Chief sat a little apart from the others, the firelight dancing across the lines of age carved into his face.
A faint, almost nostalgic smile lingered as he watched them from a distance–Patron, Shade, and Lainsa–sitting close, speaking softly, their presence woven together by shared danger and unspoken trust.
Without ceremony, he reached into his spatial ring and pulled out a wine jar. Tilting it, he drank straight from the mouth, the sharp scent of alcohol briefly cutting through the night air. He swallowed deeply, then exhaled, eyes never leaving the trio.
"I regret getting old," he murmured to himself, voice low, meant for no one else. "Childhood too… a burden." He chuckled dryly. "But even then, there's freedom. Freedom to choose where to place effort… where to waste it."
The jar hovered near his lips for a moment longer.
"If I were eternally a child like they are now…" His brows drew together. The thought lingered, then shattered. "…Tch. What nonsense."
He lowered the jar and shook his head lightly, as if embarrassed by his own sentiment.
A short distance away, two identical figures exchanged a glance.
"He started," one of the twins whispered, nodding subtly toward the Chief.
The other followed his gaze and replied in an equally quiet tone, "Mm... At least he's relaxed now." A pause. "That's the only thing we can guarantee after today."
Mu Long stood near the edge of the fire's glow, his axe resting against his shoulder. The usual turbulence in his expression had eased, his eyes following Kiaria's movements across the camp. Just seeing Patron alive–steady, unchanged–was enough to calm the restless storm in his mind.
Except him, Mu Long thought, fingers tightening around the haft of his axe. Except Patron, no one knows the truth behind Xuzhen's brush.
His gaze dropped to the Yin–Yang pattern carved into the weapon, the lines worn smooth by years of use.
Old fox… you planned this well, didn't you?
Using Patron to return that brush to that hopeless land.
A faint, bitter smirk crossed his face.
You can hide facts from anyone else… but not from me.
He exhaled slowly.
Still, you latched onto some very thick thighs today.
"Old man… rest in peace."
The Yin–Yang carving, etched there long ago by Elder Mu Li himself, remained silent. Mu Long remembered the day it was carved–how he had been dragged in from the streets, half-starved, half-dead. Raised not like a disciple, not like a tool, but like an injured stray that refused to lie down and die.
Nearby, the twin subordinates worked efficiently, driving stakes into the ground and stretching canvas with practiced ease. One tent rose, then another, until five stood neatly arranged around the campfire.
One of the twins approached the Chief and reported, "Chief, we've set up five tents for you and the other strongholds in our group."
"Five?" Chief echoed, blinking in surprise. His brow furrowed slightly. "Who's the fifth?"
The subordinate answered without hesitation. "Chief, Ghost Shade, Lainsa, Elder Mu Li… and Mu Long."
Chief went still for a heartbeat.
As expected, he thought. They still haven't realized.
Of course they hadn't. Who would ever notice the presence–or absence–of a silent, good man?
Elder Mu Li had always been like that. Never loud. Never demanding. Always there when needed. The kind of person whose absence only became clear after the space he filled could no longer be replaced.
"Alright," Chief said aloud after a brief pause, his voice steady once more. "I understand."
He waved a hand dismissively, then added, "Arrange the best tent for Patron and Shade."
The subordinate bowed and withdrew, leaving Chief alone again with the fire, the wine, and the quiet weight of a loss no one else had yet realized.
Kiaria, Diala, and Princess Lainsa stood slightly apart from the main camp, their voices low, speaking of things that did not belong to battle or survival–small personal matters, unfinished thoughts, fragments of concern that had been held back since leaving the swamp. The fire crackled nearby, its warmth reaching them, but none of them noticed it much.
A deliberate cough cut through the quiet.
"Ahem… Patron…" Chief's voice followed, carrying both respect and a rare hint of ease. "Everyone is here now. That's good." He gestured toward the fire with an open palm. "We're waiting for you at the campfire."
Kiaria turned, meeting Chief's gaze, then glanced at Diala and the Princess. He nodded once. "Alright."
As they approached, Mu Long and the subordinate twins were already at work. Thick logs had been dragged into a rough circle around the fire, placed carefully to serve as seats. Nearby, several of Chief's men laid out smaller arrangements–flat stones and wooden slabs forming makeshift tables. Three seats stood out among the rest, layered with carefully cleaned beast skins, the markings still faintly visible under the firelight.
Chief stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Patron," he said, his tone formal, "this seat is for you and Shade."
His finger pointed toward a long log draped with the patterned hide of an Urzilo Leopard, its silver-black fur shimmering faintly in the flames.
Kiaria halted.
"This…" He hesitated, eyes flicking between the seat and the others. "…is this really necessary?" He scratched his cheek lightly, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't like special treatment." After a brief pause, he added, as if bargaining with himself, "Let's do it like this."
He turned and gestured for Princess Lainsa and Diala to take the seat instead.
Princess raised an eyebrow.
Then, without warning, she placed both hands on Kiaria's back and gave him a firm push forward.
"Sit," she said loudly, her voice carrying across the camp.
Kiaria stumbled a half-step, startled.
"Huh–" He turned back instinctively. "Ghost, you are a Patron," Princess added, her tone sharp but playful. "Respect your own identity."
The words hit harder than expected.
Kiaria froze for a fraction of a second, completely unprepared for her bluntness. The next moment, he found himself sitting down beside Diala almost automatically, reacting more than deciding.
For a heartbeat, silence fell.
Then laughter erupted.
Hunters chuckled, some slapped their knees, others leaned back, the tension of recent days finally cracking under the warmth of shared relief. One by one, everyone settled into their places around the fire, the circle complete.
"Friends," one of the newbies called out, grinning shamelessly, "looks like we hooked the biggest fish to use as bait on Patron!"
Another voice chimed in immediately, "More like two birds fighting over a worm!"
Before the laughter could grow louder, a sharp sound cut through it.
"Silence."
Chief stood up.
His presence shifted the mood instantly. He scanned the circle–newbies, veterans, wounded, exhausted–and his gaze hardened.
"On what right," he said sternly, "are you comparing Patron, Lainsa, and Shade to petty jokes?" His voice grew heavier with each word. "Have you already forgotten whose efforts and hardships allowed us to survive until now?"
No one spoke.
"Our lives," Chief continued, "are gifts given by these three." He paused deliberately. "Charity. Alms." His eyes narrowed. "Is this how you repay them?"
The fire crackled louder in the silence that followed.
Chief's companions moved quickly then, placing bowls and cups in front of everyone, breaking the heaviness without words.
Chief picked up a jug of deep crimson wine. He poured a full bowl, stepped forward, and knelt slightly as he placed it on the ground.
"This," he said quietly, "is for those who did not make it."
Around the circle, others followed. Bowls were filled and poured out one by one, wine soaking into the earth as a silent tribute to fallen companions whose names would not be spoken aloud.
Chief straightened, poured another bowl, then turned toward Kiaria. From a separate jar, he poured a deep red brew–Crimson Willow-Heart Wine–and held it out with both hands.
"For your courage," he said, "and for your hands that saved us in our worst moments."
Kiaria stood slowly, accepted the bowl–and then hesitated.
He turned toward Princess Lainsa, uncertainty flickering across his face.
Princess laughed openly. "Did you forget?" she said lightly. "He's not used to this." She reached out, took the bowl from his hands, and raised it. "I'll drink it for him."
She drained it without hesitation.
Then she placed a jar of medicinal brew in front of Kiaria and another near Diala. "You two drink this instead," she said. "Say cheers properly."
Kiaria obeyed, lifting the jar slightly toward Chief. "Cheers."
Only then did the meal truly begin.
The food was simple–roasted meat, preserved grains–but no one complained. Conversation flowed more easily now, laughter softer, shoulders loosening as hunger and exhaustion were satisfied.
At one point, Kiaria turned his attention toward the subordinate twins sitting opposite him.
"How long have you been with Chief?" he asked casually. "I've never heard him call you by name."
One of the twins laughed. "Hard to say. Maybe more than six years." He scratched his head. "Between hunts, injuries, and recovery… none of us really counted."
He continued, more seriously, "Our old names were Tiogus and Yeyogus. After Chief saved us from execution by hanging, we changed them. Now it's Ru and Yi." He gestured toward his brother. "Yi was born after me. But professionally…" He smiled wryly. "…he's better."
Kiaria studied them quietly.
"Your martial soul," he said, "is Spirit-type Ruyi." His tone was calm, observational. "But your handling has many flaws." He paused. "If you're interested, before we leave tomorrow, I can give you some guidance."
Yi blinked in surprise.
"Patron, you're too kind," he said honestly. "We know our moves are crude. But we're already dead people. We never thought of improving."
Kiaria looked at him steadily.
"Maybe," he said, "but you don't walk alone." His gaze swept briefly across the camp. "You have companions who may need to rely on you. If you are unreliable, how can they trust you when danger comes again?"
The words settled heavily.
Neither Ru nor Yi replied.
The fire continued to burn, its light reflecting off faces now caught between comfort and contemplation.
By the time the bowls were emptied and the fire burned lower, conversation around the camp softened. Laughter thinned into murmurs, then into silence broken only by the crackle of embers and the distant sounds of the night.
Chief sat quietly for a long while, staring into the fire.
The wine had warmed his chest, loosened the rigid control he always carried. His gaze drifted–not at the flames, but beyond them, as if he were looking at years long gone.
Finally, he spoke.
"Patron," he said, his voice rough, lacking the authority it carried earlier. "Tell me… what did you understand from the life of a Treasure Hunter?"
Kiaria did not answer immediately.
Chief continued on his own, as though he never truly expected an answer.
"It's luck," Chief said with a dry laugh. "Nothing more. Just luck that we're still breathing." He lifted the wine jar, shook it lightly, then took a short drink. "We gamble our lives chasing ruins, relics, secrets… telling ourselves it's for our children's future."
His fingers tightened around the jar.
"And the secrets we uncover?" he went on. "They tell us about ancient bloodlines. Forgotten inheritances. Glories that once belonged to others." He scoffed softly. "But when it comes to reality…"
He paused, the fire reflecting faintly in his eyes.
"We get nothing in return. Not gratitude. Not remembrance." His voice dropped. "Even the ones we love stop looking our way."
Silence followed, thick and uncomfortable.
Chief exhaled slowly.
"Do you know why we mask our identities?" he asked, not turning toward Kiaria. "Because everyone has selfish desires. Once they know who you are… what you have… they start measuring how to take it."
He chuckled bitterly. "Treasure hunting isn't adventure. It's playing with fire while pretending the burns don't hurt."
Kiaria leaned forward slightly."Do you regret it?" he asked quietly.
Chief let out a long sigh.
"Regret…" He shook his head. "That word never saved anyone." He tilted his head back, staring at the dark sky. "Patron, your strength… your abilities… they're terrifying and admirable at the same time."
He finally looked at Kiaria then.
"But can you always protect the weak around you?" Chief asked, his tone heavy. "One day, you won't. No matter how strong you are, that day will come."
His voice lowered further.
"And when you fail just once… they'll abandon you." He clenched his fist weakly. "Everything you did for them will vanish into silence. Your presence will mean nothing."
The fire popped.
"When you're strong," Chief continued, "everyone follows you. When you become weak…" He smiled without humor. "…even if you follow them, they'll stab you in the back."
Kiaria listened without interrupting.
Then he smiled faintly.
"Look at you," Kiaria said gently. "You're too drunk."
Chief scoffed, but did not deny it.
"Chief," Kiaria continued, his voice calm, unwavering, "remember this–everything in this world has exceptions." He lifted his gaze to meet the older man's tired eyes. "No matter what kind of world it is… we can choose to be that exception."
He spoke slowly, deliberately.
"It's you who chose to become a Treasure Hunter.""It's you who chose to be someone others rely on.""It's you who chose to wear a mask and play the fool before society."
His voice softened.
"And it's you who chose your own destiny."
Chief's head tilted slightly.
His eyes closed.
The wine jar slipped loosely in his hand as his breathing evened out.
He had fallen asleep.
Kiaria stopped mid-sentence and let the rest of his words fade into silence.
Beside him, Diala had listened to everything without missing a word. She reached out quietly, entwined her fingers with his, and leaned against his shoulder.
Kiaria did not move.
He stared into the dying fire, Chief's words echoing again and again in his mind. Thoughts layered upon thoughts, finishing the conversation that had ended too soon.
He did not sleep.
Not that night.
To avoid disturbing Diala, he remained still, sitting upright as the hours passed. At some point, without realizing it, his head leaned gently against hers instead.
The campsite was far from truly safe. The swamp lay uncomfortably close.
Yet the horrors they had endured made this fragile calm feel secure.
Unseen, a murderous-intent barrier woven by the Dragon Emperors surrounded the area–a silent favor, guarding them through the night.
Before dawn, Diala stirred.
She woke early.
But she did not move.
She chose to pretend she was still asleep, knowing that if she shifted even slightly, the exhausted Kiaria would wake.
So she stayed still, letting him rest just a little longer–as the embers faded, morning quietly approached.