We'd been trekking into the heart of this forest for so long that I was starting to have a literal identity crisis.
If you took away the massive blade strapped to my back and the fact that I was surrounded by people who could drop dead—or kill me—at any second, this would've felt like a casual Saturday hike back on Earth. All that was missing was a North Face jacket and a $15 artisanal sandwich.
According to the intel, there was a Novice Warrior-class Kobold in the area. High alert, right? Except... nothing. No monsters, no movement, not even a breeze. It was quiet. Like, "glitch in the Matrix" quiet.
Ever since we dealt with that sprite, we'd been trailing Evander like lost puppies. Nominally, this was a hunt, but the real stamina drain wasn't the terrain.
It was Seraphina.
Rowan was up front, occasionally throwing me these "Better you than me, bro" looks. Evander, on the other hand, looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. He was hacking through branches with way more aggression than necessary. I didn't need a werewolf's nose to smell the salt coming off him.
In the "Human Kingdom 101" handbook, werewolves are basically synonymous with "zero impulse control." We're the thirsty, feral threat you're supposed to keep under lock and key. And here I was, the "threat," being treated like a literal fidget spinner by Seraphina. She was leaning on me, teasing me, and generally treating my personal space like public property.
I was losing it.
I was fighting a two-front war: one against my own poorly-timed werewolf biology (thanks, full moon), and another against Seraphina's infinite chat battery. I kept staring at her mouth—this incredibly pretty, totally irresponsible mouth—and I had one very sincere, very immature thought:
When God was designing a mouth that looks that good, why didn't He include a 'Mute' button? Ideally one with a remote.
Look, I respect her. I do. I just think certain things—like forest fires, nuclear reactors, and Seraphina's desire to talk—need a safety valve before they cause a meltdown.
Seraphina tilted her head, her neon-pink hair catching the light. Her mage robes were... a choice. They were tailored to be "bold," let's say, hugging her curves perfectly as she walked. She definitely knew I was looking. She always knows.
"Hey, little brother," she purred, closing the gap until she was practically glued to my arm. I could smell her—not perfume, just warm skin and a very deliberate "bait" pheromone.
"Are your ears stuffed with cotton? Did you hear a single word I just said?"
Oh, here we go.
My internal "Full Moon Thirst Alert" was screaming in red. My senses were dialed to eleven, my heart was misinterpreting her closeness as a "threat," and my body was trying to initiate the "Secure and Occupy" protocol.
She knew. She definitely knew. Her grin got even wider.
God, please. Bring on the monsters. A Devourer, a sprite, a rabid squirrel—anything to save me from this mental exhaustion.
She was talking about a dress. For the third time. Not three different dresses—the same dress, but in a slightly different shade with a "totally different vibe."
I get it. I do. I just don't understand how "should I buy this?" became a 40-minute philosophical framework.
My only hope was that Evander would find that Novice Warrior Kobold soon. That little bastard was hiding better than my motivation to do laundry. At this point, the lack of things to kill was the most infuriating part of this whole world.
"Oh... I get it now."
I looked up. Rowan was squatting in the dirt, looking like he'd just discovered fire. He was geeking out over Evander's tracking. Evander didn't say much, but he was actually dropping some knowledge on the "normal" human. At least he respects the craft.
"Stop."
Evander's whisper hit like a flashbang.
Seraphina shut up instantly. Rowan drew his axe. The air got heavy. I swallowed hard.
"Found the nest," Evander breathed. "I'm taking point. You three, protect Seraphina."
The stench hit us next—blood, feces, and rotting meat. The "Monster Nest Starter Pack." I drew my blade.
"...About six runts," Evander whispered, checking the brush. "Low threat."
He slipped through the greenery, and then I saw it.
A Unit of a Novice Warrior Kobold. It was nearly seven feet long, curled up in a pile of bones and grass, hugging its pups while it slept. This wasn't a "dog-man." It was a beast. It had a massive skull, yellowed fangs dripping with green sludge, and a nasty, half-healed scar on its gut.
Ex-Alpha, I realized. Lost a fight, got kicked out of the pack. That's why its guard was so low. It was exhausted and broken.
For a split second, I thought of my old Labrador. Then I felt like an idiot. This thing would eat a Labrador for a snack.
"Good loot on this one," Evander whispered.
Seraphina nodded, her playful vibe vanishing instantly.
"Let's roast it," she said, sounding like she was ordering takeout.
She raised her staff. The teasing was gone. She was now a precise, cold-blooded tactical nuke.
"From the hearth, a spark shall fly."
A crimson magic circle flared. Heat warped the air. The Kobold snapped awake, but it was too late.
"Ember Bolt."
BOOM.
The fire bolt tore through its chest, detonating right on that old scar. A scream ripped through the woods. The pups were instantly vaporized. AOE damage is a hell of a drug.
"Jesus," I muttered. "Mages really don't care about physics, do they?"
"Protect Seraphina!" Evander roared, charging in.
Seraphina didn't even blink. "By the word, the gate is barred!"
A translucent Arcane Aegis shimmered into existence, wrapping around her perfectly.
Conclusion: Seraphina is a cheat code. Most mages can't even dream of being this precise with their mana.
The fight was a mess.
Evander was a blur, diving straight for the big one. Even charred, the Warrior Kobold was a tank. It pulled a blowpipe from its belt—poison darts.
Clang.
Evander deflected them mid-air. His movement was surgical. No wasted energy, just pure math.
"Arthur!" Rowan screamed. "The runts!"
Three Juvenile Kobolds were rushing us. The others were already "extra-crispy" thanks to Seraphina. The smell in the air was... weird. It made my stomach growl for the wrong reasons. Forbidden fried chicken.
I shook it off and gripped my blade. "I got 'em!"
These things are called "Ankle-Cutters" for a reason. They stay low and go for the joints. I did the math on my medical deductible and decided: getting hit is not an option.
The first one lunged. I dropped low and slashed. Snick. Front paws gone. Before it could scream, I used that werewolf burst speed to kick it into the air and run it through. Red-green gunk sprayed my face. I didn't even have time to wipe it off.
"Help!" Rowan was dodging like a maniac, nearly tripping over his own feet. He has zero combat training, and it shows.
Meanwhile, I looked over and saw Seraphina sitting inside her shield, chin in her hand, watching us like she was watching a Netflix special.
"Arthur! Stop flirting and save my life!" Rowan yelled.
I took a deep breath.
Limiters: OFF.
I let the werewolf burst take over. The ground literally cracked as I lunged. My blade tore through a runt's side and came out the other. Squelch.
The last one tried to run. Rowan finally grew a pair and brought his axe down. Crunch. Game over.
"Call me 'Savior' next time, you peasant," I panted.
"...Thanks," Rowan muttered.
Seraphina clapped from the sidelines. She wasn't just cheering; she was evaluating. Seeing how far I could go before I snapped.
And the worst part? I realized I wasn't just fighting to win. I was fighting because I didn't want to look bad in front of her.
Evander finished the big one shortly after. A second Ember Bolt from Seraphina turned it into a trophy, and Evander took the head.
The nest went dead silent. We started sifting through the remains for loot—bones, scraps, the usual.
Then Rowan called out. "Hey, Arthur. Check this."
Under a pile of vines, we found five live, newborn Kobold pups.
They were worth a fortune. The arena recruiters would pay five times the quest bounty for fresh stock.