The low crackle of burning resinwood swam through the night air—slow, popping, unhurried.
A restless draft prowled through the seams of the tent's leather flaps, stirring the faint smell of ash and fur. Wolf sat with his elbows propped on his knees, a half-empty tin cup resting loosely in his hands. His boots, still dirt-caked from the mines, were pressed flat against the woven mat.
Opposite him, Klion leaned against a wooden pole with arms folded, his broad shoulders dusted faintly with soot and cotton fluff.
A faint lamp, dimmed by grime, cast uneven shadows over their faces. Klion's voice came out steady, as if weighing the weight of the day itself.
"They still hold strong," he murmured, rubbing the side of his neck with a thumb, his tone carrying a strange note—neither admiration nor disbelief.
Wolf exhaled slowly through his nose, almost a scoff but softer, more thoughtful."Yeah, I know," he answered, low and tired.
The pause that followed was heavier than any pickaxe. Wolf's eyes narrowed at the dirt floor, his mind already drifting.
I don't know how, he thought.
But that's not possible. Not for them to hold out this long…
His jaw clenched. The sound of the crackling fire bled into a quiet, rhythmic pulse inside his head.
They barely got enough food to last a day. Half their hunters gave up weeks ago.
And seeing how much we've grown… the walls, the food stores, the houses… they should've broken by now. Anyone would've.
His thumb tapped against the tin cup.
Yet none of them crossed over. Not one. Something's wrong here.
Wolf lifted his head, a low rasp edging his voice as he spoke.
"Let's pay them a visit."
Klion arched a brow, his lips pulling slightly to the side. "Thought you'd say that," he muttered dryly before tilting his head.
A short pause lingered, eyes narrowing slightly as if bracing for the answer he already knew.
"…But when though?"
"Right now," Wolf said.
Klion's face twisted in visible surprise, shoulders jerking up. "What!? Why—"
But before the question could fully spill out, Wolf was already rising. The legs of his chair scraped softly against the mat. He set the cup down with a muted clink, the movement sharp and final.
His broad figure shifted through the dim light, casting a longer shadow that bent against the tent wall.
Klion's words stumbled to a halt. His mouth stayed half open, his brow furrowed deeply. "Wolf—hey, hold on—"
But Wolf didn't turn back. He pushed the flap of the tent aside, the cold night air instantly flooding in, lifting strands of his hair. The faint torchlights from outside danced against the wind, painting the open field in flickering amber strokes.
Outside, the camp of Heaven of the Forsaken was no longer a cluster of makeshift beds barely holding together. It was a budding village. Rows of rough timber and stone houses lined the open field, some already half-reinforced with stacked slabs of grey rock. Smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys. The distant bleating of turigavits echoed faintly against the steady rush of the waterfall far away.
Klion followed him out with a frustrated huff, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Wolf," he called, jogging a few steps to keep up, boots crunching softly against the dirt.
"You really think marching out right now is the smartest idea?"
Wolf didn't answer. His stride was steady, calm—but not careless. His eyes flicked across the camp like a hunter tracking prey.
People were still awake—mostly miners and gatherers sorting through cotton bundles beside the fire pits. Their breath misted faintly in the cool air.
Around them, the settlement pulsed with quiet life.
The meeting tent—a massive structure layered with cotton and stitched furs—stood near the edge of the camp. Its framework had been reinforced with timber posts from the nearby forest.
They'd built it on the open field near the base of the waterfall—a place Wolf had passed once but never climbed.
Everything had changed.
The exploration teams had carved a stairway into the cliff wall, smooth enough to let carts roll through. Beyond it stretched the wide clearing the third team had found—split into three distinct fields.
The monster field lay closest. It belonged to the turigavits, creatures with horned heads and heavy coats of fur that glistened faintly with dew under moonlight. They grazed lazily, their breaths forming little clouds. These beasts were docile to a fault—ignoring even the fall of their own kind so long as no fang or blade turned toward them.
Next, the cotton field spread in soft, pale waves—strange fibrous plants swaying under the night wind. It wasn't ordinary cotton.
Wolf knew that well.
It couldn't burn, and it filled a man's stomach when eaten, though it chewed like gum and cracked like biting into frost.
And beyond that… the ether field. A zone shrouded in a bluish veil, faintly glowing.
He remembered the story of the first time the team went in—how some dropped unconscious like puppets with their strings cut.
Those with weak Power stats couldn't withstand it.
Their answer came not from the status window, but through gritted teeth and careful trial.
Only those with stronger Power could go near the source—the massive blue crystal humming beneath the waterfall.
Wolf's gaze lifted toward the faint shimmer above the ridge. They'd reshaped the rocks, carved steps into the cliff, turned it from wild ground into something they could climb, claim, and use.
The night wind carried the murmur of flowing water down to the camp—a slow, constant song.
Gatherers were moving crates toward the stairway. Guards stood near the edge, spears upright but relaxed. Exploration Team One—the mining crew under Wolf—had just returned hours ago, and their tools were still piled near the fence.
Exploration Team Two, however… had yet to return. They'd vanished into the deeper forest days ago.
Wolf's boots slowed near the firepit. His breath puffed white in the cold.
Klion finally caught up beside him, letting out a rough sigh, tilting his head toward the growing rows of houses.
"Hard to believe, huh? Just a few weeks ago we were sleeping in the makeshift beds that are barely anything, eating whatever we could chew. Now look at this…"
Wolf didn't answer. His eyes narrowed slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening.
Something doesn't add up.
His shoulders squared a little.
They should've fallen already.
The wind tugged at his shirt. Torches crackled against the wind. And the waterfall roared softly in the distance like a distant beast breathing.
Wolf finally turned his head toward Klion, voice low and edged with quiet resolve.
"We move tonight."
Klion rubbed his face with both hands, exhaling through his fingers. "Yeah. I figured you'd say that."
Wolf's gaze didn't waver. The night had already set the board. All that was left was the first move.
The armory stood near the western edge of the camp—an unassuming wooden structure reinforced with scavenged stone and iron scraps hammered into its walls. A pale fog drifted around its base, drawn from the misty breath of the nearby waterfall. Torchlight wavered along the crude fencing, making the building look like a slumbering beast under watch.
Two sentries sat by the entrance, cloaks pulled tight, their spears resting lazily against the wall. When they noticed Wolf and Klion approaching, both straightened instantly. Boots thumped against the dirt as they rose, their earlier drowsiness vanishing behind disciplined posture.
"Leader Klion," one of them greeted, voice cutting through the cool night.
"Evening, sir," the other added, fumbling slightly but snapping a hand to his chest in a rough salute.
Wolf gave a short nod—not out of formality, but acknowledgment. His steps didn't falter. He walked as if the night itself made way for him.
Klion followed close behind, hands buried in his belt sash, gaze drifting lazily across the camp even though his body language was alert.
The sentries exchanged quick glances before one of them pushed the heavy door open. The hinges creaked like old bones, spilling a low groan into the air. A gust of colder air rolled out from inside, carrying with it the dry scent of oiled steel and smoke.
Inside, the armory was dim—lit only by two lanterns perched unevenly on hooks. Their light shivered against weapon racks lined up along the walls. It wasn't a grand stockpile: a few blades, a handful of axes, spears stacked against a corner, some bows barely strung.
Scarcity whispered from the empty spaces where weapons should have been.
Neither Wolf nor Klion paid the shortage any mind.
Wolf's boots pressed against the packed dirt floor with quiet precision. He let his eyes travel over each rack slowly, like a predator reading tracks. Blades glinted dully, edges dulled from poor forging or use. But something caught his eye—short, curved, elegant.
A wakizashi.
His gaze lingered on it. The subtle curvature. The balance between blade and hilt. His breath deepened just slightly.
Daishō…
The memory came unbidden, like an old scar tugged beneath the skin—Miyamoto Musashi.
The man who wielded the katana and wakizashi as if they were born in the same breath. Niten Ichi-ryū. Two-sword technique.
Wolf's fingers brushed the air just above the blade before he reached out and wrapped his hand around the hilt. The weight was familiar. Almost too familiar.
He drew it slightly from its scabbard. The steel whispered faintly against the lacquered wood, a clean sound that sliced through the silence like silk tearing.
He stared at the weapon as his thoughts folded inward.
But where's the katana?
His brows drew together, a shadow forming between them. He moved to the next rack, scanning, searching. Nothing.
Not even one.
He let out a quiet, sharp breath through his nose.
Who?
Who the hell forges only the wakizashi?
His mind rolled the question around, heavier than it should have been.
What kind of person…
He shifted his stance slightly, wakizashi still in hand, then turned to another rack. His gaze landed on a sword—not a katana, but something closer to a saber. The curve was different. The weight heavier. A weapon meant to cut through wind and bone with momentum, not precision.
His fingers tightened. He understood exactly what it meant.
This will be ugly if I ever pair them. The weight won't match. The tempo won't breathe right. Saber is heavier while Katana smoother. This isn't meant to be a duet… more like trying to make a river and a storm flow in the same direction.
But that didn't stop him. He lifted the saber from its rack. His wrist rolled subtly, testing the balance. The air shifted with the blade's pull. His stance adapted almost instinctively, years of muscle memory stitching into new ground.
I'm not using that nitoichi shit anytime soon.
He sheathed both blades, one at his side, the other behind.
Meanwhile, Klion was rummaging through the opposite racks with his usual blend of laziness and focus. He grunted softly, finally pulling an axe from the stand. Wolf's eyes slid to it immediately.
A tomahawk.
Wolf didn't say anything—just observed. Klion flipped it in his hand once, catching the grip with a little smirk that said this feels right. Then he walked to another corner and picked a shield.
A round shield.
Wolf's jaw tensed. A quiet sigh scraped out of his throat. He approached him.
"You should change your shield," Wolf said, voice low, even.
Klion blinked at him, confusion rippling across his face like a slow wave.
"Oh? Why?" His brows arched as he tilted the round shield toward himself, as if there was something wrong with it that he missed.
Wolf stepped closer, scanning the racks once more before his hand wrapped around a smaller shield—a buckler.
He turned, handed it to Klion with a firm gesture, the way a veteran corrects a rookie without asking permission.
"Buckler has higher compatibility with tomahawk than this thing," Wolf said flatly.
"Round shield's heavier. Slows your movement. Tires you out faster. Tomahawk's about rapid strikes. Pressure and offense. This—" he tapped the round shield with a knuckle, a soft clunk
"—forces you into defense. It doesn't fit the weapon's nature."
Klion blinked again, watching Wolf with a mix of confusion and amusement.
Wolf lifted the buckler slightly, rolling it on his forearm to demonstrate.
"Buckler isn't for blocking the whole damn body. It's to deflect—their hand, their weapon, their aim. It makes gaps that gives your axe room to breathe."
Klion just stared at him for a beat, his lips quirking up slightly.
Why the hell is he explaining this like a damn instructor? he thought, though he didn't say it out loud.
"Ah… okay, I get your point," Klion said at last, raising both hands in a half-surrendering gesture.
Wolf gave a single, curt nod—the kind that carried finality.
Klion swapped the shields, testing the buckler's lighter weight with a quick flick of his wrist. The tomahawk swung comfortably in the other hand, the balance more fluid now.
They stepped out of the armory together. The sentries at the door straightened again as the door swung shut behind them with a deep thud. The night outside felt colder, clearer.
Wolf's fingers brushed lightly against the hilt of the wakizashi at his side. His mind ticked like a clock buried in silence.
Let's see what tricks you're hiding…
The night sky hung heavy and dull, like wet canvas stretched over a frame. The air around the border between the two territories was sharp—unmoving—and yet, everything felt too still. Even the faint hum of the waterfall behind them seemed distant, like it too had turned its ear toward the other side.
Wolf and Klion crossed the invisible line that split their side from the Union's, boots sinking slightly into the damp soil. The forest canopy leaned close overhead, letting only scattered moonlight slip through like broken glass. Every step they took sent quiet crunches into the air—grass, brittle roots, fragments of leaves.
Wolf's hand lingered on the hilt of his wakizashi as his eyes scanned the settlement ahead.
The Union side had grown… but it didn't feel alive.
They passed through rows of crude shelters made of salvaged cloth and planks, each lit faintly by the dying orange of small campfires. Faces peeked out from shadowed openings—eyes dull, movements minimal. No shouts. No distant chatter. No hammering of tools or the bark of commands. It was as though the whole place had swallowed its own noise.
Klion shifted his shoulders, his tomahawk brushing against his thigh as he muttered under his breath.
"The hell… It's too quiet."
Wolf didn't answer. His gaze moved left, right, then further down the settlement.
He expected at least someone—Arden, Hyung-woo, Maja—to be moving around like usual. But there was no trace of them. No familiar silhouettes.
They're not here.
That quiet, grinding pressure in his chest that had been with him all week twisted harder now.
Like a blade slowly turning in old flesh. The urge was still there—clinging to the edges of his ribs like mold. It whispered to him. Hissed. It had been there for days now, an invisible, constant weight. But now, with this silence, with this emptiness, it was louder.
If he didn't find out why soon… he knew himself too well.
His hands would eventually do what his mind tried to restrain. He hated it. Hated feeling that pulse beneath his skin. That heat sitting behind his teeth.
Klion wasn't much better off. His jaw was tight, his breath unsteady. "Something's wrong," he muttered, running a hand down his face and then back through his hair in frustration.
"Something's fucking wrong here."
His thoughts spiraled sharp and fast.
Why aren't they here?Why the fuck does this place feel like it's… pretending to breathe?
The longer he couldn't put the pieces together, the more it gnawed at him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The word echoed in his head, grounding him but irritating him all the same.
They moved further in.
The Union side's peace didn't feel like peace anymore. It felt manufactured. Even the people walking around—few and far between—looked distant. Some carried buckets, some dragged firewood, but their expressions were hollow. None made eye contact. None greeted.
Wolf and Klion exchanged a brief glance, wordless. The kind that said, you feel that too?
Wolf's voice finally cut through the silence, low and quiet. "Let's check the forest."
Klion nodded once. His fingers tightened around the buckler's strap.
They slipped past the last few shacks and moved into the trees. The world grew colder here. Thicker. The soil dampened under their boots, and the moonlight thinned out like smoke through a sieve. The faint smell of moss and stagnant water clung to the air.
Then something pricked Wolf's senses. He froze mid-step.
A smell.
Rot.
Wet, heavy, sour. The kind that crawled up the back of your throat and burned.
He inhaled deeper, slow through his nose.
The stench clung to the inside of his skull like damp cloth.
"…I smell something," he said finally, voice steady but edged. "Something's rotten."
Klion's nose twitched a moment later, and his brows furrowed. "...Yeah. Shit. That's bad."
Wolf gestured with two fingers, and they moved—careful, quiet.
The smell grew stronger with every step. Their boots pressed into the soft, uneven ground, mud sloshing faintly. A crow croaked somewhere in the dark, short and broken, before flapping away.
And then they saw it.
Under a half-fallen tree trunk, slumped against a bed of blackened leaves, was a body.
The moonlight brushed over a pale face. Empty eyes. Skin gone cold and waxy. Wolf didn't need to get closer to know.
Arden.