As I expected, it was a VERY long day, filled with things happening one after another.

  The city guards rounded up the thieves, shackling them in thick steel chains before dragging them to the armory for questioning.

  The kind of questioning that didn't require words.

  Screams of pain. Wails for mercy. Even through the thickest stone walls, the sound carried. It lasted all day.

  I told myself I didn’t care.

  They stole the swords. They attacked me. They could have killed me.

  They are not good people.

  And yet...

  Did they deserve that?

  I shake the thought off before it can dig in. Mercy, sympathy—those are dangerous. If our roles were reversed, they wouldn’t be showing me any.

  And besides, I had no time to dwell on it.

  I spent hours meticulously checking every single wooden crate, making sure the seals hadn’t been broken, looking for any signs of tampering. Dust and dirt covered everything—no surprise, given the long journey and the building collapse—but...

  Nothing had been opened.

  Not a single crate.

  Which made no sense.

  Why steal an entire shipment but leave the seals intact? Why not just break the crates open and take the weapons? It would’ve been easier to transport and hide them.

  It didn’t add up.

  And the day didn’t end there.

  By afternoon, the questioning came for us too.

  Not the same way, of course. Ours was civilized.

  A small room. Two chairs. A single table.

  A clean-shaven, hard-eyed man sat across from me. His stare was cold—like he was stripping me down layer by layer, looking for cracks.

  I told him what I knew. The strange encounter the night before. That nothing else seemed out of place.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  The same questions, over and over, each asked in a slightly different way.

  Did we notice anything suspicious before entering the city? Did anyone seem too interested in the cart? Did we tell anyone what we were transporting?

  No. No. No.

  And yet, I had to repeat it. Again. And again. And again.

  It became clear that they hadn’t gotten much out of the thieves. Or worse—they suspected one of us.

  Which isn’t exactly a comforting thought.

  Afterward, Oldie went back to the same inn, eager to see his... lady friend.

  James, Num, and I stayed in the barracks. We didn’t talk much. Too exhausted.

  Out of pure curiosity, I wanted to ask how Num’s interrogation went. Did they make him write his answers? Was it just nods and shakes for "yes" and "no"? Did they force him to elaborate?

  But by the time my head hit the straw mattress, none of that mattered.

  I barely had time to close my eyes before sleep dragged me under.

  No overthinking. No replaying the what-ifs.

  At the end of the day, there was only one thing that truly mattered.

  I got my swords back.

  ...

  The next morning, we were given a new cart.

  A much better one, too. Sturdier frame. A proper cover—one without holes. Even the horse was fresh, well-fed, and strong.

  Which raised a question.

  Did they not find our old cart? Or did something happen to it?

  Major Liam Henderson of the Riverside Army met us before we left. He informed us that a report had already been sent to headquarters and that we should be on our way.

  And that was it.

  No drawn-out farewells. No extra precautions.

  Just—go.

  The whole thing went strangely smooth.

  Too smooth.

  Was there a reason he wanted us gone so—

  Shit. Not again.

  I bite down on the thought before it spirals.

  Enough overthinking.

  It’s not my problem.

  Not anymore.

  ...

  Trees blur past as we continue our journey through the endless forest.

  Surprisingly, the road has significantly improved since leaving Riverside—wider, smoother, sturdier. I mean I expected the roads to be better closer to the Empire’s heartland, but to this degree?

  As if to prove me right or wrong, the cart hits a bump. But it barely registers. Hm. Maybe the new cart’s design deserves most of the credit.

  The day drags on. The tension of the past events slowly fades, retreating to the edges of my mind. I refocus, drilling mana pathways into Light.

  "Don't waste any time," the mentor always said.

  Slowly, the trio resumes their chatter. But soon, the conversation shifts somewhere I’d rather it didn’t.

  "That was awesome, Harv," James says—for what feels like the hundredth time. "I still can't believe you found them so fast. Are you sure you don't have a Hunter Class? Maybe the Church Awakeners made a mistake?"

  "Unlikely," Oldie replies calmly. "Never heard of the Church making mistakes."

  Yeah, right...

  "Then what the hell was that?" James presses, eyes bouncing between me and Oldie.

  Shit.

  I open my mouth, ready to deflect—

  "Tracking skill."

  Oldie beats me to it. His voice is confident. Too confident.

  "Combination of sensory and body mana manipulation."

  My mouth snaps shut. My heart slams against my ribs.

  He’s not exactly wrong.

  Back in training, we learned how to survive in the wild—how to track, hunt, and fight even before we had a Class. Mana vision was mandatory. It's just that I used it in a weird way.

  Does he know? Or is this just a lucky guess?

  Shit. SHIT.

  Do I redirect? Lie? Stay silent?

  "What?! Why would someone with a tracking skill be wasting their time in our province, the Silence Plateau?" James stares at me, eyes wide. "You could make a fortune in a dungeon or on the battlefield, tracking monsters and people."

  "Nah. It doesn't work like that," Oldie chuckles, shaking his head. "Even if you can learn Tier 2 Track skills that way, it's a pain in the ass to master. Real Hunters—real ‘Green’ classes—are different. They can do much more than that."

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  James raises an eyebrow. "Like what?"

  "From one sniff, they can tell what you ate last week and how many times you wiped your ass yesterday."

  James snorts, and Num lets out a quiet huff of amusement.

  Oldie leans back with a knowing smirk. "Besides, all the real Hunters are down south, near the Lightborder. That’s where the dungeons are. Where the money is. They’re swimming in gold."

  The conversation shifts—Hunters, the south, life outside the province.

  My shoulders loosen. The tension fades as they move away from me. From my skills. From how I found those thieves.

  I let them talk, focusing on the feel of mana drilling into Light.

  But the moment my mind is left alone—

  The thoughts creep back in.

  The weight of the last two days finally settles.

  What if Sir Liam wasn’t there?

  My stomach clenches. My mind conjures horrors, one after another.

  I could’ve been captured. Tortured. Killed.

  I could’ve died.

  This isn’t training. There’s no mentor waiting in the shadows, ready to step in if things go wrong. This is real life. And after years, some part of me is still looking at it like an exam.

  And for what?

  I took a great risk for a few crappy swords.

  A couple of weeks. That’s all it would take to replace them. A little time, a little effort. That’s it.

  Something is wrong with me.

  A few days ago, that snake nearly killed us. But a day later, I had already brushed it aside, as if it were normal.

  Normal people don’t track thieves using hastily constructed unstructured spells.

  Normal people don’t chase stolen weapons like their life depends on it.

  So much could’ve gone wrong. The consequences could’ve been catastrophic.

  Shit. I’m repeating myself.

  It worked out this time. But next time...

  Next time, I might not be so lucky.

  I exhale slowly, forcing my grip to loosen on Light.

  And yet, one question still lingers.

  How did they know about the swords?

  The city guards barely even looked at our cart when we entered Riverside. No questions. No inspections.

  The only ones who knew what we carried were the army.

  Was it one of them?

  Did they decide to rob us on the spot?

  No. This required planning. Coordination.

  They knew before we even entered the city. Or they followed us the moment we did.

  That feeling—the one I had the night before, the eyes watching me in the dark...

  A scout?

  But why go through all this effort for a few swords?

  A few dozen swords, sure. But is that really worth pissing off the army?

  Did they think no one would come after them?

  Shit.

  I exhale sharply. Focus. Stop overthinking.

  Mana hums softly as it flows into Light.

  It’s over. It’s in the past.

  Happy thoughts.

  I’m going to pass the evaluation.

  I’m going to become a real smith.

  And then—

  ...Then what?

  ...

  The warm evening sun pierces through the dense canopy, its rare golden rays casting long shadows across the road. The whole scene looks almost serene—soft light painting the world in warm hues, birds singing with the kind of passion you'd expect in spring, and wildlife so unbothered you could shoot a deer without even stopping the cart.

  But the illusion shatters the moment the cart hits a bump.

  Pain explodes through my foot. A sharp hiss escapes before I can stop it. My vision narrows, darkens at the edges as I grit my teeth, riding out the wave of agony. It takes several deep breaths to wrestle it back under control.

  I glance down. The wound is still tightly wrapped, the bleeding stopped. A small mercy.

  There's only so much mana self-healing you can do on your own.

  From the corner of my eye, Num stirs. A dry, hacking cough rattles his chest, sweat beading on his forehead. Moments later, a low groan escapes him—quiet but unmistakable. He’s trying not to move. Trying not to tear open the deep wound on his left side. We were barely able to close it.

  It’s bad. But stable.

  We just have to reach the next city. The healers will handle the rest.

  Across from me, James’ bloodshot eyes flick to Num, then snap back to the road. He’s been like this for a while—tense, restless, scanning the trees for enemies that aren’t there. The cheerful grin, the carefree sparkle in his eyes—both are gone, replaced with something darker. Something raw.

  The wooden crates filled with swords have been repositioned, stacked around him like a makeshift barricade. A weak defense against an attack from behind.

  My gaze shifts forward, past the endless trees, to the dense canopy overhead. A perfect place for an ambush.

  A muttered whisper breaks the silence.

  Oldie. Again.

  At first, I tried to parse his words, make sense of them. Now, I don’t bother. It’s just gibberish—senseless rambling that sets my teeth on edge.

  I clench my jaw, willing him to stop.

  Thankfully, this episode lasts less than a minute. I don’t know if I could handle another three-hour stretch.

  The first four days after leaving Riverside were quiet. Too quiet. The weather grew warmer, the wildlife more plentiful.

  We let our guard down. Got comfortable. And we paid for it.

  The fifth day was different. Yesterday was different.

  A troll attacked. A real fucking troll. Four meters tall. A mountain of muscle and violence. The kind of nightmare you hear about in children’s stories—the kind meant to keep you from wandering too far into the woods.

  And the stench... gods, the stench alone was enough to make a man retch.

  Running wasn’t an option. Trolls are faster than horses.

  We fought.

  I did not dare to hold back against a monster known for its regenerative power. It took everything we had—every ounce of skill, every trick we knew—to bring it down. Even after we crippled its legs, driving it to its knees, we thought the battle was over.

  We were wrong.

  I glance at Num again.

  Beneath the bandages, a deep red stain blooms over his chest—the place where the arrow had lodged itself yesterday.

  The ambush came out of nowhere.

  Arrows rained down, bouncing off my [Force Aegis]. James was lucky. None hit him. Oldie had been behind the cart—safe by chance, not design.

  But Num...

  The moment they appeared, I stopped thinking about hiding any of my skills. There was no time for hesitation, no time for half-measures.

  It was them or me.

  I moved on instinct. Striking. Killing. Surviving.

  Mana poured. Spells fell.

  At some point, the enemies just... stopped coming.

  And then, silence.

  A terrible, unnatural silence.

  The forest stood still. The bodies lay scattered around us. It was as if we had stepped into another world, one where time had frozen.

  Then Num groaned—raw, pained—and the world lurched back into motion.

  Later, when we searched the bodies, we found nothing. No insignias. No gold. No identifying marks.

  Just well-maintained gear.

  Too well-maintained for common bandits.

  I kept turning the pieces over in my mind.

  Who were they? Why attack us? Why now? Will they come back?

  But another part of me was fixated on something else.

  What did I miss?

  If I had scanned for mana during the troll fight—

  If I had stopped to think for even a second—

  If I had questioned how a troll ended up on a main road—

  It would’ve been obvious.

  They planned it.

  They made it look like an accident.

  Just another unlucky group meeting their end in the forest.

  At this point James and Oldie probably connected the dots too.

  Two attacks just a few days apart...

  I didn’t ask.

  I don’t want to ask.

  Because I know better.

  None of us walked away from this the same.

  It was the first time I killed a human.

  Humans.

  Their blood wouldn’t come off my hands.

  Their eyes—glassy, empty—stared back at me long after the battle ended.

  Their screams... gods, the screams.

  Monsters don’t scream like that.

  Monsters don’t act like that.

  I understood them. Their words. Their attempts to overcome us. Their panic. Their desperation.

  They fought to the very last breath.

  They wanted to live.

  And I killed them.

  I can still hear them.

  I wasn’t taught how to deal with this.

  They weren't monsters.

  They weren't grotesque creatures.

  I wasn’t prepared for this.

  This is wrong.

  I don’t want this.

  ...

  The mountain range slowly rises on the horizon, bathed in the pale light of early morning. My bloodshot eyes scan the fields, my jaw working through another piece of rubbery, dried meat that barely qualifies as food. The endless waves of wheat stretch in every direction, and behind us, the dense forest is finally disappearing.

  The tension in my body should be going with it.

  Out in the open, the threat of an ambush is lower. But the threat of an attack? That’s only grown.

  To our right, the Wallrock Sea glitters under the rising sun, its surface a blinding mirror. The glare stings my eyes, but I don’t stop watching—if anything, I double down. My gaze sweeps the shore, the fields, searching for movement. Every few minutes, I send out an overcharged [Echo Pulse].

  Nothing.

  Only small critters scurrying about.

  The open space lets my pulses travel much farther than they did in the forest, but still—just a few steps beyond my reach, an ambush could be waiting.

  And so, my eyes keep moving.

  Hours slip by.

  Only when our destination rises in the distance does the weight on my chest finally start to ease.

  Wallrock.

  A city pressed against the foot of a mountain, its harbor teeming with ships. Huge white sails stand stark against the deep blue sea, the rocky shore, and the radiant sun in the sky. It’s the kind of view that belongs in a painting.

  The city itself?

  The opposite.

  Huge, dark gray walls blend seamlessly with the mountainside, their cold, imposing presence stretching high into the sky. Several towers rise above the rest, looming near a massive castle of the same dull stone.

  Some rooftops break the monotony, splashed with colorful tiles—but one word sticks in my mind.

  Monotone.

  I study the towering walls for anything else—any clue, any weakness—but besides the massive gates and the long queue snaking in front of them, there’s nothing. My focus shifts to the harbor instead.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the sea. Not since I left for my apprenticeship. The capital has its great river, but those waters are dark and violent. The Wallrock Sea is different. Calm.

  A strange thought crosses my mind.

  I want to take a swim.

  The realization catches me off guard. A small, unexpected smile tugs at my lips before I even notice it.

  A new goal added to the list.

  But first—

  We approach the gates, and the full scale of the crowd becomes clear. The closer we get, the worse it looks. A sea of people, bodies pressed together, voices overlapping in a constant, chaotic drone. Guards stand atop the walls, stationed at the gates, struggling to maintain order. Their exhaustion is written all over them.

  It takes shouting—a lot of shouting—to clear a path for our cart.

  Eventually, a guard notices us, motioning us over. Oldie handles the verification, presenting our army documents. The guard barely glances at them before muttering something about waiting for his superior’s approval.

  Olie tries to explain that we have an injured person with us but the guard just shakes his head with an understanding look and explains that he is not authorized to do anything more, he needs his boss signature, and can only offer a few bandages and a salve.

  And so, we wait.

  The noise of the crowd hums in my skull, an endless, grating backdrop. How can there be so many people trying to get into the city so early in the morning?

  Doesn't matter. I am here and we will get in soon enough.

  I exhale slowly, turning toward the sea. A cool breeze rolls in, thick with the scent of salt. I breathe it in, letting it wash over me.

  Then—

  Movement.

  Far above the water, at the edge of the horizon, a handful of black dots emerge.

  At first, they seem distant, insignificant. But they’re moving fast. Too fast.

  A frown creeps onto my face. My eyes narrow, tracking them as they grow larger, sharper—

  Wyverns.

  And not just any kind.

  My head snaps to Oldie, a question forming on my lips. But he’s already watching, his gaze hard, his expression grim.

  More heads turn. Fingers start pointing.

  The crowd shifts, murmurs turning to shouts as the creatures approach. Many are happy. Waving at it.

  But I'm not. Not because of what they are—but which kind they are.

  Lean and compact. Long tail. Angular wings.

  These aren’t transport wyverns.

  These are war wyverns.

  Bred for battle. For speed and agility. Trained for slaughter.

  Sky kings made for the Light border, where the Empire wages its war against the demons. Beasts forged in blood, meant to terrorize battlefields where even the bravest creatures flee in fear.

  And they’re here.

  Why?

  The creatures sweep over the castle, circling it once, twice—before descending. They vanish behind the walls, disappearing as suddenly as they arrived.

  The crowd grew more agitated, because when they approached closer, the gleaming armor on them was hard not to notice.

  Transport wyvern don't wear armor. It adds unnecessary weight.

  The agitation spreads, voices rising in unease. The guards try to restore order, their shouts cutting through the air, but it’s not working. The tension is already there, coiling tighter and tighter.

  I turn back to the gates, exhaling sharply.

  This is going to be a bothersome next few hours.

  Between getting Num a healer, delivering the swords, filing a report—

  And meeting with the Smith Guild Council.

  This isn’t how I expected things to go.

  But it’s still better than the frontlines.

  Still better than fighting the demon legions.

  Still better than being dead.