It was deep into the night when Stephen's eyes opened.
A sharp crunch broke the forest's stillness, followed by frantic rustling and the rapid patter of paws. Something crashed through a thicket. Leaves shook. Branches snapped. Then came several heavy thuds—bodies or boots, he couldn't yet tell.
Stephen parted a small opening between the leaves above him.
The moon hung bright and pale, casting a soft silver light across the forest floor. Beneath the tree, a small creature stumbled into view—fur black as ink, tail as sleek as smoke. A fox, no larger than a small puppy, but its side was split open by a bone-deep gash. Blood dripped in red beads that spattered across roots and leaves, marking its path.
It whimpered as it ran. It didn't even look behind it.
When the fox reached the base of Stephen's tree, its legs finally gave way. It collapsed with a hollow, wet thump, blood pooling beneath its body.
Stephen didn't hesitate.
He dropped from the branch, landing beside the wounded beast. His fingers pressed to its neck—nothing at first. Then a faint pulse, barely there, struggling to cling to life.
The wound should have been healing. Beast vitality was extraordinary, often surpassing humans of the same realm. But this fox's flesh refused to knit. The exposed skin around the injury was a sickly purple, the edges dry and blackened.
Poison.
A potent one. Not something a random hunter would happen to carry.
He drew a slow breath, mind racing through the books he'd read at the outpost's library, trying to recall methods to purge toxins—
Swish—!
Air tore behind him.
Stephen launched sideways on instinct, flipping through the air before hitting the ground in a roll. His sword was already in hand. Spiritual energy roared through his channels.
An arrow struck the earth where he had been standing, burying itself so deep that the ground trembled.
Had he reacted a second later, the arrow would have gone clean through his chest.
He looked toward the shadows.
Four figures emerged from the trees, cloaked in black garments that bled into the darkness. Moonlight struck their faces, revealing three men and one woman.
The woman held a long bow easily half her height. Even beneath her cloak, her silhouette was unmistakable—tall, poised, sharply built. Her expression was cold enough to frost the air.
She raised her chin.
"Step away from the beast. If you value your life—leave."
Stephen reached out with his senses… and found nothing.
Their realms were too high for him to perceive.
They were at least in the Master Realm, if not higher.
He glanced at the Night Fox behind him—its tiny chest rising and falling, breath faint, blood glistening.
His grip tightened around his sword.
He didn't move.
The woman's eyes narrowed in irritation.
One of the men stepped forward, voice barking with arrogant fury:
"Do you know what it means to oppose us, boy—?"
He didn't finish.
The woman snapped at him, tone sharp as broken glass.
"Enough. Young Lady Alice wants fresh meat from a juvenile Night Fox. If we delay, we pay the price."
The name struck them like lightning.
The men stiffened. Even the speaker flinched. Whoever "Alice" was, her shadow was large enough to make killers tremble.
The man regained himself and glared at Stephen.
"Last warning. Leave. Or don't blame me for what happens next."
A faint glow pulsed at his wrist. A spear appeared in his hand—summoned from a storage bracelet. Stephen recognized the artifact immediately.
Even a basic model costs 10,000 Merit Points. High-quality versions ranged from 100,000 to millions.
These weren't simple hunters.
They were clan elites.
The spear blurred—too fast for his eyes, only the killing intent reaching him first.
Stephen dodged, twisting away.
Steel kissed fabric—then flesh.
A thin red line opened across his chest.
The man froze. He had expected Stephen to die on the spot—split in half like prey. Instead, the boy had nearly evaded entirely.
Stephen felt his heart pounding like a drum. One heartbeat slower, and the spear would have pierced through bone.
He forced down the surge of panic. His qi stabilized. Breath steadied.
Then he moved.
He didn't retreat. He charged.
His sprint cut toward the two men standing behind the woman—targeting the weakest link in their formation. His blade carved a bright arc, fast as moonlight on running water.
The nearest man didn't even scream.
One swing.
One clean line.
The body was severed at the waist.
Blood splattered across bark and leaves as organs spilled to the ground.
For three long breaths, the killers simply stared.
Then—
"Old Third!"
The other two men roared together, rushing to the corpse. Their eyes turned crimson.
The spear-wielder trembled with rage.
They had been orphans. They had survived the world together. They had bled together. They had entered the Clark Family together.
And now one of them lay dead—bisected at the feet of a boy.
The spear-bearer's voice cracked with hatred:
"You filthy—! You dare kill our brother!?"
The two men lunged at him—one with the spear, the other wielding a massive two-handed axe. Their coordination was ruthless, seasoned, and without hesitation.
A pincer attack.
Left and right closing in—death from both sides.
Stephen pivoted, prepared to slip through—
Then he felt it.
A cold sensation crawled up his neck.
The woman stood behind them, string drawn to its limit. An arrow of pure killing intent rested against her cheek. The moment she released—
He would die.
His every hair stood on end.
His mind raced, searching for any path—any technique, any opening, any chance at survival.
The spear came at his ribs.
The axe at his skull.
The arrow at his heart.
Three roads to death.
And no clear path forward.