As I made my way through the forest toward where the bandits were reported, my thoughts kept drifting back to the training grounds. To Sir Kaito and Grey waiting there, trusting me to handle this alone.
When I asked Grey and Sir Kaito to stay behind, they refused at first. But I couldn't risk the next hero being seen. It would cause trouble.
If people found out, the demons would eventually know too. Then their next target would be Sir Kaito.
I couldn't pinpoint their goal no matter how hard I tried. No texts or records in the holy library offered any clues about what the demons truly wanted.
So I explained the situation to them. They agreed in the end, half-heartedly.
They know I can defend myself. They've experienced my barrier strength firsthand during our training sessions.
Even though I was here on the holy land for nearly a decade, I found out about the constant threat of bandits and the monsters that lurked around the borders only 3 years ago when a priest was heavily wounded and brought back inside the barrier. The good thing is monsters can't enter inside the barrier and no human dared to test the holy land, their last hope.
Bandits tried to attack around the borders whenever the supplies from holy kingdom arrived only. It may connected to the thoughts of the supplies being endless until it successfully received. Monsters attacked as well, whether for food or to kill what they saw in front of them. So, I started testing my abilities against them.
Last time, a year ago, one bandit tried a suicide attack and I panicked. I cut his vital in self-defense. But fortunately, no one was conscious enough to see me heal him afterward. If they had seen that… even more danger would follow. Kidnapping, most likely. They would try to kidnap me, or the nuns and priests and use them as bargaining chips to get to me.
Healing magic is more scarce than any resource in this twilight world that was crawling with dangerous monsters and dark beasts. If they discovered what I could do, I'd be sold directly to the highest bidder—even to those on the demon continent. Back to where I came from.
I don't want to go back there ever again!
I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't.
I should scare them and let them go unharmed. That would be the safest path. No injuries, no risk of exposing my healing abilities, no complications.
But my determination wavered the moment I saw the bandits through the trees.
There were so many of them this time. At least thirty. And they looked tough too—hardened fighters, not the desperate amateurs from last time. Scarred faces, worn weapons held with practiced ease, bodies that had clearly seen real combat.
What should I do?
If I didn't fight seriously, they wouldn't be intimidated. They'd see through any half-hearted display. But if I fought with real intent, someone would get hurt—and I might panic again, might heal them without thinking, might expose everything I'd worked so hard to keep hidden.
Then a sudden thought came. I hadn't tried negotiations before. Why shouldn't I try it now? Maybe words could accomplish what violence couldn't—safely, without risk of exposure.
I took a steadying breath and moved cautiously, confirming no one was sneaking around the perimeter. Then I stepped into view.
One of them saw me first and recognized me immediately. His eyes went wide, and his hand jerked toward his weapon. "Hey, look! That's her! She's the one who beat us badly last time! Even our boss Ragnar fell in one strike!"
The camp went still. Not panicked—controlled. Weapons were drawn smoothly, positions adjusted with practiced efficiency. These men had fought together before.
With that announcement, a man stood up from a cut tree stump. Tall and powerfully built, with corded muscle that spoke of both human and something *more*. The blunt weapon that had been resting against the stump—a massive war hammer with iron bands and a worn leather grip—was lifted onto his shoulder with deceptive ease.
He moved like a predator. Confident. Unhurried.
His eyes—sharp, amber-flecked, too keen for a normal human—scanned me with a mixture of skepticism and calculation. Then he turned to his men, and when he spoke, his voice carried the rough edge of someone who'd earned his authority through action, not birthright.
"This little girl beat you guys?" He didn't sound angry, just… disappointed. Almost amused. "You say you're bandits of the great Thornwood? The same Thornwood that took down a merchant caravan with armed guards and a mid tier mage last month?"
Nervous mutters rippled through the group. Some looked away, embarrassed. One man opened his mouth to protest, but a single look from the leader silenced him.
Then those amber-flecked eyes settled back on me, and his expression shifted—curious now, but guarded. He tilted his head slightly, a gesture that was distinctly animal-like.
"And hey, little girl. Are you from the holy land? Are you a priestess?"
I kept myself calm even though my heart was racing. Not because I was scared of them, but because I was scared of myself. I didn't want to hurt them. If I could avoid the fight, I had to try.
"I am from the holy land, but not a priestess," I said, keeping my voice steady.
He too, like Sir Kaito and Grey, thought I was a priestess?
I straightened my posture, meeting his gaze directly. My hands remained at my sides, relaxed but ready.
"Please tell me, what are you after?" I asked, trying to keep my tone diplomatic.
He laughed—and the sound made something primal in me tense. It wasn't quite human. Deep, rumbling, with an edge that echoed through the clearing like a growl masked as amusement.
*What is he?*
"Little girl," he said, and there was something sharp beneath the mockery in his voice—not cruelty, but frustration wearing the mask of humor. "These pumpkins wanted to loot the supplies from the holy kingdom that guarded by top knights, but they were scared of what? A little butterfly?"
He looked me up and down, not with disrespect but with genuine confusion, as if trying to reconcile what his men had told him with what he was seeing. "You look more like a butterfly than a fighter who can take down a group of bandits. Small, gentle, floating around in white robes. Just like a butterfly that searching for flowers." He gestured at me with his free hand, the motion fluid and controlled. "What did you do to scare them off? Ask them nicely to leave?"
Some of his men chuckled, but I noticed several others—the ones who'd been there last time—didn't laugh. They just watched, tense.
"But Boraz!" one of those men spoke up, his voice urgent, almost pleading. "She really did! She's like a walking fortress. Look!" He gestured at me, then swept his arm across the assembled group. "We are thirty men here, tough ones, veterans—yet here she is, walking right into our camp. Not intimidated. Not running. Just… standing there like she owns the place."
Boraz—the man with the hammer—went still. I saw something shift in his expression. Interest. Real interest. The kind a warrior gets when they hear about a worthy challenge.
The bandit continued desperately, his voice rising, "Don't you always say you want to fight strong people? To test yourself against the best? You're the only one capable of fighting her!"
Boraz's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. More like a predator showing teeth, excited and dangerous all at once. "You want me to fight that butterfly girl, Harvin?" But there was no anger in his voice. Only concern.
"You're the strongest among us!" Harvin insisted. "If anyone can—"
Before this could escalate into a full battle with all of them, I spoke clearly, cutting through the rising tension.
"If I defeat you," I said, looking directly at Boraz, "would you leave without fighting? All of you?"
The clearing went absolutely silent.
Boraz studied me for a long moment. Not just looking—*studying*. Reading my stance, my breathing, the way I held myself. His amber-flecked eyes were intelligent, calculating. This wasn't just some brute who swung a hammer mindlessly.
Then slowly, deliberately, he planted the hammer's head into the ground and leaned on it slightly—a casual gesture that somehow made him look even more dangerous. "You know what I like about you, butterfly?" His voice had changed, the mockery replaced with something more genuine. "You walked into a camp of thirty armed men and made *us* a deal."
He paused, and a real grin—sharp and fierce—spread across his face. "Most people would be begging for mercy or running. You? You're negotiating terms." He laughed again, but this time it sounded more like respect than amusement. "Alright. I like your guts. You beat me, we leave. All of us. No looting, no fighting, we pack up and go."
He lifted the hammer back onto his shoulder with one hand, the muscles in his arm barely straining under the weight that would break a normal man. "But if I win…" He paused, considering. "We take what we need. Not everything—we're not monsters. Just enough to feed our people for a while."
His expression grew serious, the playfulness draining away. "Fair?"
I nodded once. "Fair."
"Good." He stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. The movement was smooth, practiced—a ritual before battle. "Name's Boraz, by the way. If I'm going to fight you, seems only right you know who's trying to knock you down. Try not to get hurt"
He grinned again, and this time I saw those slightly-too-long canines. "And don't hold back, butterfly. I'd be insulted if you did."
He moved.
*Fast.*
One moment he was standing across from me, the next he was already mid-swing, closing the distance with speed that shouldn't be possible for someone his size. The war hammer cut through the air with a whistling sound, aimed not to kill but to test—a wide arc that would hurt but not cripple if it connected.
My barrier formed instinctively—a shimmering golden wall between us.
The hammer struck with a sound like thunder. *CRACK!*
The impact reverberated through the clearing, sending birds scattering from nearby trees. The force drove me back half a step, my feet sliding slightly in the dirt, but the barrier held perfectly. Not even a crack.
Boraz's eyes widened—just slightly, just for a moment—before that grin returned. "Now *that's* interesting."
He didn't press the advantage. Instead, he pulled back, circling slowly to my left. Watching. Evaluating.
I countered with a minor wind spell—something I'd practiced extensively in the training grounds for situations exactly like this. The gust hit his chest with just enough force to push him back a step, like a firm shove from an invisible hand.
He skidded backward but kept his footing easily, that grin never faltering. "And she's got magic too. Of course she does." He sounded almost delighted. "Alright, butterfly. Let's see what else you've got."
He came at me again, this time with a combination—a feint high, then a real strike low, trying to get under my guard. Fast. Precise. This wasn't just raw strength; this was technique honed through countless fights.
I created movable barriers, positioning them to deflect each blow rather than absorb them directly. The barriers shifted with my thoughts, angling to redirect his momentum rather than stopping it cold. His hammer glanced off one, then another, each impact sending small shockwaves through the air.
*He's strong. Unnaturally strong.*
Each strike sent vibrations through my barriers that I felt in my bones. And that speed—it wasn't just training or experience. There was something else, something beyond normal human capability. The way he moved, the fluidity combined with raw power…
When he committed to a powerful overhead strike, I had to create a barrier directly above me. The hammer came down like a falling boulder.
*BOOM.*
The impact drove my feet an inch into the soft earth. The barrier held, but I felt that one. Real power behind it.
As he pulled back for another strike, I focused on his movements more carefully. The way his muscles coiled with too much force. The faint pattern rippling across his forearms as they flexed—not just human skin, but something underneath. Like fur trying to surface. And those canines, when he grinned mid-fight, were definitely too long, too sharp.
*He's half beast folk.*
That explained everything. The animalistic laughter. The strength and speed that exceeded normal human limits. The way he moved like a predator. He wasn't fully human—he had beast folk blood running through his veins, giving him abilities that bridged both races.
Understanding clicked into place, and I adjusted my strategy accordingly.
When he lunged forward with a thrust—using the hammer's head like a battering ram—I sent a calculated wind burst at his feet. Just enough to sweep his legs and throw off his balance.
His eyes widened in surprise as his footing slipped, and he had to catch himself mid-motion. Fast recovery, but it cost him momentum.
As he regained his stance, I created a barrier behind him, limiting his retreat, boxing him in. Then, with careful precision, I sent a cutting wind—a razor-thin blade of air—that sliced across his shoulder.
It was shallow, barely breaking skin. Just enough to sting, just enough to draw a thin line of red, just enough to show I could have aimed for something vital if I'd wanted to.
Boraz hissed—more from surprise than pain—and his free hand flew to the wound. He looked at the blood on his fingers, then at me, and something in his expression changed. The playful challenge was still there, but now there was respect. Real respect.
"You're pulling your punches," he said, and it wasn't an accusation. It was an observation. "That could've taken my arm off if you'd wanted."
He didn't wait for a response. He came at me again, but now with more caution, more respect for what I could do. We exchanged blows—him attacking with powerful swings and clever combinations, me defending with barriers and responding with controlled wind attacks.
I kept every strike carefully measured. Mild wind gusts that pushed him back a step or two. Shallow cuts that warned more than wounded. Defensive barriers that redirected rather than harmed. These were techniques I'd practiced relentlessly during my secret excursions—refined specifically to avoid seriously injuring humans if confrontation became unavoidable.
I'd spent countless nights perfecting my wind magic, the element I felt most comfortable with, ensuring the nuns could safely gather supplies without encountering threats. Some of them had discovered those activities, but they never questioned me about it. Perhaps because I only spoke freely with Sister Maria, keeping my distance from the others.
Demonstrating control, not destruction.
With each exchange, I watched him carefully. His breathing was becoming heavier. Not terrible, but noticeable. His chest rose and fell with increasing effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampening the hair at his temples. His swings were still powerful, but fractionally slower. The beast folk stamina was impressive, but even that had limits.
We both knew it. I could see it in the way he started to measure his attacks more carefully, conserving energy. In the way his eyes tracked my movements with growing wariness rather than confidence.
Then he made his final move.
A feint to the left—convincing, his weight shifting in that direction, his hammer following. I started to create a barrier there.
Then he pivoted hard right, using the momentum to fuel a full-power swing from the opposite side. Everything he had left went into that strike. All his strength, all his speed, all his beast folk heritage channeled into one devastating blow aimed directly at me.
It was a good strategy. If I'd committed to defending the feint, I wouldn't have had time to reposition.
But I didn't dodge. I didn't create a visible barrier. I didn't move.
The hammer struck.
For a split second, I saw triumph flash in his eyes—
Then the invisible barrier activated.
It was so close to my skin it might as well have been a second layer. The hammer made contact, and the impact was absorbed instantly. Not just blocked—*reversed*.
The barrier didn't just stop his attack. It rejected it entirely, sending all that force straight back at him.
Boraz's eyes went wide with shock.
The reversal hit him like a physical wall. He was thrown backward—not just stumbling, but *launched*—flying several feet through the air, his body twisting as he tried to control the momentum.
He landed on his feet. Perfectly.
The control it took—the sheer skill to absorb that kind of impact mid-air and still land standing—that was pure instinct honed through countless battles. His beast folk blood showing through.
But his hammer didn't make it with him.
It had flown from his grip during the impact, tumbling through the air before landing in the dirt several feet away with a heavy *thud*.
For a moment, everything was silent except for his breathing.
Heavy. Labored. His chest rising and falling with effort that shouldn't exist in someone with beast folk stamina.
He stood there, still on his feet but clearly pushed to his limit. His hands trembled as he looked down at them, flexing his fingers with a wince. The shock of that reversed impact had traveled straight through his grip, leaving them numb.
He stared at his shaking hands for a long moment. Then at the hammer lying several feet away. Then, finally, at me.
"Here I am, breathing hard, hands numb, yet you haven't even broken a sweat! You one tough kid!"
Understanding had completely dawned in his eyes. This was the gap between us. He was half beast folk—superior strength, speed, endurance that surpassed normal humans. He'd landed perfectly despite being thrown back with devastating force.
And yet here he stood, breathing hard, hands numb, pushed to his absolute limit.
While I hadn't moved from where I'd been standing the entire fight.
Around us, his men had been watching with weapons half-drawn, ready to jump in if their leader fell. But now they just stood frozen, unsure what to do. Their strongest fighter—a half beast folk warrior—had just been casually dismissed.
Boraz took a deep, steadying breath. Then another. His hands were still shaking slightly, but his eyes had cleared. He looked around at his men, and when he spoke, his voice carried that same command it had before—just quieter now, more measured.
"We're leaving," he said. Not angry. Not defeated. Just… certain. "Pack up. We go now."
The bandits hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. Several looked at the fallen hammer, then at their leader still breathing hard, then at me standing calm and composed.
"But Boraz—" one of them started, the one who'd called for Boraz earlier—Harvin. His voice was desperate, almost pleading. "We *need* this. Our people—"
"I said we're leaving," Boraz repeated, and this time there was an edge to it. Not anger—authority. The absolute command of someone who'd led these men through hard times and would not show weakness now. "All of you. Now."
The men looked at each other, clearly torn between their desperation and their loyalty. But in the end, loyalty won.
They obeyed. Slowly, reluctantly, they began to move—gathering their scattered weapons, dismantling their makeshift camp. Some cast backward looks at me, clearly worried about leaving their leader alone with me. But they went, filtering toward the forest's edge in small groups.
Within minutes, the clearing had emptied except for Boraz and me.
He still stood where he'd landed, hands gradually steadying, breathing slowly evening out. His eyes never left me.
When the last footsteps faded into the forest, he finally spoke.
"We need this," he said quietly, and all the bravado was gone from his voice now. Just raw honesty. "That's why we came. That's why we keep coming."
I looked at him—this half beast folk warrior who'd just lost to me, standing there breathing hard with numb hands, yet speaking with such conviction.
"The supplies," I said carefully. "You risk your lives for them. But there are other ways to survive. Monster hunting, trade with other territories…"
He looked at me, and I saw something in his expression I hadn't expected. Not hatred. Not even resentment. Desperation.
"You think we haven't tried?" His voice grew rougher. "We hunt monsters every day. Lose people doing it. And even when we win, monster meat doesn't give us medicine for the sick. Doesn't give us seeds to plant crops. Doesn't give us the tools we need to rebuild what gets destroyed."
His jaw clenched, frustration bleeding into his voice. "The King? Maybe he doesn't even know what's happening out here. The nobles under him—they don't care enough to tell him. We're just border trash to them. Not worth reporting."
He gestured broadly at the forest around us, at the world beyond. "Do you know what's been happening? Villages on the borderlands get hit by monsters every season now. No hero to thin the demon armies, so they push further into our territories. No hero to unite the continents, so we fragment. Fight among ourselves for scraps."
His amber eyes locked onto mine, and I saw genuine pain there beneath the anger. "We're not evil. We're not bandits because we want to be. We're desperate."
The words hit harder than his hammer had.
"Why don't you just loot the nobles instead?" I found myself asking.
Boraz's expression hardened. "We tried that. Looted merchant caravans, raided noble estates. You know what happened? Nothing. The nobles hide it, cover it up, don't report it. Too embarrassed to admit bandits hit them, or they just don't care enough to tell the King."
He looked at me directly. "But Holy Land supplies? Those get reported. The moment we touch them, word goes straight to the capital. The King hears about it. Finally, someone with power knows something is wrong out here."
His voice grew quiet, determined. "We're not just stealing to survive. We're forcing them to see us. To acknowledge we exist. That we're suffering. It's the only way to get the King's attention."
He paused, and his expression darkened. "And you people in the Holy Land… you've been wasting those supplies for fifteen years. Fifteen years without summoning a hero. Fifteen years of sitting safe behind your barrier, living comfortably off resources meant to support the people protecting this world, while you failed at your one sacred duty."
His jaw clenched. "Do you know what's been happening out here while you failed? Our people starving. Dying. Villages overrun. And still, the supplies kept coming to you. Still feeding your comfortable life while we bled."
I opened my mouth, trying to find words to explain, to defend—But no words came out.
"They already succeeded."
That voice. Familiar. Warm… No!!!
My heart stopped.
I turned sharply to see Sir Kaito stepping out from the tree line on the far side of the clearing, Grey right behind him. Both of them looked tense, weapons ready but not raised. They must have been watching for a while.
How much did they see?
"And I'm here," Sir Kaito continued, his voice steady but his eyes filled with concern as they met mine. Not fear. Not judgment. Just… worry. For me.
No. No, no, no!!!
They weren't supposed to follow me. They weren't supposed to see any of this. They weren't supposed to—
All my careful planning. All my precautions to keep Sir Kaito hidden until he was ready. All of it crumbling in an instant because they'd followed me despite my orders to stay behind.
Boraz's head snapped toward the new arrivals, his body tensing despite his exhaustion. His eyes narrowed, taking in Sir Kaito and Grey—their bearing, their weapons, the way they positioned themselves.
Then his gaze settled on Sir Kaito, and I saw recognition dawn. Not of who he was specifically, but of what he was.
"A hero," Boraz breathed, and there was something in his voice I couldn't quite identify. Hope? Fear? Both?
My hands clenched at my sides as that protective warmth flared fierce and hot in my chest.
I have to fix this. I have to protect him.
But the secret was out now. The hero the Holy Land had finally summoned after fifteen years of failure had just revealed himself to a group of desperate bandits.
And I had no idea what would happen next.