. He felt utterly alone, abandoned by the one person he thought he could always count on.

  He began to cry, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn't sob, didn't wail. He just wept, his tears a quiet testament to the pain that consumed him.

  He stayed there, beneath the old oak tree, until the moon hung high in the sky, until the village lights flickered and died. He cried until he had no more tears left, until he was numb, empty.

  Only then, when the silence of the night was at its deepest, did he dare to return home. He walked through the dark streets, his footsteps echoing through the stillness, his heart a hollow ache. He felt like a ghost, a shadow drifting through a world that no longer belonged to him.