Lucas leaned lazily against the trunk of an old, gnarled tree, his gaze drifting over the dense forest surrounding the camp. His expression was one of practiced boredom—an attitude born from long hours on lookout duty. Still, his eyes swept the terrain with the discipline of a man who had once worn a soldier's uniform.
Though his frame lacked the bulk of a seasoned warrior, his movements were economical and sharp. Years in the army had stripped him of sloppiness, even if life as a bandit had eroded some of the pride he once took in his work.
"Hey, Jack," Lucas called toward the figure perched atop a tree about ten meters away, "how much longer till our shift's over? This is mind-numbing."
Jack, a middle-aged brute with a scar running from brow to cheek, shifted slightly on his branch, his muscular form outlined against the pale sky. "Lucas, quit whining and keep your eyes open. If something slips past you, you'll end up like that kid from the merc group we put down."
The mention of that grisly incident made Lucas stiffen. A flicker of unease passed across his face before he straightened and resumed scanning the treeline with renewed care.
A rough chuckle floated down from Jack's perch. "Relax, mate. I'm just messing with you. Besides, even if something shows up, magical beast or not, the Captain will gut it before it gets near the camp."
That reassurance did little to soften the image in Lucas's mind of the boy they had captured—barely more than a teenager—left broken and bleeding in the Captain's care.
He hesitated, then asked, "Speaking of that boy… is he still alive?"
Jack shrugged. "Last I saw, he was breathing. But the Captain's not the forgiving type. Drawing blood from him is a death sentence."
Lucas gave a low whistle. "Still… kid had skill. To even scratch the Captain at that age is impressive. Shame for him it won't matter."
As Lucas returned his attention to the undergrowth, a faint disturbance brushed the edge of his awareness—a subtle shift in the air behind him. His instincts screamed danger. He began to reach for the hilt of his sword, the muscle memory of countless drills kicking in.
He never made it.
A sudden, crushing impact struck the back of his head. The world tilted, spun, and went black.
When Lucas came to, his head throbbed with dull pain, and his vision swam. It took a moment to register that he was tied to a thick tree trunk, coarse rope biting into his wrists and ankles. To his left, Jack was slumped in a similar position, groaning as he regained consciousness.
Before either could exchange more than a confused glance, footsteps approached—steady, deliberate.
A young man emerged from the shadows, his features sharp and striking, but his eyes… cold. Too cold.
"Good," he said evenly. "You're both awake. I have some questions. Answer them, and we can avoid making this unpleasant."
Lucas's mind scrambled to assess the situation. He's young. Strong, but young. Maybe I can get inside his head.
But before he could attempt anything, Jack barked out a laugh, his tone dripping contempt. "Listen here, brat. Cut us loose right now and lop off one of your own limbs as an apology. Do that, and maybe—maybe—we'll let you walk away. We've got over a hundred brothers in that camp, and if anything happens to us, they'll hunt you down. Pretty boy like you… they'll take their time."
Lucas's stomach knotted. The threat was bold—but reckless.
Zatiel's eyes narrowed slightly, his voice as calm as before. "Which limb do you want me to cut off?"
Jack blinked. "W-what?"
"I asked," Zatiel repeated, his tone dropping into a deadly chill, "which part you want me to cut off."
Caught off guard, Jack blurted without thinking, "The right leg."
A shadow passed over Zatiel's face. His right hand began to glow with a sickly darkness. He grasped Jack's leg just above the knee—and squeezed.
The pressure alone was enough to make bone creak. Then came the decay. Jack's scream ripped through the clearing as flesh seemed to rot under Zatiel's grip, muscle fibers unraveling, bone splintering. The agony was raw, unrelenting.
"Ahhh! Stop! Stop! I'll tell you everything—just stop!" Foam flecked Jack's lips, his body thrashing in the ropes.
Zatiel didn't stop. Only when the leg was reduced to little more than shredded tissue and pooled blood did he finally release his grip. Jack slumped forward, mercifully unconscious.
Lucas was trembling so badly he could hear the ropes creak. Every instinct screamed at him to beg, to promise anything, to survive.
"I hope," Zatiel said, stepping toward him with the casual air of a man strolling through a market, "that you're more useful than your friend."
Lucas swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "I—I'll talk. I'll tell you everything."
Ten minutes later, Zatiel stood over Lucas's slumped form, the man pale and shaking from fear and exhaustion.
"One hundred and seven bandits," Zatiel murmured to himself, piecing the details together. "Most are little more than cutthroats with no training. Ten lookouts on the perimeter. Around twenty ex-soldiers with some vital energy control… and the Captain—likely a full Warrior."
A direct attack would be suicide. A single Warrior would already push his current limits; facing him alongside a hundred reinforcements was impossible.
But Lucas's information revealed something else—a vulnerability.
The camp's water supply came from a well fed by the nearby river, located in the northwest corner of the encampment. Three guards were stationed there at all times.
If the powder tied to his waist could be introduced into that well without arousing suspicion, the odds would tip dramatically in his favor.
Zatiel waited until nightfall. Under the cover of darkness, he moved like a shadow through the swamp, the A.I. Chip feeding him constant readings of nearby lifeforms. Avoiding patrols was effortless.
Within minutes, he crouched in the undergrowth near the well. Three guards lounged nearby, their posture lax, bored. Killing them outright would alert the camp—he needed them distracted.
The solution came in the form of a ripple on the river's surface. An alligator, massive and scarred, drifted just beneath the waterline. Zatiel's lips curved faintly.
He picked up a fist-sized rock, weighed it in his palm, then hurled it with a snap of his wrist. The stone flew true, striking the beast square in the eye.
The alligator's roar tore through the stillness, a guttural, furious sound. It lunged toward the bank, searching for the source of its pain. Zatiel threw another stone, then another, each one drawing it closer to the well.
"Boss! There's an alligator!" one guard shouted, scrambling to his feet.
"What in the hell is it doing this far up the river?"
"It's injured—kill it before it reaches the camp!"
Weapons flashed in the moonlight as the guards rushed forward. The alligator fought savagely but was weakened by its injury. It didn't take long for the three men to bring it down, their cheers echoing over the corpse.
None of them noticed the faint cloud of powder dissolving into the well behind them, spreading like an invisible infection through the camp's only source of drinking water.
Zatiel slipped back into the shadows, silent as the grave.
The real hunt was only just beginning.