The blade drew across the neck. The small body in his hands jerked taut, convulsing with tremors disproportionate to its size, as if striving to expel every last drop of life within.
As the warm, reeking fluid trickled into his mouth, the twitching between his fingers gradually ebbed, then ceased entirely.
Asa wrung the mountain rat mercilessly, heedless of the stomach contents squeezed out alongside.
Until the last drop of bodily fluid slowly dripped out, Asa finally discarded the mountain rat, its body now twisted and deformed from his grip, licking the blood from the corners of his mouth with his tongue.
I don't want to die.
The metallic tang of blood rose from his stomach. His throat involuntarily emitted a low, guttural growl—muffled, ambiguous, distant yet profound, as though it originated not from an organ but from some hidden fold within his soul.
He remembered this sound. At three years old, he had hidden in a tree, watching the village hunters corner an injured wolf.
The wolf's deep growl had shaken him—not with fear, but because it resonated with something deep within his soul, plucking a chord he hadn't known existed. For a time afterward, he became obsessed with deciphering the language of animals.
Now he understood that the sound had no inherent meaning. It was merely the cry of life in the face of death's threat, the overflow of raw survival instinct and near-feral desperation.
Three days of raw flesh and blood, relentless tension, and the brink of physical collapse. The specter of death at his heels and his own desperate will to live had nearly transformed him into a beast in both body and spirit.
But thankfully, reason still held dominion over his actions.
Asa was acutely aware of the gap in ability between himself and the Hunter. He remembered all too clearly how the heads of those two infantrymen from Third Squad had been smashed apart like watermelons in a single encounter. His only advantage now lay in having insight into his opponent's intentions.
The Hunter wasn't pursuing him at full speed. This wasn't a desperate chase - the Hunter had no intention of quickly closing the distance, then risking injury by engaging in a mutual mauling with a cornered beast.
This was a hunt—relentlessly pursuing the prey, letting it weaken under fear and desperate flight, waiting until the moment of absolute certainty before stepping forward to kill him like crushing a mouse, then severing his head.
Whether due to physical limitations or survival skills in these swampy depths, he had no hope of shaking off the hunter. Both pursuer and prey knew this all too well.
Over these three days, Asa had feigned the desperate, panicked flight the hunter expected to see, his stamina dwindling as swiftly as if he were truly running for his life.
Unable to start a fire meant no proper meals. Eating raw meat from any creature in the Lizard Marsh was suicidal—the parasites would be fatal to a human body. The only option was scavenging for some non-toxic insects to consume alive.
Though fresh animal blood was safe and could provide minimal sustenance, it couldn't compensate for the sweat and energy lost from constant exertion.
The lack of salt and proper nutrition had pushed him to the brink. The carefully crafted illusion of panicked flight over these three days now had to culminate in a flawless, make-or-break action.
By sheer luck, he swiftly found three non-toxic grubs crawling on nearby grass and shrubs.
The worms were as thick as fingers, writhing vigorously between his fingers. Pinching their heads and slowly squeezing downward, green excrement was forced out.
He had to apply just enough pressure to avoid bursting the bodies and losing the nutritious juices, while expelling as much potentially toxic waste as possible - a delicate art he'd mastered through daily practice these past few days.
The tender insect flesh quickly turned into a viscous paste between his teeth, its slimy bitterness clinging to his taste buds like the swamp's humid air clung to his skin.
Asa carefully ground the worm paste with his teeth, using his tongue to meticulously search for any larger chunks that might have been missed, ensuring every bit of the insect was broken down into the smallest possible units for easier digestion.
Every drop of nourishment is precious, fueling the next move, the hope to survive.
Using his knife, he dug a hole about a foot deep in the ground and buried the mountain rat's carcass. Over these three days, every time he killed an animal, he would expend his precious energy to bury the body.
Slinging the knife onto his back, he carefully inspected himself, smoothing out every bulge in his clothing. Like a cautious sentinel stepping onto a narrow watchtower, he gingerly trod upon the freshly buried mound of the mountain rat, then slowly crouched down and lay prone, resembling a grotesquely large worm, inching his way toward a nearby pool of murky water.
He focused all his attention on this ungainly motion, meticulously controlling every muscle in his body to keep it as flat against the ground as possible, leaving no conspicuous traces in the soft mud.
The slightest loss of control or misstep in any movement would render these three days of planning utterly wasted.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and slid silently into the chest-high filthy water, ensuring not a single splash was made. The weight of the knife kept him from floating, and he propelled himself forward through the muddy bottom toward the direction etched in his memory.
This murky pool connects to a seasonal creek formed during the rainy season. He came here deliberately, intentionally choosing this terrain to bury the corpse—everything was part of the plan.
A faint stinging sensation pricked at several spots on his body—leeches had latched on. Asa ignored them. Once gorged on blood, they'd release on their own. Forcibly tearing them off would leave their suckers embedded, inviting infection. The crucial task now was to cover as much distance as possible before needing to resurface for air.
He mentally reviewed every detail of his actions. Flawless. A surge of triumphant elation swelled within him—freedom was within grasp.
The only remaining variable was the rat carcass. It must decompose sufficiently before the hunters arrived, reaching just the right stage of decay to emit its telltale stench.
All I need now is the luck of rot.
Kicking through the decomposer-rich muck like some carrion lizard, Asa prayed fervently with each movement.
In the afternoon, the swamp witnessed a rare appearance—the sun peered through the canopy.
Shattered by branches, sunlight fell in fragmented patches. The sodden earth transformed the sun's corpse into a swirling veil suspended between the trees' limbs and the ground.
In this stifling, humid veil of mist, all swamp life thrives rapidly only to perish swiftly for the growth of others—even the accelerated decay pulses with vibrant vitality.
The hunter watched silently as a horde of carrion lizards fought exuberantly over a mountain rat carcass. He detested the slimy stench clinging to these repulsive scavengers—too pungent for his keen senses.
A larger lizard emerged victorious, dragging its prize away as the others swarmed after it, vanishing into the woods—leaving only an excavated pit and trampled earth in their wake.
For a human prey, this one was remarkably adept—swift, agile, and strong. The hunter felt intrigued, reasonably confident he could slay him in direct combat.
But "reasonably confident" wasn't enough. This wasn't war—it was a hunt. That tentative certainty must be honed into absolute assurance. Since yesterday, the footprints had grown progressively weaker, unsteady.
Now, the hunter knew he had enough.
But this was also a peculiar prey. Though undoubtedly being pursued, the tracks showed none of the erratic, panicked flight typical of hunted quarry.
The faltering footsteps betrayed a strange determination—this was no mindless escape, but something more lay hidden within.
For three days, the concealment had been well executed, yet one foolish mistake persisted—burying the drained animal carcasses.
This proved utterly counterproductive, as lizards would sniff out the rot and dig them up to feast. The hunter could practically follow the stench of the lizard swarms.
An incomprehensible mindset, a stupid blunder—between the two there seemed an elusive connection that struck the hunter as odd. But only odd; once caught, killed, and beheaded, there'd be nothing left to wonder about.
No creature could shake his pursuit in these dense swamp woods—of this the hunter was absolutely, unshakably confident.
Yet immediately, the hunter was astonished to find all traces ended abruptly here, leading nowhere.
The air held only the overpowering reek of swamp lizards.
The hunter crouched down, meticulously examining every minuscule trace on the ground.
Though the lizards' scrambling and fighting over food had churned the earth into chaos, to the hunter's extraordinary observational skills and experience, the prey's trail remained discernible. Given time, every surrounding clue could be thoroughly investigated.
Somewhat unsteady yet deliberate footsteps—no signs of backtracking over their own prints—just a few circles through the surrounding shrubs, likely searching for food.
The hunter could even deduce that the first morsel found had been beneath two stag-horn ferns, probably an insect. The deeper imprints at the forefoot there revealed the shift in balance from bending down.
But beyond that, nothing else was discovered.
The footprints simply ceased abruptly at the freshly dug pit where the corpse had been buried, defying all the accumulated wisdom passed down through generations in the hunter's tribe.
Fleeing, concealment, dwindling stamina… The hunter had only their own wits to connect these clues, hoping to uncover something beyond the bounds of conventional experience.
But a mind lacking logical reasoning could hardly accomplish this task. As he realized he was falling step by step into a bizarre trap—just as the fugitive had intended—an uncontrollable fury violently seized all his thoughts.
A lizard swayed its head and crawled back, sniffing around the pit in hopes of finding some leftover spoils.
Yet it instantly became the target of the enraged hunter nearby. Its plump body was sent flying high by a savage blow before splashing into the murky pond, sending filthy water and sludge erupting skyward.
Several leeches landed on the shore along with the muddy water, clumsily wriggling their engorged, bloated bodies as they tried to return to the water.
The hunter noticed them, picked one up, examined it closely, then crushed it with a *splat* and tasted the oozing fluid. His face twisted into a grotesque expression no other race could comprehend.
Pressed against the ground, the continent's most acute sense of smell finally distinguished a faint trace of the scent he sought—buried beneath the stench of lizard mucus and rotting earth. The trail led toward the filthy pond.
You must tear out the heart while it's still alive, rip that warm, pulsing mass apart between your teeth, and swallow it down your throat along with the freshest blood trapped within—transforming the cunning contained therein into your own strength.
The skull must remain undamaged. Slowly scoop out the brains through the eye sockets and devour them, strip away the flesh, then commission the finest craftsmen to polish the bone. This perfect trophy shall be placed atop the ancestral tomb—a sacrificial offering, a testament to the tribe's ever-growing pride in their hunting prowess.
You are my finest prey.
A long-forgotten exhilaration surged through the hunter's sprinting body—the same primal thrill that had once coursed through him as a newly matured youth, chasing the fairest female of his tribe.
...
Was this fortune or misfortune? Asa pondered over his bowl of meat broth.
The meat was of excellent quality. Prime beef, dried and pounded into dense shreds—an entire cow's worth condensed into a single small pouch. When boiled in water, it reconstituted into delicious beef. This was the standard field ration for noble warriors on distant campaigns.
The broth was excellent. Even the river water from the lizard marshes, purified by the cleansing talisman, became as clear and sweet as the purest mountain spring. Used to simmer a pot of beef stew with a pinch of salt, not even the finest city chefs could find fault. It made one feel the talisman was truly worth every silver coin.
Eating such fine meat and drinking such rich broth would invigorate even a man on death's door. Asa knew his own condition well—after one more good night's rest, he could wrestle a bull barehanded.
The campfire was built from thick logs stacked skillfully, a mix of dense, dry timber and damp wood to ensure it would burn steadily till morning.
The fire's warmth masked human body heat, making them invisible to wyverns. No need to hide in dank tree hollows or burrows now, nor fear other beasts or venomous insects. A full night's sleep by such a fire would restore his strength completely.
Even if he could wrestle five bulls barehanded, Asa still doubted he could face the hunter in direct combat.
No matter how much stamina recovers, it's never enough to outrun the hunter in speed. The campfire is warm, safe, and bright—enough for any creature in the swamp to see clearly.
"You're truly impressive. It's my first time seeing someone brave the Lizard Swamp armed with just a single weapon."
The woman who claimed to be an apothecary wore an expression of admiration.
Asa didn't feel the slightest bit worthy of admiration. He hadn't even noticed that the wounds left by the leeches were still bleeding. A few drops of blood had nearly attracted every carnivorous fish in the entire swamp waters.
Thus, he had no choice but to push a fallen, withered tree—knocked over by a wild bull—into the river at the bank and stand atop it, drifting downstream to escape the countless mouths waiting eagerly beneath the water for him to fall in.
But when several large crocodiles joined the pursuit, he had no choice but to scramble back ashore in disgrace.
By twilight, just as he was searching for a place to hide, he spotted the glow of fire—and then encountered this fellow human, someone he never imagined meeting here.
The woman appeared to be about the same age as Asa. Though dressed in explorer's garb with a large pack on her back and wrapped in a filthy blanket, her fair and delicate skin betrayed a non-commoner's status.
She carried those highly efficient field rations with her, while a single water purification talisman she owned could comfortably sustain a commoner family for a full month.
This woman was most likely nobility.
"I originally thought my solo herb-gathering expedition in these swamps was quite remarkable. The unique terrain and climate here nurture many plants found nowhere else. Though Father never approved, I sneaked in anyway."
The woman chattered artlessly like a child, likely from prolonged isolation in this treacherous environment, showing not the slightest wariness toward him.
The sword at her waist was an Anka rapier - slender yet long, rigid yet flexible, light and agile, designed primarily for thrusting.
Asa recognized it instantly - the kind that always occupied the most prominent display in his father's shop, inviting customers to marvel at both the blade and its exorbitant price tag beneath.
The angle at which it hung on her hip was perfect, precisely calculated to enable the swiftest possible draw.
The hilt was tightly wound with fine hemp cord—the wrapping technique only veteran soldiers used, ensuring the grip wouldn't slip even when drenched in blood.
Though the cord's color remained its natural, unbloodied hue, the countless grip marks from repeated swings and strikes proved this blade was no mere showpiece for awed murmurs.
But even with her help, they'd be no match for the hunter. In life-or-death struggles, what mattered wasn't skill—it was spirit and fighting will.
No matter how rigorously trained from childhood, if one had never heard the crack of an axe splitting bone, the wails of men bisected at the waist yet still clinging to life, or felt enemy steel carving through flesh in white-hot agony—they remained but half-cooked warriors.
Confronted with mortal threat, when that pain—the kind that could drown consciousness in an instant—comes calling, all men falter. They shrink. Their combat strength bleeds away.
If only they had a mage or priest—even just basic blessings, a few crude fireballs…
Asa realized the sudden comforts of meat stew and campfire had made him dangerously complacent.
To encounter fellow humans in this vast expanse of dense forests and swamps spanning hundreds of miles, while comfortably replenishing strength with meat stew around a campfire, was fortune almost too unbelievable to grasp.
Chewing on an adventurer's biscuit given by the woman, washing it down with broth, feeling the warmth radiating from this serendipitous fire, Asa sighed with both contentment and resignation.
The hunter was likely observing this firelight from some tree hollow at this very moment.
Even he had no choice but to hide when the wyverns still shrieked and hunted through the night skies.
But once dawn broke in the east and the wyverns returned to their nests, he would spare no effort to follow this trail of fortune with terrifying speed.
Whether fortune smiled or frowned, what had come to pass must be—and could only be—steered toward hoped-for outcomes as best one could.
"How much farther to the Donau River?" Asa asked.
The initial stretch of Donau River passing through Lizard Marsh ran so violently that not even fish could swim against its current—it was there that Asa had been forced ashore into the marsh.
But after skirting Lizard Marsh, the river grew gentle; a single day's drift would carry them to Bracada, a western frontier town of the Empire.
"Not entirely sure, but it's not far—maybe a day or two's walk."
At full sprint, perhaps half a day. No, even though it's much closer than expected, without an exact distance, there's no real certainty.
He was absolutely certain about one thing——the hunter could catch up to him within half a day. Direct escape was nearly impossible.
Better to tell the woman the truth and ask her to help him deal with the hunter. Though the odds of victory were slim, lying in wait with rested strength was far better than any other plan. Asa pondered how to phrase his request.
"Mind if I ask—could you accompany me? Tomorrow I plan to venture deeper into the swamp to search for new herbs. It's my first time going this far in."
The woman suddenly asked, "Of course, I'll pay you."
She brushed back a few loose strands of her raven-black hair, which clung to her thin lips, pressed together in a faintly awkward curve. Her heels rubbed lightly against each other.
They were unusually large feet for a woman, nearly the same size as Asa's, clad in the same sturdy leather boots commonly worn by adventurers.
Asa suddenly realized—there might be a way to escape after all.
This was an efficient method with high chances of success. No need to set any traps, fabricate decoys, expend physical strength, or waste precious time—right here by the campfire, in this brief moment, it could force the hunter to squander considerable time and energy.
The realization made his heartbeat suddenly accelerate violently.
"Is that alright?" The woman blinked. Her eyes were small, with long lashes and slightly downturned corners—even if she were angry, they'd likely still shimmer with a hazy amusement.
The campfire burned bright, her pupils dark, the firelight reflecting within them soft and warm.
But Asa couldn't meet her gaze. He averted his eyes, took a deep breath, and forced his tone to sound natural. "I'm sorry, no. I have something urgent and important to attend to."
"Oh, really?" The woman made no effort to conceal the disappointment in her voice and expression.
"About half a day's walk west from here, there grow several herbs unique to this swamp—likely with special medicinal properties."
Asa felt his face contort, his voice distort, the meaning of his words muddled. This was the first time he'd told such a malicious lie to someone so kind. And to a woman, no less.
"'Likely'? What do you mean?"
"Hmm… ah… I saw a dire ox, no wait, two dire oxen… yeah, two dire oxen fighting. One got its hind leg injured, ah… no, maybe it was the front leg… no… perhaps… anyway it got badly bitten. Lay there dying. Then it ate some herbs, pressed them on the wound, and after a while it was healed."
In desperation, Asa regurgitated a dogfight story he'd heard from an old adventurer in his childhood. The logic was shaky, but the words flowed smoother as he spoke.
"Oh? Truly? What kind of herbs were they?"
The woman widened her eyes - her gaze made Asa feel like he was seeing that crossbolt streaking toward him five nights ago. He nearly ducked into a forward roll. With practiced ease, she produced paper and ink from her pack.
"They had pale yellow flowers…" Asa jumbled together features of various wild herbs into nonsense. The woman recorded every word with solemn diligence.
"If you plan to venture deeper into the swamp, you must crush water mint and pyrethrum into paste and smear it on your clothes and skin. Even if you have insect repellent oil, you must apply these herbs - certain venomous insects here only fear the scent of these two plants." Asa spoke with grave solemnity to the woman.
"Just these two herbs? They grow everywhere, don't they?" The woman casually plucked some from around their campfire.
Indeed, these herbs did possess insect-repelling properties - Asa had been applying them since entering the swamp. Though truth be told, they were nowhere near as effective as the specially formulated repellent oil from the Adventurer's Guild.
For three days now, at each dawn within the hollow tree, Asa's first waking act was carefully extracting centipedes and other poisonous critters that had crawled into his armpits, crotch, and sometimes even his hair while he slept.
Naturally, the swamp's deeper reaches harbored no creatures that exclusively feared these two particular herbs.
It seemed any skill could be honed through practice. No matter how difficult or contrary to human nature, with enough repetition one could grow accustomed, then proficient, even revel in it.
With the prior rehearsal, Asa delivered the most venomous part of this profoundly malicious lie with smooth fluency and steady tone, though he never dared meet those luminous eyes. He fiddled with the campfire using a branch to mask his averted gaze.
"Thank you so much. If I can find these herbs again and decipher their properties, it'll be enough to embarrass those old codgers at the Apothecary Guild."
The woman grew animated, likely considering them acquainted now, speaking not just freely but with warmth, "I've always believed the world is vast enough to hold undiscovered remedies. Yet those fossils insist on gnawing at ancient texts."
No need for guilt. Even if he didn't tell her, his "heroic" solo suicide mission would bring her no better outcome. The trackers spare no human trace once found in these swamps.
Even fighting together, death remained the likely outcome - with her possibly becoming a hindrance, or refusing to aid him entirely.
This way at least her death held purpose, buying him greater chance to escape. Asa combed through justifications to sanctify his treacherous scheme.
"Once my achievements gain recognition, not just the Apothecary Guild, even the Arcane Academy will take notice. Perhaps His Eminence the Bishop himself will seek me out to learn about these newly discovered herbs."
Her round face flushed crimson with excitement as she pointed to a nearby tree. "Look, this species is one of my discoveries too. No records exist in any tome, but through interviewing retired adventurers, I learned they're common in the marshes. I've also discovered its sap possesses potent irritant and toxic properties—if it splashes into the eyes of humans or beasts…"
Your life is bought with the deaths of countless others, so never relinquish even the faintest hope of survival.
The tree's trunk was entwined with numerous slender, straight aerial roots, resembling the quill pen used by that old adventurer behind the village.
This sudden recollection brought to mind one of his seemingly profound sayings, which now lent Asa's scheming an unexpected philosophical profundity.
Asa felt his conscience had been appeased. Yet abruptly, a surge of revulsion overwhelmed him, leaving him utterly exhausted.
...
The wyverns screeched past the treetops, their wingbeats stirring gusts palpable even within the hollow trunks. These colossal flying predators ruled the swamp nights unchallenged, claiming any warm-blooded creature as prey—even beasts as massive as the aurochs weren't spared.
The air currents carried a reptilian stench that disgusted the hunter. He cared nothing for any potential kinship between the species, only that the odor revolted him.
If not for these nightly prowlers forcing him to hide like prey in hollow trunks until dawn, he could have broken his quarry within a day and night of relentless pursuit.
If not for the stench that nearly overwhelmed his senses, he wouldn't have been delayed by that clever ruse—wouldn't now be staring at distant firelight, puzzled.
Why light a fire? To eat and regain strength? To mock me with your discovered trap? Or is this yet another deception?
Are you taunting me?" the hunter seethed. "Daring me to come tear out your still-beating heart?
But the hunter immediately cautioned himself against losing composure. Facing such a cunning prey, losing calm would mean walking straight into a trap. Without a doubt, this was absolutely a trap—perhaps even an extension of the one from daylight.
The river wasn't far now. By dawn tomorrow, he would sprint at full speed to track, then end this hunt in a most satisfying manner.
The hunter snorted in excitement, gripping the devastating weapon in his hand. Dried brains and blood had crusted into a thin layer upon it, becoming part of the weapon itself.
Don't get too worked up, don't get too worked up. Stay calm, stay calm. The hunter warned himself again. Every trace spotted tomorrow must be scrutinized, carefully considered—no more illusions to deceive him. Remember to watch for illusions, to be wary of illusions.
You think you can fool me so easily? Are you still proud of that head I'll soon twist off and savor slowly?
Pleased with his own level-headed reasoning, the hunter snorted once more.
The blade parted flesh, severed muscle, sliced through the windpipe, then cleaved the artery—peeling back skin as it emerged triumphant from the opposite side of the neck. This sensation traveled with crystalline clarity from fingertips to wrist, elbow, arm, finally reverberating straight into the heart, each layer as vividly distinct as the verses of a sublime poem.
Then crimson blood surged forth—ardent and exultant—from the woman's body, offering itself freely for Asa to drink deep.
Strands of raven hair clung to thin lips, which curved in a faint, strained arc. Downturned eyes narrowed, their long lashes veiling a haze of mirth. Only at close quarters did he realize——this was a woman of extraordinary beauty.
Suddenly, Asa felt terror. Terror of the tenderness pooled in those slitted eyes, the obstinacy pressed into those pale lips. The woman's expression never changed—yet Asa found himself drowning in fear, overwhelmed by this abruptly unveiled beauty and its devastating gentleness.
Then he realized the blade hadn't just slit the woman's throat—it had gashed his own as well. Fingers tracing the wound on his neck, his chest reverberating with that excruciatingly vivid sensation of the cut, Asa desperately tried to mentally suture the gash with the memory of that feeling, yet found himself powerless. A tormented groan escaped his lips.
Gazing at the woman's serene face and the gruesome wound across her neck while touching his own injury, Asa found himself engulfed in sorrow, terror, and agony as thick as the surrounding darkness. With a violent shudder, he jolted awake.
The pale light of dawn now stained the eastern horizon, while the shrieks of wyverns faded into the distance.
These creatures had been circling from the swamp's edge before retreating to their deep-marsh nests. The hunter's position lay closer to the swamp's heart, granting Asa the advantage of an earlier start.
Yet Asa showed little interest in this precious head start. Instead, he crouched by the dying embers, staring blankly as the woman crushed watermint and pyrethrum with a stone before smearing the paste onto her clothes and skin.
Even now, the lingering sensation from the nightmare still echoed in his mind, like sticky mucus clinging stubbornly—his thoughts remained hazy. Fortunately, he could distinctly feel his physical strength had almost fully recovered.
The woman, however, seemed to have slept well. After applying the mixture, she briskly packed her belongings while casually chatting with him, "You had a terrible nightmare last night—it even woke me up. I considered rousing you."
Asa stared blankly at the woman's radiant, composed face. Those beautiful, misty eyes, the straight bridge of her nose, her thin lips, and the slender white neck faintly visible beneath her clothes. Suddenly, he hallucinated blood gushing tragically from her throat and shuddered violently.
The woman had already packed her belongings and bid him farewell, "Goodbye. If fate allows, you can visit me at Duke Mullick's estate in the royal capital."
She flashed a smile so tender it seemed to soften the morning mist itself. "My name is Yianni."
There won't be a chance. One of us must die. Asa couldn't bear to face that smile, fixing his gaze on the ground with a muted grunt.
Watching the woman's figure vanish into the morning mist, Asa began running along the river's course.
He neither plunged into the water to mask his scent nor cared about leaving deep footprints in the soft mud—tracks even the dimmest-eyed rodent could spot. Nor did he sprint at full speed, maintaining instead a pace that maximized stamina efficiency.
He knew all too well——any attempt at concealment would only scream suspicion under the Hunter's gaze. Such blatant trails, however, might actually bewilder him.
Of course, there remained a chance the Hunter might follow these genuine tracks—yet after the last trap, caution would surely give him pause. The odds seemed slim. Suddenly, Asa realized part of him longed to hear the Hunter's footsteps closing in behind.
But deception was futile. This was undoubtedly the most efficient strategy—if the Hunter wasted energy and time pursuing the woman, Asa's escape odds soared. Even should the man slay her and resume tracking, Asa's superior stamina would tip the scales. Shaking his head, he focused on the rhythm of his strides, step after relentless step.
But after running for less than half an hour, a great river loomed before him. He felt an absurd mix of amusement and despair. Everyone—even the hunter—had miscalculated. Likely due to the rainy season, the river had diverted from the swamp's lowlands, cutting straight through the marsh.
At that very moment, a faint, distant scream pierced the depths of the swamp.
Though weakened by the distance, the sound struck Asa's heart like a massive iron hammer. Visions of last night's dream flooded his mind—the woman's throat slit in a ghastly wound, vivid as day. He stood frozen, unable to move.
...
Another cry rang out. Asa knew the hunter was torturing her. It was the signature method of that race when preying on humans.
If he turned back now to save her, he'd be plunging headfirst into that idiotic trap—and both their heads would end up as trophies in some orc chieftain's lodge.
The Donau's waters flowed swiftly yet gently eastward, its rippling waves almost beckoning to him.
Come, come, leap in and you'll be safe. Though your heart may ache and guilt may gnaw, at least you'll live. In a few years, perhaps this memory will fade into obscurity, becoming mere tavern talk among friends. If a few years can't erase it, then surely decades will.
Or perhaps you could wield this sorrow as a forgehammer—in years to come, rise as a general, leading armies to scour the continent clean of every last orc, avenging this woman…
The third scream came, so faint it might have been a phantom born of dread.
Asa roared the vilest curse he knew, wheeling to sprint back the way he'd come. With all his strength, he bellowed a challenge—declaring to the hunter how magnificently his stupid trap had worked, exactly as intended.
Within ten minutes of desperate running, Asa saw them—the hunter, and the woman clutched in his grasp.
Raven hair spilled from her hood like spilled ink, the tangled strands half-veiling her contorted face. Her right hand hung ruined, flesh pulped and bones splintered to resemble nothing so much as a shattered vine.
That wasn't the result of a single injury—it was broken in one place, then another, until there were no more places left to break.
Asa felt slightly relieved. Apart from this hand, he couldn't see any other fatal wounds on her for now. She was just held aloft by the hunter like a chicken awaiting slaughter, weak moans escaping her lips in broken gasps, as if the claws gripping her neck might silence them at any moment.
Following that massive, fur-covered paw, Asa saw for the first time in broad daylight, at such close range, the orc that had pursued him for three days.
Towering a full foot taller and half again as broad, its entire body covered in brown fur, with towering pointed ears, yellow pupils, and a long, narrow muzzle—a wolf-like head. This was a werewolf.
Its proportions were roughly human-like, but the perfect curves of its muscles and bones revealed a strength and agility far beyond human capability.
The werewolf was clad in specially crafted leather armor, and the morning star lying on the ground—which had shattered the skulls of a dozen of Asa's comrades—was clearly custom-made as well, far too massive for humans or dwarves to wield. These terrifying armaments complemented his formidable physique perfectly, enabling him to take on an entire squad of soldiers single-handedly.
Yet this particular werewolf appeared anything but majestic or threatening—in fact, he looked downright disheveled. The fur on his left arm was matted with blood, the wound beneath still oozing sluggishly.
The Anka rapier's lethality was in no way diminished by its inability to slash. Its unique blade, once twisted after piercing flesh, would shred surrounding blood vessels and tissue mercilessly. The slender blade, forged from dwarven high-grade alloy, could even pierce through bone.
A charred, ruptured mass of muscle was visible on the back of his left paw, the surrounding fur completely scorched away—unmistakable evidence of a fireball spell's impact.
The faint singe marks on the fur of his head revealed that the fireball had originally been aimed at his face, which he'd intercepted with his hand when dodging proved impossible. The timing of that fireball must have been exquisitely precise.
If they had fought the hunter together with the woman, their chances of victory would have been great… Asa was consumed by bitter regret. Now, he had no choice but to stake everything on one desperate attempt. There was still hope—after all, the hunter's left arm was already…
The hunter let out a guttural growl, baring its razor-sharp teeth as it flexed its shoulders. Asa didn't understand the meaning behind that expression, but he saw clearly how the muscles in the claw gripping the woman tensed.
The prey had arrived, the purpose had been fulfilled, and the bait was no longer needed.
"Stop!" Asa screamed hoarsely, charging toward the hunter.
"Crack." The crisp sound of snapping bone echoed—Asa couldn't tell whether it came from the woman's neck or somewhere inside his own body.
His legs, exhausted from overexertion, lacked the strength to dodge mid-charge. Asa could only watch helplessly as the hunter planted a precise kick against his chest, sending him flying like a scarecrow before slamming hard into a tree. The knife in his hand embedded itself into the trunk.
Asa curled up like a shrimp, blood and saliva bubbling from his mouth and nose. Several ribs were broken—thankfully none had pierced his internal organs. His chest cavity felt as if a herd of wild bulls were stampeding inside, trampling every sensation but pain out of his body. He couldn't even draw a single breath.
What an unsatisfying end. The Hunter gazed at the prey who had consumed so much of his cunning over the past three days, only to prove so pitifully fragile. Disappointment gnawed at him. He had hoped for a glorious kill to cap it all off.
This morning, when he'd found clear tracks and scent by the campfire, he'd been certain it was a trap. How could this cunning prey so blatantly reveal his trail? There had to be a trick.
So he had followed another set of tracks, ones that seemed less convincing. When he realized his judgment had failed him yet again—when he'd been fooled by the prey's deception once more—shock and humiliated fury had nearly unhinged him.
And this other human's combat prowess had been unexpected. That fireball had nearly seared his face off. Luckily, the human was just as frail. After snapping his arm, the sheer agony had rendered him useless in an instant.
In the end, victory was his. He had successfully lured the fleeing prey into his trap, and now he could simply walk over and effortlessly twist off its head.
No, there was no need to rush. Savoring every moment of the process, observing what this human might do when faced with impending death—that would make for an amusing finale.
One last trick up your sleeve? Or will you struggle? Or perhaps curl into a ball, wailing incoherently through snot and tears? Spare me that—I've seen enough of it already.
Asa finally managed to draw a ragged breath, his ribs feeling as though they were studded with daggers that twisted with every heave of his chest.
With great effort, he lifted his head to gaze at the knife embedded in the tree trunk, its blade now slick with the milky sap oozing from the wounded bark.
He recognized this tree, its slender straight roots had once reminded him of an almost shameless phrase.
Now he remembered it again. Glancing at the woman lying motionless on the ground, no longer moaning, a surge of grief-stricken fury lent him the strength to rise. He wrenched the blade free from the tree trunk. Summoning every ounce of remaining strength, he raised the sword and charged forward.
The hunter watched the prey charging toward him with something akin to pity in his gaze.
Is this tortoise-slow, telegraphed movement your final struggle? I can see every twitching muscle, every pain-induced contortion in your strike. The blade's trajectory, its precise landing point, the exact force behind each swing—all laid bare before my eyes.
The hunter raised the haft of his morningstar with unerring precision, intercepting the blade with a resounding metallic clang.
Just as anticipated, both sword and hand were violently repelled, sending the body staggering backward with defenses wide open across the torso. A single upward thrust of claws would have sufficed to rip out that pulsing, feverish heart.
Yet the hunter failed to foresee one seemingly insignificant detail. The tree sap coating the blade, shaken loose by the brutal impact, atomized into countless droplets that sprayed into the hunter's eyes - and across that perpetually damp snout.
That wasn't sap - it was a thousand daggers, tempered with virulent poison, barbed and glowing red-hot. The hunter let out a shrill scream more piercing than any he'd ever heard himself utter before.
The entire world was consumed by this agony. His vision first turned crimson before plunging into complete darkness; his nose seemed to have vanished, replaced by nothing but pain, and even his ears could hear nothing but his own screams.
Then the last remaining bodily sensation instantly detected something icy being thrust into its abdomen, all the way up to the chest—not with much effort, but with relentless determination, carving out its own space amidst previously well-ordered internal organs.
A terror so overwhelming it could eclipse even pain came surging in. The hunter instinctively gripped something below its abdomen, channeling all its strength and fear into that grasp. Then it heard another shriek, every bit as piercing as its own agonized wail.
Asa couldn't hear the sound of his wrist bones shattering into fragments either—he could only feel countless shards rampaging through muscle and blood vessels, erupting grotesquely through the skin.
He wasn't exerting force; he'd long since spent every ounce of strength. It was the sheer, scalding agony that drove his knee to jerk violently upward against the hilt. The blade transmitted the elastic snap of cardiac muscle tearing apart.
The hunter abruptly silenced its howls, clutching at its chest with such force that razor-sharp claws pierced through leather armor into its own fur, as if trying to press that ruptured organ back into shape. But after swaying a few steps, it collapsed with a thunderous crash.
Asa clutched his left hand, kneeling on the ground as he wailed and gasped for a long while before barely managing to stand.
It was all over.
No—not yet. He couldn't linger here too long. Once the hunter's corpse began to reek, it would draw hordes of lizards. He was already weakened enough to become easy prey for those vile scavengers. Hopefully, the woman's pack contained some useful healing potions—or perhaps something as high-end as that water-purifying talisman.
Asa staggered over. Gazing at the woman's pallid face—once so beautiful when adorned with smiles—he knew that within half a day, it too would become food for those repulsive creatures, just like the werewolf corpse nearby.
I'm sorry… it's all my fault." Asa knelt before her in anguish. Suddenly, he thought he saw her lips twitch—perhaps a hallucination—but then came a groan, stronger than his own.