The warm, blinding morning sunlight forced the young Beastfolk to open his eyes.
His first reaction wasn't to stretch his stiff body, but an explosion of pure panic triggered by survival instinct.
His body jolted awake, muscles tensing instantly, ready to pounce or flee from an unseen threat. The last memory spinning wildly in his head was bone-crushing pain—an Ogre's iron club slamming into his stomach with full force, the cold of wet mud on his back, and the stinging scent of death.
He should be dead. He knew he was dead.
Such a fatal wound—crushed internal organs, massive bleeding—couldn't be healed, even by high-level priests, unless they were there the exact second his life slipped away.
But right now, he didn't smell blood, rusty iron, or rotting forest mud. His sharp nose caught the scent of... lavender? Beeswax? Soothing old paper?
The Beastfolk blinked several times, letting his pupils adapt to the room's light. He wasn't in the forest. He was lying on a very soft bed—much softer than the piles of straw or hard ground he usually slept on—enclosed in smooth white silk sheets.
He was in a spacious and luxurious room. The walls were cream-colored with elegant faint floral patterns, polished ebony furniture was arranged neatly, and open window curtains let the morning breeze in, swaying the golden dust particles dancing in the air.
"What is this..." his voice sounded hoarse, his throat dry and sore like grated wood.
With panic, his right hand immediately felt his left abdomen. His heart beat fast, fearing his fingers would slip into a gaping hole in his own flesh.
However, his hand touched skin. Smooth. Intact. Warm.
He threw the blanket off roughly and saw himself wearing a clean loose linen shirt—he didn't know who had put it on him. He pulled the shirt up to his chest, staring at his own stomach with eyes wide in disbelief.
No wounds. No stitches. No bandages. Not even a scar or a red line. The skin on his stomach looked new and tight, as if he had never fought to the death against three Ogres last night. It was as if the memory of that torturous pain was just a vivid nightmare.
"This is impossible..." he growled softly, his bushy black tail tensing warily under the blanket. "What kind of magic..."
He got off the bed carefully. His bare feet touched the warm, thick carpet. Although the wound had miraculously vanished, his body still felt heavy, remnants of the extreme fatigue from the battle that had drained all his energy.
He scanned the room quickly, his eyes moving wildly looking for one thing: his dagger. His beloved black dagger, his father's legacy, his only loyal friend in this cruel world.
Nothing. His weapon was missing.
His alertness spiked to the maximum. His black wolf ears on top of his head twitched, trying to catch even the slightest sound. He was in unknown territory, possibly enemy territory, unarmed, and physically not fully recovered. A very bad situation.
The Beastfolk moved toward the door like a shadow. He opened it slowly; the well-maintained hinges didn't make a sound. He stepped out into a quiet, clean corridor.
This place was strange. Very clean, very luxurious, but it felt... dead. Silent. No sound of servants gossiping in the corners, no clanging of pans from the kitchen, no marching steps of guards on patrol. Only absolute silence hung heavy in the air, as if time itself refused to move here.
He went down the spiral marble staircase to the ground floor. His footsteps were silent. From the second-floor balcony, he could see the spacious main hall down below.
And that was where he saw him.
A human male. He had striking purple hair, sitting casually on a maroon sofa that looked very comfortable in the middle of the room. The human was reading a thick black leather-bound book while occasionally sipping tea from a porcelain cup, as if this were the most normal morning in the world.
On the table in front of the human lay the Beastfolk's black dagger. The dagger had been cleaned of Ogre bloodstains, shining under the chandelier light, and looked sharp, as if it had just been carefully sharpened.
The Beastfolk's eyes narrowed sharply. His vertical pupils shrank. He remembered vaguely. This human... he was the one in the forest last night. He was the one kneeling beside me in the mud. He was the one who placed glowing hands over my fatal wound when I was dying. I think he is the one who healed all my wounds.
The Beastfolk didn't like owing debts. And he hated feeling confused in an enemy's den even more. Without hesitation, he took a stance and leaped over the second-floor balcony railing.
He landed soundlessly on the marble floor of the main hall, moving gracefully like a big cat, exactly five meters behind the man.
He didn't wait. He moved as fast as lightning, lunging forward to ambush the human from behind. His intention was one: lock the human's neck with his arm, take his dagger, and demand answers for this madness.
However, the human didn't turn. He didn't even blink or show signs of surprise. He simply raised his left index finger into the air casually, without taking his eyes off the page of the book he was reading.
"Stasis."
ZZZT.
The Beastfolk's world stopped abruptly.
Not because he was held by physical binding magic like chains of light or plant roots. But because space and time around his body froze completely. He was caught in mid-air, one step before reaching the sofa. His feet floated without touching the ground, his outstretched hands grasping empty air, and his fingers were only a few inches from the man's shoulder.
His eyes could see, his brain could think in panic, but his body became an eternal statue. His heart stopped beating between rhythms, his lungs holding a breath that couldn't be exhaled. A strange cold enveloped him to the marrow. Not the cold of ice, but the cold of absolute nothingness, as if he were removed from reality.
The man, Calian Larvin, closed his book slowly. He placed his tea cup down with a soft clink that sounded very loud in the silent room.