NOVEL'S EXTRA: I Will Die at the Peak-Chapter 48: God’s goat [ part 1]

Two suns were shining in the sky. The light was sharp, and the wind cut like ice. The air was dry and silent. The bird’s wings flapped unevenly, erratically—it was in the air, but unable to ascend.

The parasite had consumed its muscles and taken over its nerve endings. Balance was completely lost.

It wasn’t gliding through the sky—it was just hanging there, as if suspended. The wind struck its back and altered its direction, yet it still remained aloft. Or so it seemed.

On the horizon, a dense, dark forest came into view, composed of thick, clustered trees.

Its eyes were becoming duller with every second, and its body was gradually losing altitude.

What had been a glide had now turned into an uncontrolled descent. A few broken feathers scattered into the wind.

Eventually, it crashed into the center of a clearing. It was no graceful landing, but the final twitch of a shattered body. Part of its internal organs had been flung out.

Its wing bones were twisted backward, feathers matted with soil. Its eyes were wide open, yet they saw nothing. The body was completely still. Only the entity inside it seemed to persist.

For a long time, there was no movement.

Then, from within the shadows, a fox appeared. It must have picked up the scent from far away. With curious, cautious, and silent steps, it approached the clearing.

Its eyes stayed locked on the bird’s lifeless body with every step. As it drew closer, it sniffed the area, ears perked. The silence couldn’t suppress the unease inside it, but it sensed no threat.

The bird’s chest was torn open. Feathers stuck to the dirt, and parts of its flesh spilled outward.

A dark, damp cavity had opened among the mottled gray feathers. The fox lowered its head. It bit into a soft piece of flesh and swallowed it without chewing.

Unbeknownst to it, the chunk of meat came from the base of the bird’s brain. Hidden within was dormant parasite tissue.

As soon as it touched stomach fluid, the fibers began to awaken. They softened and dissolved slightly.

First, they latched onto the stomach lining, then rapidly climbed upward. They moved through the throat, advancing toward the spine. The movement was swift. The objective, clear.

The fox took a few more steps. Then it suddenly stopped. Its legs trembled, its back tensed. Its gaze briefly drifted into a void.

It looked up at the sky. Then it turned its head and kept walking—but something was off in its steps. Its tail was unsteady. Its breathing grew shallow.

The skin on its back, between the shoulder blades, began to bulge slightly. Something stirred beneath it. It tensed, stretched, and tore.

Two thin tendrils emerged. One was smooth; the other, forked at the tip. With a short spasm, they settled into place.

The first extended forward, as if sniffing the air. The second touched the ground, anchoring itself to the damp earth.

It secreted a thick, black fluid that spread outward, forming a layer across the surface.

The fox stopped abruptly. It didn’t turn its head, but it had sensed the approaching rabbit. It hadn’t heard the steps. It hadn’t seen it with its eyes. But the entity inside it had noticed.

The tendrils expanded further. The black secretion formed a thin, sticky film on the ground. It quivered gently, spreading silently between stones and dried grass.

The trap was ready.

A few minutes later, a rabbit bounded into the clearing. It locked eyes with the fox. For a brief moment, it sensed that something was off. Its breath caught in its throat.

Realizing the danger, it tried to leap away in reflex. But just as it pushed off, its paw landed on the black layer. It was like stepping into glue. Its tissues loosened for a split second.

At that exact moment, the tendril on the fox’s back snapped forward. It latched onto the rabbit’s hind leg.

The touch was cold and wet. Slowly, it slid beneath the skin and made contact with its nerve endings. The rabbit’s eyelids twitched. A soft, strangled moan escaped its throat.

Its gaze drifted into emptiness, the iris darkening and sinking inward. Then its body began to ripple.

The shoulder blades rose unnaturally. Its front legs splayed at strange angles. Thin veins dangled from its mouth, twitching slightly in the air.

The skin along its back stretched and split down the spine. Between its ribs, a thin, coiled structure emerged.

A network of spreading veins slithered out through its old fur, wrapping tightly around the body. Its tail had vanished.

Once the transformation was complete, the rabbit began hopping toward the eastern part of the forest—as if nothing had happened.

But its leaps were now far higher. Its muscle movements were different; with each jump, its body hung in the air for a fleeting moment before landing in absolute silence.

The fox, meanwhile, remained still for a moment. It looked up at the sky, flicked its ears, then turned north with heavy steps. Its tail drooped, and its stride had grown erratic.

As the hours passed, both the fox and the rabbit began infecting every creature they encountered within the forest. Contact was all it took.

The moist fibrous tips of their tendrils slipped beneath the skin of any being they brushed against, reaching the nervous system within seconds.

Frogs, field mice, birds, lizards... All of them transformed silently—losing their original bodies and taking on a new form.

The infected bodies began to change over time. Bones grew at unnatural angles, skin stretched and split open, and muscles began bulging out in places.

Eye sockets darkened, nostrils closed, and ear structures warped grotesquely.

And there was one common feature in every body: a pulsing, square-shaped mass nestled in the center of the ribcage.

As that structure grew, the hosts’ mobility improved. They found prey more easily. It wasn’t just their bodies that changed—

Their minds were shifting as well.

Then, the voice echoed. Simultaneously, inside all of them.

"Live and multiply."

It wasn’t a command—it was instinct. A compulsion embedded deep within, resonating through every cell. Unstoppable. A singular absolute that reverberated in the heart of silence.

The infected began an endless search for new bodies.

One squirrel infected dozens of insects.

Those insects slipped through the brush and passed it on to smaller creatures. In a clearing the fox crossed, a deer was caught. Tendrils slipped beneath its neck. It thrashed for a few seconds, then silence. Then it stood up again.

As hours passed, the forest itself began to transform.

The ground lost its old brown tone. Patches of thick black secretion formed shallow pools, while a thin, slick membrane spread over what once was grass.

In a clearing to the northeast, the creatures had begun to gather—motionless.

Bears, deer, foxes, birds, reptiles, and other beings so warped they could no longer be named—stood silently side by side.

Their bodies had changed—some had torn skin, exposed muscle, eyes bulging from their sockets.

Each looked different, but every one of them bore the same thing in their chest:

A dense, square-shaped organ linked with thick veins.

It didn’t just beat—it vibrated. As if it were listening to its surroundings.

The creatures didn’t speak, but they moved in perfect unison. Turning their heads at the same moment. Stopping at the same time. Falling into stillness together. They didn’t look at each other—yet something passed between them.

The connection wasn’t visible. But it could be felt.

The square-shaped organ inside each one had connected with the others.

This communication came through neither sound nor light.

The parasite was no longer just entwining bodies—it had begun weaving minds together.

And as the bond deepened, they grew quieter. More focused.

Beings that once moved randomly, guided only by instinct, now acted with intention.

A shared thought had been born—spreading through them all.

And in that moment, within the collective consciousness, the same drive rose again.

Not a word. Not an idea.

But a direction. A sensation:

Live and multiply.

As if the thought wasn’t even theirs anymore.

And yet, there was no longer any other possibility.

The parasite had become something more—intelligent.

It no longer thought in individuals.

It thought as one.

It saw through the bear’s eyes, heard with the fox’s ears, felt with the rabbit’s paws.

The collective mind had awakened.

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A mysterious voice whispered: "Only 21 hours remain until Ravien awakens."

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