James blinked, surprised, but quickly returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around her. The scent of herbs clung to her clothes, a familiar presence he realized he'd grown fond of.
"You better not forget me ," she muttered against his shoulder.
James chuckled, pulling back slightly. "I'll definitely come back for you."
Aria looked into his eyes quietly, and then suddenly gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and ran back inside the hut , with her face all red .
James stood frozen for a moment as he silently touched the place she had kissed.
He then looked at the old man and asked for the way out.
The old man cleared his throat, breaking the moment. "Follow the river south until you reach the clearing with the twisted oak," he instructed. "From there, the mountain pass will lead you to the outside. Stay on the main trail—there are paths that lead nowhere."
James absorbed the directions, nodding. "Understood."
The old man gave one last approving nod. "Then go. And remember—learning never truly ends."
James adjusted his pack, casting one last glance at the hut ,before turning toward the path. As he stepped away, he felt the pull of the road ahead—but he also knew that the ties he had formed here won't be forgotten.
And once he raused his strength he would definitely take her with him.
James set off down the path, his steps measured, his gaze lingering on every familiar landmark—the old twisted oak, the bends in the river, the subtle markers only someone who had lived here for weeks would recognize. He wasn't just leaving—he was making sure he could _return_.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of earth and leaves, and though the road ahead stretched far, he felt no urgency to rush. He let his mind absorb every detail—the way the sunlight filtered through the dense foliage, the uneven patches of terrain that marked the way.
As he walked, he found himself glancing back every so often, as if expecting to see Aria standing there, arms crossed, smirking at him for being sentimental. But of course, she wasn't there.
Still, the thought lingered.
The journey ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear—this place, these people, had become more than just a temporary stop. And one day, when the road led him back, he would know exactly how to find his way home.
As James approached Westmere, with steady steps , the first thing that commanded his attention was how it was more crowded than usual , as he got closer he saw a large crowd wearing different kinds of armor standing attentively unlike the last time . He had to pass another set of inspections before being allowed inside , as he made his way towrds the Mission Hall he heard people muttering about a beast wave, what ever it was he had no clue. As he made his way inside the Mission Hall, the place was also more crowded than usual.
James pushed open the heavy doors of the Mission Hall, the warm rays of the sun illuminating the tense faces within. Conversations overlapped, hushed yet urgent, as hunters and scouts crowded around mission boards lined with hastily scrawled reports. The air smelled of sweat, steel, and ink.
A grizzled officer—his armor battered from countless battles—caught James's gaze and motioned him over.
"You made it just in time," the officer said, voice low. "We need every able fighter we can muster. The beast wave is worse than we expected."
James frowned. "I keep hearing about it. What exactly is happening?"
The officer exhaled sharply. "They're coming in organized groups—bigger, faster, more aggressive than usual. It's not just mindless creatures wandering too close to the city. Something is pushing them toward us."
A flicker of unease stirred in James. He'd fought beasts before, but this felt different. Calculated.
Before he could respond, a messenger burst through the crowd, panting. "Scouts just returned! They found tracks deeper in the forest—huge, clawed prints, but no sign of the creature that made them."
Murmurs spread through the room, but James caught a different detail—the messenger's trembling hands. Fear.
The officer squared his shoulders. "We're forming groups now. Defenders for the walls, scouts for the wilds. Make your choice, and make it fast."
James tightened his grip on his pack, pulse quickening. He'd come here seeking answers, maybe even rest—but now, the road ahead had shifted.
He had to decide.
Got it! Here's a continuation of your story incorporating the announcement and a detailed transaction system for awarded credits:
---
The officer stepped onto the raised platform, his voice cutting through the low murmur of the Mission Hall.
"Attention! In light of the incoming beast wave, the city council has approved an emergency battle incentive. For each confirmed kill, credits will be awarded accordingly. These credits can be exchanged for gear, rations, medical supplies, and other necessities at designated trade posts."
A ripple of conversation spread through the crowd—some nodding in approval, others calculating their own potential earnings.
James listened intently as a clerk unrolled a parchment listing the credit values per kill:
Credit System for Beast Wave Defense
Small beasts (wolves, lesser fiends) 10 credits Basic reward for confirmed kills.
Mid-tier beasts (ironclad boars, venom serpents) 50 credits More dangerous, requiring multiple people.
Large-tier threats (shadow hounds, armored trolls) 200 credits Recommended to form teams , additional bounty rewards.
Elite targets (identified leaders or anomalous beasts) 500+ credits Direct evidence of intelligence behind attacks.
A clerk beside the officer lifted a ledger. "All kills must be verified either by submitted remains or witness confirmation from an official. Credits will be recorded under each participant's name in the city's tracking system , And the ones with highest number of kills will get additional rewards from the city and the Mission Hall ".
James absorbed the details. The system was designed to incentivize participation without descending into reckless chaos. Still, the fact that they needed such a system proved just how severe the crisis had become.
Weapons were being distributed to those without proper arms, and James could already see groups forming—hunters, mercenaries, and even desperate civilians willing to fight for survival and fortune alike.
One scout hurried past, muttering under his breath, "If these beasts have an orchestrator, we may be playing right into their hands."
James didn't disagree, but at this moment, strategy mattered less than survival.
His grip tightened around his sword.
The battle was coming.
And he was ready.
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