The night in Eldwyn village no longer had any name other than hell.
The air felt thick—a mixture of ash, blood, and a putrid stench creeping from every corner. The sky, once pitch black, now glowed orange-red from the flames licking at the remains of wooden buildings. Smoke billowed thickly, shrouding the moon, shrouding the stars—as if the world itself was closing its eyes to what was happening below.
In the distance, the sounds of monsters could still be heard.
The low roar of Hell Bears shaking the ground.
The hoarse shrieks of Goblins feasting atop the rubble.
Small, inhuman laughter.
And woven between it all—the sounds of humans.
Screams.
Laments.
Footsteps running.
Then vanishing.
One by one.
Like candles being snuffed out.
Among the ruins of still-burning wooden houses, a body lay on the ground. Its face was no longer recognizable. Nearby, a small child sat leaning against a half-collapsed wall—eyes open, yet seeing nothing.
Thick smoke continued to billow.
Fire crept slowly from one house to another.
Eldwyn village—once warm, once lively with children's laughter and warm greetings between neighbors—had now become a sea of burning rubble. Blood flowed between the cracks in the stone, seeping into the cracked earth, mingling with ash and dust.
On the eastern side of the village, Rhett and Harlan moved swiftly among the still-burning ruins. Thick smoke stung their eyes and throats, but there was no time to stop. The faint sound of groans could be heard amidst the roar of the flames—some were still alive. Some could still be saved.
Harlan ran behind Rhett, his eyes constantly scanning left and right. His hand still clutched Rasa's bracelet, which he had found near the well. Every time he saw a body lying among the rubble, his heart beat faster—fear, hope, and fear again.
"Over here! Someone's injured!" Harlan shouted, running toward a collapsed pile of wood. Beneath it, a middle-aged man was trapped, his leg pinned under a large wooden beam still smoking. His face was pale, his breath ragged—but his eyes were still open. Still alive.
Rhett moved immediately. He pressed his sword into the ground, then used both hands to push the wooden beam with all his might.
"Lift your leg!" he commanded.
The man groaned in pain but managed to pull his leg out just as Rhett released the beam, which hit the ground with a heavy thud. Harlan immediately knelt beside him, quickly checking his wound.
"His leg is badly bruised, maybe fractured. But he can still be saved," Harlan muttered, tearing a strip from his own shirt to fashion a temporary bandage.
Rhett nodded quickly. "We need to get him somewhere safe!"
Harlan nodded, his eyes scanning the ruins around them. His mind worked quickly—only one place might still be safe. The one place designed to withstand an attack.
"The basement under the village hall!" Harlan called out. "Chief Cedric must have taken the survivors there!"
Rhett glanced back. "We'll take him to the village hall basement!"
Without another moment's delay, the two of them lifted the man, one on each side, and began moving swiftly along the rubble-strewn path. Smoke still billowed everywhere, and the rumbling sounds in the distance constantly reminded them that danger had not yet passed.
But—
before they could reach the next corner, Harlan's steps faltered.
Before them, two pairs of red eyes glowed through the smoky haze.
Two Hell Wolves.
Their black bodies crouched low, long claws gripping the cracked earth, black saliva dripping from their gaping maws. They had caught the scent of humans. They had found their prey.
"..." Rhett gritted his teeth.
Harlan felt a chill run down his spine. "Rhett..."
"I see them."
The first Hell Wolf leaped.
Its mouth opened wide, black fangs aimed directly at Harlan's neck—faster than an ordinary human eye could follow.
"[PARRY]!"
Rhett's shout shattered the silence.
His sword flashed.
CLANG—!!
The black wolf was sent flying backward, its body spinning in the air before landing clumsily on the ground. But Rhett didn't stop there. He stepped forward, his sword swinging down in one fluid motion—
SHHHHK—!!
His blade cleaved through the Hell Wolf's body from shoulder to waist.
Black blood sprayed into the air, splattering across the surrounding rubble. The wolf's body split into two halves, falling to the ground with a heavy thud that echoed among the ruins.
In an instant, the two halves of the monster's body fused back together. A dark aura emanating from within healed it with unnatural speed. Black flesh moved like living mud, shattered bones reconnecting forcibly under the pulsating dark energy. Within moments, the Hell Wolf stood again—whole, as if it had never been wounded.
"Tch..." Rhett swallowed hard, his eyes narrowing sharply. "...just like the treants. They can't die."
Rhett glanced briefly at Harlan and the man they had just saved. No words were exchanged. None were needed. Harlan caught that glance, and though he hesitated—though every fiber of his being screamed not to leave Rhett alone—he understood. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth, then turned his body. His hand gripped the injured man's arm tightly, and he began to run—away from Rhett, away from the two Hell Wolves, toward somewhere that might still be safe. His breath was heavy, his legs felt like lead, but he kept moving.
"...don't die, Rhett!" Harlan thought, a prayer spoken without sound.
Rhett smiled. A thin smile, not warm enough to light up this cold night—but enough to drive fear from his mind. Then he looked back at the two Hell Wolves. His eyes changed—sharper, colder, more blazing.
"You know..." His voice was low, almost a whisper, but clear in the silent night. "...I really don't like you."
He raised his sword, its tip pointing straight ahead. "Especially since you've ruined this village, which I've come to call my second home."
His breath went in deep. Out slowly. "I'll keep cutting you down until I find a way to kill you all for good."
Rhett's body began to emanate a pale green aura. Not a blinding light, not a dramatic flash—but a steady, stable vibration, like the pulse of the earth flowing through every muscle and bone. That aura enveloped his sword, spread to his arms, to his shoulders, until his entire body seemed to merge with the ground beneath his feet. It was [Provocation]—a skill characteristic of former adventurers, one he had mastered over many years. Not meant to wound. Not meant to defend. But to draw attention. To force the enemy to focus on him. To make them forget the others—forget Harlan, forget the survivors, forget everyone they were chasing. And with that, he became the center of everything. Target. Bait. Living shield.
The two Hell Wolves howled—not a war cry, but a call. A call that echoed among the ruins, piercing the smoke and darkness, reaching other ears in the distance.
And they came.
In an instant, black shadows began to emerge from behind the rubble. From gaps in collapsed walls. From behind thick clouds of smoke. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. More Hell Wolves kept arriving, their red eyes glowing in the dark, black saliva dripping from their gaping maws.
Rhett let out a small laugh. A laugh that held no joy. "Ha... [Provocation] really is useful..." He swept his gaze around, counting the shadows that kept coming. "...so these are all the enemies around here, huh..."
He paused. His eyes narrowed.
"...but..."
The horde of Hell Wolves kept growing. Twelve. Fifteen. Perhaps more. Their red eyes flickered amidst the smoky haze, like stars of death clustering in the night sky. Their dark auras pulsed in unison, as if they were one being divided into dozens of bodies.
Rhett gripped his sword tighter.
"...can I actually survive this?"
There was no answer. Only a long howl that shattered the silence.
Not long after, a heavy sound shook the ground from a distance. Not a howl. Not ordinary footsteps. But a thud—heavy, deep, and rhythmic. THUD... THUD... THUD... Each thud made the ground tremble, made the rubble shift, made the smoke quiver in the air.
From behind the thick haze of smoke, a massive silhouette began to emerge. Far larger than the Hell Wolves. Far larger than any Goblin he had ever seen. Its body towered, its shoulders broad, and in its hands—long black claws ready to tear.
A Hell Bear.
Rhett stared at the monster with bated breath. "...I don't know how Lilya managed to kill those Treants back in the forest..." he murmured softly, almost inaudibly. "...that was the only way to stop their insane regeneration..." He recalled the moment in the forest. When Lilya killed all the treants in a single slash. When that blue-gold light split the giant wooden trunks, and their wounds—never closed again.
He didn't understand how that was possible. He didn't know what made that light different. But he knew one thing: without it, all his attacks would only be a futile dance. And tonight—in this ruined village—he didn't have that light. No Lilya. No blue-gold power. Just himself, his sword, and a horde of immortal monsters.
Rhett let out a long sigh. Then—he smiled. Not a smile of despair. Not a smile of resignation. But the smile of a man who had decided he would fight to the very end.
"Very well..." His voice was soft, resolute. "...then I will keep fighting. Until I die. Until I can no longer move this sword."
On the western side of the village, Kael ran.
His breath was ragged, both arms clutching two small children—a boy with a wound on his head and a girl whose thigh was bleeding. They weren't crying. Perhaps they had run out of tears. Perhaps they were too scared to make a sound. Or perhaps they still believed—believed that the man carrying them would save them.
Kael didn't know which was heavier—the burden in his arms, or the burden in his heart.
Behind him, five Goblin Riders sped through the ruins at impossible speed. Their black wolves moved like shadows sweeping across the ground, leaping over rubble with mocking agility. Their spears were raised, yellow eyes gleaming in the dark—and their hoarse laughter echoed amidst the flames still licking the remains of buildings.
They were enjoying this.
The chase.
Kael kicked a piece of rubble in front of him, swerving sharply to the left. The first spear flew past his ear—nearly hitting, but not quite. He heard the sound of wood and stone shattering behind him. He didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
"GIK—!!" one of the Goblin Riders shrieked with delight, as if this were a game. And to them, perhaps it was—the most entertaining hunting game.
Kael gritted his teeth.
"Don't move, okay!" he said to the two children he was carrying. "We'll be there soon!"
They didn't answer. They only clung tighter.
Kael couldn't aim. Couldn't shoot. An archer without a ready bow—just a runner with two lives in his hands. The only weapons he had were speed, agility, and his knowledge of this village. And on this dark, smoke-filled night, those three things might not be enough.
On the southern side, Bram had lost count of how many times he had struck.
One Hell Wolf fell. Two. Three. Again, and again, and again—their black bodies kept collapsing, kept splitting, kept gaping with wounds that should have been fatal. But always—every time he turned around, they rose again.
Black flesh fused together like living mud. Shattered bones reconnected forcibly. Red eyes reignited amidst the smoky haze, and they leaped again—never tired, never stopping.
"TCH! THIS IS ENDLESS!" Bram shouted, his axe swinging wildly—cleaving through a Goblin Knight that tried to stab him from behind.
Black blood sprayed. The monster's head flew off and landed among the rubble. But seconds later, the severed neck began to move. Black tendrils extended from the stump, pulling the head back like roots seeking soil. In an instant, the Goblin Knight stood again—its head slightly tilted, cracks still visible at the neck, but it was ready to attack once more.
Bram cursed under his breath, swinging his axe to parry the next strike. CLANG—! The Goblin Knight's blade struck his axe, sending small sparks flying between them. Bram shoved the monster back with a single heave, then spun around quickly to check behind him.
Behind him, six villagers huddled among the ruins—two children, three women, and an elderly person. Their faces were pale. Their bodies trembled. One woman held her child tightly, and another clutched her wounded arm with a torn cloth already soaked in blood.
Bram didn't know how long he had been standing here.
But he knew—if he fell, they would all die.
On the northern side, Darian did not stop running.
His sword kept moving—slashing, cutting, killing—but he never stopped. Every time he took down one monster, another appeared to replace it. And every time he spotted a gap between them, he darted through—not to fight, but to run.
Because a while ago, he had felt something.
Mana.
Mana he had not felt in a long time.