Morning in Helior had a particular smell.Not the damp scent of forests, nor the earthy breath of open fields. No—here, it smelled of warm stone, leather, metal, sweat… and money. Even the air felt heavier, as if it had learned to stand at attention before the capital's walls.
Aren gently adjusted the strap of his bag and grimaced.
No sharp pain. Nothing serious. Just that dull discomfort, like a mocking reminder: you're not steel yet, kid.
He took a long breath in, then let it out.
In front of him, the Mercenary Bureau stood with its massive doors wide open. Figures were already coming and going, as if the entire world was waiting inside.
Stella was waiting near a pillar, arms crossed, perfectly awake. She had that infuriating way of looking ahead of the day, like even the sun was trying to catch up to her.
"You look like an old man," she said.
Aren glanced at her.
"And you look like someone who's never tripped over a rock in her life."
"That's because I watch where I walk."
"An incredible technique."
Stella smiled triumphantly, as if she'd just won a duel.
Then a third voice joined them—deeper, slower.
"Bickering is good. Means you're still breathing."
Aren turned his head.
A man was approaching. Broad shoulders, worn leather coat, short beard, sharp eyes. His boots carried the dust of many roads. His sword wasn't decorative—it was tired, like a tool used every single day.
More than that, he had the thing real veterans carried without knowing it: a calm presence. Not comforting. Just… calm.
"Hassan," the man said, raising two fingers in greeting. "They assigned me to you for this mission."
Stella greeted him properly, with noble politeness that didn't sound forced.
"Thank you for accompanying us, sir."
Hassan looked at her, then at Aren.
"And you? No greeting?"
Aren blinked.
"…Hello."
"Magnificent. A miracle. He speaks."
Aren pressed his lips together.
"I talk plenty. Just not when it's useless."
Hassan chuckled softly, then glanced toward the bureau entrance.
"Where's your shadow? The tall butler."
Stella sighed, and this time there was nothing playful about it.
"Sylver… had to return to Amoria."
Aren frowned slightly.
"Return? Just like that?"
Stella nodded, annoyed.
"My father sent a messenger at dawn. Apparently there was an 'urgent issue' at the estate. Sylver left immediately."
Aren felt something loosen inside him… and something else tighten.
When someone like Sylver was recalled urgently, it wasn't for a cat stuck in a tree.
Stella, on the other hand, almost smiled.
"He apologized. Told me to be careful… and added that this mission was 'too simple to worry about.'"
Hassan raised an eyebrow.
"And you were delighted."
Stella lifted her chin proudly.
"Of course. I'm tired of him breathing down my neck like I'll drown in a puddle."
Aren muttered,
"Still possible."
She shot him a murderous look.
Hassan gestured toward the building.
"Alright. We've got a contract. A route. And two boxes to escort to the village near Lake Ornella. If we keep talking, we'll arrive after the lake moves somewhere else."
They went inside.
The Mercenary Bureau was a strange mix of order and chaos. Mission boards neatly arranged on the walls, and beneath them, mercenaries shouting, negotiating, arguing, laughing. There was even a guy sleeping upright, his head pressed against a sign that read DO NOT SLEEP HERE.
Aren stepped up to the counter, where a clerk scratched at a ledger without looking up.
"Escort mission. Two crates. Lake Ornella," Hassan said.
The clerk slid two metal plates toward them, each engraved with a symbol.
"Identifiers. The crates are in the back, secure storage. Sign here, here, and… here."
Aren signed. His signature still looked new. Like him.
They moved behind the building into a closed courtyard. Two crates waited there. Not large. Not massive. Just heavy enough to be annoying.
Hassan placed a hand on one and tapped the wood.
"Well sealed. No marks."
Aren studied the seals: red wax, official symbol. No particular smell.
Stella tilted her head.
"Do we know what's inside?"
"We never do," Hassan replied.
"That's stupid."
"That's life."
They secured the crates onto a small cart. Hassan took the reins, Aren walked on one side, Stella on the other.
And they set off.
—
Leaving Helior was easy.The road that stretched beyond… wasn't.
After a few hours, the capital faded behind rolling hills. Trees reclaimed their place. The smells returned to earth and moss.
Stella stretched her arms.
"Honestly, Aren… you were wrong. This mission is too simple. Too calm."
Aren glanced sideways at her.
"Shut up."
"Why?"
"Because you're going to jinx us."
She laughed briefly.
"You believe in that stuff?"
"I believe that when you say 'too calm,' the world feels insulted and decides to prove you wrong."
Hassan grunted, amused.
"The kid's right. Don't provoke roads. They've got pride."
Stella raised her hands innocently.
"Alright, alright. I won't say anything else."
Silence.
Two minutes.
Then Stella leaned toward Aren.
"And… do you feel better? After… last time."
Aren clenched his jaw, but his voice stayed steady.
"Yeah."
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying. I'm… simplifying."
She smiled, softer.
"Same thing."
Aren replied without looking at her,
"It'll pass."
For once, she didn't tease him.
Hassan watched the road.
"Lake Ornella… quiet place. Too quiet, sometimes. Villages near lakes always have stories. People disappearing. Things you 'hear at night.'"
Stella straightened, interested.
"You're trying to scare us?"
"No. Just reminding you that 'quiet' doesn't exist. There's only 'not yet.'"
Aren muttered,
"See? Even he agrees with me."
Stella grimaced.
"You're both so cheerful."
They kept walking.
The sun climbed. Then slowly began to descend.
And for a while… yes. It was calm.
Too calm.
Aren felt it before he understood why.
No magical shiver. No vision. Just a detail: the birds had gone silent.
So had the insects.
Even the cart seemed to roll more slowly, like the wheel hesitated.
Aren slowed.
"Hassan."
The veteran didn't answer right away. He'd already understood. His hand had moved to his sword's hilt.
Stella frowned.
"What?"
Aren raised his hand.
"Stop."
The cart halted.
And then it happened.
A sharp whistle.
Not a bird. An arrow.
Hassan yanked the cart aside at the last moment.
THUNK.
An arrow buried itself where the wheel would have been.
"Cover!" Hassan shouted.
Stella stepped back, eyes shining.
Aren pivoted, searching for the source.
Figures emerged from the woods.
Nine.
Nine men. Not soldiers. Not registered mercenaries.
Bandits.
Gaunt faces, patched clothes, dirty weapons. Some wore crude leather masks, others bore scars they seemed proud of.
The tallest stepped forward, machete in hand, wearing the grin of a starving dog.
"Leave the cart," he said. "And we let you live."
Hassan laughed, without humor.
"You picked the wrong day to play heroes."
The bandit spat.
"Heroes? No. We're the Cannibals."
Stella blinked.
"…Excuse me?"
Aren didn't ask. He didn't want to hear the rest.
Hassan stepped back, positioning himself to shield the crates.
"Nine. Too many for a 'quiet' escort."
Aren inhaled.
His body wasn't at its best. But his mind cleared.
Nine men. They want the crates.They'll try to isolate us.They'll attack as a group.
Stella murmured, almost excited,
"Finally."
Aren shot her a look.
"Don't be happy."
"I'm not happy. I'm… motivated."
"Same thing."
Hassan spoke quickly, eyes never leaving the bandits.
"Aren. Left side. Don't let them circle the cart. Stella, right. Don't go too far. Push them back, don't burn the road."
Stella smiled.
"Got it."
Aren tightened his grip.
"Got it."
The bandit leader gestured.
All nine moved.
Like a group that had done this a hundred times.
Two archers in the back.Three up front with short weapons.Two trying to flank.And two hanging back—reserves.
A cold weight settled in Aren's stomach.
They're organized.
He moved before they fully committed.
Southern Sword Technique — Simple Thrust.
He stabbed toward the first approaching bandit, a man with a hatchet.
The man recoiled, surprised.
Aren didn't try to kill immediately. He cut space.
One step. One thrust. Clean movement.
The bandit feinted. Aren didn't bite. He waited for the real attack.
Then he deflected and struck flat against the wrist.
"Agh!"
The man nearly dropped his weapon.
On the right, Stella began as well.
No explosions. No shouting.
She traced a discreet circle on the ground.
A thin, precise line of fire shot out and burned a bandit's arm as he tried to pass.
"AAAH!"
He screamed and fell back.
Hassan, in the center, was a wall.
Every time a bandit approached the cart, he drove them back with cold efficiency. Not flashy. Just… brutally simple.
But the bandits didn't retreat.
They adapted.
An arrow flew toward Stella.
Aren saw it.
"Stella!"
She turned too late.
Hassan roared,
"Down!"
Stella dove aside. The arrow grazed her hair and lodged in a tree.
She stood up, offended.
"They're actually shooting at me?"
Aren growled.
"Of course they're shooting at you!"
On the left, two bandits rushed Aren at once, trying to trap him.
He stepped back half a pace… then forward.
He entered their space before they could close the pincer.
Point aimed at the throat.
The first raised his blade to block.
Aren pivoted and stabbed lower.
Thigh.
The man screamed and collapsed.
The second swung for Aren's back.
Aren shifted aside, felt the blade pass near his spine, and countered with a short movement.
Not a thrust.
A sharp strike with the guard to the jaw.
"Gnh!"
The bandit staggered.
Aren couldn't finish.
Another arrow whistled.
He dove behind the cart.
THUNK.
The arrow hit the wood.
Hassan snarled.
"They're trying to pin us."
Stella replied, almost cheerfully,
"Then we advance."
Aren turned toward her.
"What?"
She raised a hand.
"I force them back. You push."
Hassan hesitated a fraction of a second.
"Do it."
Stella inhaled and traced a larger symbol.
Not massive. But enough to heat the air.
A low ring of fire spread like a wave.
The bandits ahead cursed and retreated.
"Shit! Mage!"
Hassan seized the moment.
"Now!"
He yanked the cart forward. Aren moved alongside, sword raised, ready to cut down anyone who approached.
The bandits tried to regroup.
Aren didn't let them.
He thrust again and again, like a needle endlessly seeking an opening.
One bandit grabbed for the bridle.
Aren drove his point into the man's forearm.
"Aaaah!"
He recoiled.
Stella did something smarter than brute force.
Instead of burning everyone, she fired three precise firebolts—one at a blade, one at an arc, one at a hand.
It was humiliating.
The leader snarled.
"Crush them!"
They surged again.
Nine against three.
And the fight turned ugly.
Aren felt his breath grow heavy. His muscles burned. The old ache in his ribs flared.
A bandit slammed into his guard.
The impact traveled up his arm.
Aren retreated, pivoted, thrust.
Another bandit grabbed his sleeve, trying to drag him.
Aren drove a knee into the man's stomach.
"Ugh!"
Stella shouted,
"Right!"
Two bandits were trying to slip behind Hassan.
He turned, but an arrow whistled past his ear.
"They're covering!" he spat.
Aren made a decision.
"Hassan! I'll take the archers!"
"Too far!"
"I'll be back!"
Stella yelled,
"Aren, no!"
He ran.
Not far. Just far enough to leave Stella's fire zone and enter the woods where the two archers stood.
They didn't expect him. They thought he'd stay by the cart.
Mistake.
The first archer raised his bow.
Aren thrust.
Not to kill.
To break.
The blade struck the bow as the man released.
The wood cracked.
"What—?!"
Aren slammed the guard into his face.
The second archer stumbled back, panicked, reaching for a dagger.
Aren planted his sword in the ground before him.
"Don't move."
The man trembled.
"Y-you… you'll kill me?"
Aren smiled, without warmth.
"Not yet."
Behind him, a cry.
Hassan.
Aren turned.
He saw Stella step back. A cut on her arm. Not deep. But enough to make her frown.
Aren rushed back.
He arrived as Hassan shoulder-checked a bandit and slammed him into the dirt.
Three bandits were down.
But too many remained.
Aren joined Hassan.
"They'll break," Aren breathed.
Hassan grunted.
"Or they'll call."
Aren didn't understand immediately.
Then the leader stepped back and signaled.
And for the first time, he whistled.
Not loud.
Not sharp.
A breath.
An empty breath.
Aren and Stella didn't react.
Hassan went pale.
His eyes hardened.
"…Bad."
Aren felt his stomach tighten.
"What?"
Hassan grabbed Aren's shoulder.
"We leave. Now."
Stella frowned.
"We almost won."
"No," Hassan cut in. "We just survived the first wave."
Aren understood.
A signal.
For others.
He looked around.
The remaining bandits were retreating—but not like defeated men. Like people buying time.
Aren seized the leader, twisted his arm, threw him down. His point rested on the man's throat.
"Talk."
The man grinned, blood on his teeth.
"Too late."
Aren clenched his jaw.
"What's in the crates?"
The bandit smiled horribly.
"Food."
Stella stepped forward.
"What?"
The man spat.
"You're escorting meat… that breathes."
Cold anger sank into Aren's gut.
He didn't have time.
Because a sound rose.
Soft at first.
Then heavier.
Footsteps.
Many.
In the woods.
Hassan yanked Aren back.
"Leave him! We move!"
Aren hesitated half a second.
And that half second was his mistake.
Because the bandit, arm still twisted, slipped something from his sleeve.
Not a dagger.
A small tube.
He brought it to his lips and blew again.
This time, Hassan swore.
"Damn it… they're really calling them."
Stella clenched her teeth.
"How many?"
Hassan listened.
Then answered quietly,
"Too many."
The fatigue hit Aren all at once. The adrenaline faded—and with it, the warmth.
His legs trembled.
Stella still had fire. But even fire tires when it burns too long.
Hassan grabbed the reins.
"Into the woods. Hide the cart."
Aren nodded.
They dragged the cart off the road, into the trees. The crates thumped softly, as if mocking their panic.
They pushed deeper, where leaves and trunks could hide them.
Hassan gestured.
"There. Under those branches."
Stella murmured a word and summoned a small, controlled flame—just enough to burn a rope without light.
The cart vanished beneath foliage.
They lifted the two crates by hand.
They were heavy.
And suddenly, this didn't feel like a contract.
It felt like a burden.
They moved silently, slipped into a hollow between roots and rocks.
Hassan placed a hand on Aren's shoulder.
"Breathe slowly."
Aren nodded. Dried blood stained the corner of his mouth. His grip on the sword was slick.
Stella stared through the trees, focused.
"I hear them," she whispered.
Aren couldn't hear them… but he felt the forest change. Like it had come alive again—alive in a bad way.
A crack.
Then another.
Low voices.
Laughter.
Footsteps.
"They're sweeping," Hassan muttered.
Stella inhaled slowly.
"I can burn them."
Hassan shook his head.
"You can burn ten. Maybe twenty. But if there are more… you'll exhaust yourself before they do."
Aren murmured bitterly,
"So we run."
Hassan met his eyes.
"No. We survive."
Aren swallowed.
He looked at the crates.
"We still deliver them?"
Hassan replied flatly,
"If we live long enough."
Stella wasn't joking anymore.
"Aren… it's your mission."
Aren clenched his jaw.
"I know."
A sound closer.
Branches shifting.
Then… breathing.
Human breathing. A few meters away.
Stella's hand tightened. A tiny glow formed at her fingertips, ready to become fire.
Hassan pressed two fingers to his lips: don't.
Aren felt his heart hammer. Hard. Too hard.
And then—
A figure appeared between the trees.
Not an orc.
A man.
A bandit.
He looked around slowly, like a hunter savoring the moment.
His eyes passed over the leaves.
Then the ground.
Then… the faint trail of dust the cart had left despite their care.
He smiled.
And his head turned—slowly, exactly—toward where Aren, Stella, and Hassan were hiding.
Aren felt his blood freeze.
The bandit opened his mouth—