The battle was over—just like that, in a way no one could have anticipated.
Trudging through the mountain forest, the militiamen wore dazed expressions. The massive boar's corpse, now bound tightly, was being dragged downhill by a group of them. Though it had been a mutated beast, in death it was nothing more than wild game—fit to be eaten, no less. Besides, as the "culprit" that had attacked and laid waste to their village, it deserved to be paraded as a trophy for all to see.
Logically, there was nothing wrong with this plan. But for the militiamen, the day's events had been nothing short of mind-blowing.
To be honest, they had never intended to engage the beast in combat on this trip. Their sole purpose had been to show the nobleman the extent of the monster's destruction. That was why, when the boar had caught wind of them, their first instinct had been to flee. Never in their wildest dreams had they imagined such an outcome—not only had they killed the fearsome mutated beast, but not a single person had been injured. It was far beyond anything they could have hoped for. They had originally braced themselves for casualties, even deaths, in any attempt to eliminate the creature; such losses would have been tragic, but bearable.
Now, however, the militiamen felt like lucky fools who had gone out looking for a stone and come home with a gold nugget. They chattered excitedly among themselves, eager to share the news with their friends, families, and everyone they knew. As for the young nobleman, he had taken on an almost mythical aura in their eyes. These simple villagers had not traveled far or seen much of the world, but even they could tell that the young lord was *extraordinarily* powerful. How powerful? At the very least, far stronger than them and the band of adventurers—and infinitely stronger than the boar they had feared so much.
On the journey back, the militia captain lost no time in warmly inviting Black to accept the villagers' hospitality. But Black waved off the offer with polite disinterest, explaining that he was merely traveling for leisure and wished to avoid unnecessary entanglements. Though the villagers knew little of high society's ways, they understood well enough not to pester someone who clearly wanted to be left alone. After Black declined their invitation, they said no more on the subject.
The adventurers, however, were thinking far more deeply—and far more cynically—than the simple townsfolk.
"Brother, do you *really* think that noble killed the boar?"
The young swordsman shook his head, scoffing dismissively.
"I refuse to believe he has that kind of skill. It must have been an accident. We all saw how strong that boar was—maybe it ran headfirst into a rock or something, cracked its skull open. It wouldn't be the first time a beast did something stupid."
"But you saw the wound! It was clearly made by a sword."
Scar frowned at his companion's words. He knew the young man had a good heart, but he could be stubborn to a fault. Most of the time, this stubbornness was harmless enough—but occasionally, it could land him in serious trouble. Scar was well aware that his friend harbored a deep-seated dislike of nobles, viewing them all as nothing more than parasitic leeches who lived off the labor of others. It was a common enough prejudice among young men with something to prove.
But when facing a young noble who also happened to possess terrifyingly strong combat skills, Scar could not help but worry about the dangers of that prejudice. True, the noble had ignored his companion's rudeness earlier—but that was simply the mark of good breeding, Scar knew. Even nobles had their limits, however, and if the hotheaded young swordsman pushed too far, the consequences could be dire.
"So what if it was?"
The young swordsman brushed off Scar's warning, clearly unimpressed.
"He's barely out of his teens—twenty at the most! How could he possibly have the strength to kill a mid-tier mutated beast? Come on, Brother. Even if the wound was man-made, so what? He's a *noble*—with enough money, you can hire anyone. Mark my words, I'll bet my sword that he's got some master swordsman bodyguard hiding in the shadows. That's why he was so confident about following us into the forest! What was he after, if not to show off in front of us? I'll say it again—he was *faking it*! His bodyguard did all the work, you can be sure of it!"
He nodded vigorously, as if convincing himself of the truth of his words.
"Yes, that's exactly what happened!"
"Fine. Let's say you're right."
Scar sighed, his brow furrowed with frustration. He wanted to argue further, but he knew it would only make the young man more defiant—and that was the last thing they needed right now.
"Even if he does have a bodyguard, you need to understand that this guardian must be *incredibly* powerful. To kill the boar without any of us detecting a thing? That's the work of a high-tier swordsman, at the very least. Our master is a high-tier swordsman—you know better than anyone how rare and expensive such warriors are to hire! Ordinary nobles could never afford someone like that. Whether the young lord himself is strong or not doesn't matter. If he's got a bodyguard that skilled watching his back, he's far too dangerous to provoke. Do you want to bring trouble down on our master's head?"
At that, the young swordsman finally quieted down, his expression darkening as he thought it over. After a moment, he shook his head.
"I have no intention of getting Master into trouble..."
"You're not a child anymore," Scar said, his tone turning stern.
"Stop letting your emotions cloud your judgment. You don't have to like someone to be polite to them—and wearing your dislike on your sleeve will only do you harm. So what if the noble wanted to show off his strength? It didn't cost you anything, did it? Why do you care so much?"
"I just can't stand their arrogant attitudes!" the young swordsman snapped, his voice full of resentment.
"They've got nothing more than money, status, and power! Why do they get to look down on everyone else like we're dirt beneath their feet?"
Scar frowned at that, opening his mouth to argue—but in the end, he just shook his head, defeated.
"The mutated beast is dead now, and our job here is done. Let's pack up and get back on the road. Remember—our trial journey is far from over. We don't have time to waste on this nonsense."
As everyone had expected, when the militiamen hauled the boar's corpse back into the village, they were greeted with a hero's welcome. Seizing the opportunity, Black quietly slipped away, leaving the villagers to their celebrations and the tedious round of thanks and feasting that would inevitably follow. He returned to the inn, eager for a quiet moment to rest.
But Black had not anticipated finding two familiar figures waiting for him at the inn's entrance.
"Greetings, honored sir."
Seeing Black approach, the burly middle-aged swordsman stood up straight and bowed respectfully, a gesture reserved for fellow warriors of high status. Black nodded in acknowledgment. To be honest, this little detour had turned out to be far more rewarding than he had expected. Originally, he had had no desire to involve himself with the villagers—not out of noble arrogance, but because his current identity was meant to be semi-secret. While these simple folk would likely not make much of it, it never hurt to be cautious.
But when the militia captain had mentioned that the beast was a mutated creature, Black had changed his mind at once. Few people knew the true origins of mutated beasts, or took the time to study these dangerous creatures. Black, however, was intimately familiar with them. There were only two ways a beast could mutate: either through external magical influence, or by ingesting something with powerful magical properties.
And now, after killing the boar, Black had detected no residual magical energy within its body. That meant the boar had not mutated from eating a magic-infused object—it had been transformed by *external* magical forces.
For Black, this was a discovery of immense value.
Danger always walked hand in hand with opportunity—the greater the danger, the greater the potential reward.
Who would have thought that the Duskwood held such a treasure?
For the first time in his life, Black found himself thinking that he knew far too little about his own domain.
He could not help but wonder what Princess Ophelia's reaction would be when she heard the news—the mere thought made him grin in anticipation.
"So. You're leaving?"
Lost in thought about Ophelia's likely response, Black turned his elegant smile on the two swordsmen, his gaze drifting to the weapon at Scar's waist.
"That is correct, honored sir," Scar nodded.
"You have rid this village of the terrible monster that plagued it. With that done, there is no reason for us mercenaries to linger any longer. My companion and I plan to travel west—to test our skills against the challenges that await us there."
"Then I wish you a safe journey."
"Thank you for your kind words, honored sir."
With that, Scar nodded politely, preparing to take his leave. But just as he turned to go, Black spoke up again.
"If I may be so bold—will your travels take you through the Shadowed Gorge?"
Scar blinked in surprise, then nodded.
"As a matter of fact, it is one of our destinations, honored sir. Rumor has it that the gorge is teeming with fierce beasts—perfect for warriors looking to prove their mettle. We would never pass up such an opportunity."
"In that case—would you do me a small favor?"
"Well... speak plainly, sir. We will help if we can."
Scar fell silent for a moment, considering the request. They were mercenaries, after all—taking on odd jobs for pay was their livelihood. But what could this young noble want them to do?
"My request is simple," Black said, his smile growing brighter.
"East of the Shadowed Gorge, there is a small town. It is... quite unique—you will know it when you see it. All I ask is that when you reach the gorge, you travel to that town and deliver a single message for me. The words are: *'The white roses have bloomed once more.'* That is all."
*"The white roses have bloomed once more..."* Scar repeated the phrase softly, committing it to memory. Then he nodded firmly. "I understand, honored sir."
A warm smile spread across Black's face. He reached into his cloak, pulled out five gold coins, and pressed them into the middle-aged swordsman's palm.
"Then this is your payment. I wish you luck in completing the task."