The man could neither breathe nor speak.
His ragged gasps broke apart in the air, swallowed by the cold, heavy silence that surrounded them. His body trembled faintly, fingers clawing at the empty air as if desperately reaching for life — but that futile struggle soon began to fade. The strength drained from his muscles, and his arms dropped lifelessly to his sides.
The sharp crunch of footsteps echoed across the stony ground.
Others were rushing toward Sentrie, their hurried steps striking the floor in a chaotic rhythm — like a storm about to break. Dust stirred around their boots as the echoes of pursuit closed in, wrapping the scene in tension thick enough to suffocate.
With a single, precise twist of his wrist, Sentrie ended the man's life.
A small, crisp crack echoed — the sound of a neck snapping cleanly. The black-haired man's body slumped forward, collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed. His eyes rolled back, and the dull thud of his body hitting the ground carried through the chilling stillness.
Sentrie's gaze swept the field like a blade of its own.
He saw a woman standing the closest — barely a meter away. Her long sword glinted under the faint, flickering light. Her expression was wary but hateful, the reflection of fury and fear twisted together in her eyes. The faint light that shimmered along the edge of her blade caught his eyes for an instant, like a razor of silver slicing through the shadows.
All around, the others were closing in. He could hear them —
The metallic clink of gun barrels, the scrape of swords drawn hastily from their scabbards, the ragged breathing of men fueled by rage and desperation. Each sound layered over another, forming a symphony of violence, closing its claws around him.
A faint smile curved Sentrie's lips — cold, sharp, and almost amused.
Even bleeding, even half-collapsed from his wound, his composure never faltered. His breathing was steady, his eyes calm.
"I'm hurt... but far from dead."
Everything happened within seconds.
He crouched swiftly and grabbed the gun from the lifeless body at his feet.
The weapon was still warm — still echoing with the violence it had unleashed a moment before. His cloak fluttered behind him as he burst forward, his movements fluid, lethal, and beautiful in their precision.
The air whistled sharply as he moved.
The woman with the long sword flinched, but too late — Sentrie raised the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
Bang.
The sound tore through the air like thunder.
The bullet flew past her cheek by the width of a hair, carving a shallow red line across her skin. Blood spattered faintly as she gasped, stumbling backward, and fell. Her sword clattered against the ground — the metallic clang echoing through the clearing.
The bullet buried itself in a tree behind her with a dull thock, splitting the bark. Smoke from the gunpowder drifted faintly, mixing with the iron scent of blood that hung heavy in the air.
Without wasting a breath, Sentrie bent down and picked up the fallen sword.
Now, a gun in one hand and a blade in the other, he turned his head, scanning his surroundings again — cold eyes, calculating, never resting.
He counted them all, fast and precise.
Four with guns.
Six with swords.
More than ten empty-handed, but still dangerous.
His pulse stayed steady, his breath deep. The weight of danger pressed down from every direction, dense and suffocating like fog. He could feel their eyes on him — their hatred, their fear, their bloodlust — all merging into one collective force that screamed kill him.
He knew the truth.
He couldn't win this fight.
Blood continued to flow down his chest, soaking through the fabric of his shirt, but his stance did not falter. His eyes were sharp, unwavering — as if the pain belonged to someone else entirely.
He made his choice in a single heartbeat.
Sentrie turned sharply and sprinted toward the forest.
His boots hit the ground in rapid succession — thud, thud, thud — as he cut through the shadows. The wind bit at his face, carrying the scent of dust, blood, and smoke.
Then came the gunfire.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The air erupted with fire and sound. Two — maybe three — bullets struck him as he ran. One tore through his shoulder, another grazed his side, and the third slammed into his back. The pain was sharp, electric, and immediate, spreading through his nerves like wildfire.
He gritted his teeth, refusing to slow down. His vision blurred for a moment, but he pressed onward, forcing his body to obey. The trees closed around him, their shadows swallowing him whole.
In the forest, the world became quieter — but not peaceful.
The only sounds were his own ragged breathing, the crunch of leaves underfoot, and the faint, rhythmic drip... drip... drip of blood hitting the soil. The scent of earth was heavy and metallic, mingling with the bitter tang of his wounds.
He stumbled slightly, catching himself against a tree. The rough bark bit into his palm, grounding him in the moment. His clothes were soaked, his breathing labored. Every inhale burned; every exhale tasted like iron.
He knew he couldn't stay hidden for long.
His blood was betraying him — a dark, glistening trail painting the ground behind him, a beacon for the hunters. There was no mistaking it: his wound was a message written in red, one that would guide them straight to him.
The faint echo of voices drifted through the forest.
They were shouting to one another — angry, breathless commands. He could hear the metallic clack of guns being reloaded, the crunch of boots trampling through leaves. Their torches flickered in the distance, beams of orange light weaving between the trunks of the trees like serpents hunting prey.
Sentrie exhaled slowly.
He leaned his back against the tree, closing his eyes for just a heartbeat. The throbbing pain pulsed through every vein in his body, but his mind was sharp — sharper than ever. The edges of his thoughts were clean, cold, and precise.
He knew this wasn't the end.
As long as he could still draw breath, he wouldn't allow himself to be cornered — not yet.
A faint smirk crossed his blood-stained lips. He could hear his own heartbeat, steady and defiant, echoing against the cacophony of pursuit.
Somewhere behind the chaos, a branch cracked — a whisper of movement in the dark.
Sentrie turned his head slightly, every nerve alight, every muscle ready. The forest seemed to close around him, swallowing the light, drowning every sound in the oppressive silence of a predator waiting for the next strike.
In the dark, the last drops of his blood fell onto the ground.
Each sound — drip... drip... — echoed through the forest, louder than any scream.
It was the sound of a man still alive.
The sound of a fate not yet sealed.
The heartbeat in the shadow of blood.
While running, he checked his physical condition and found that he was now severely injured — the wounds from the earlier confrontation in the house with Serin still bit deep, and the fresh cuts and the bullets from the ongoing pursuit had further weakened his body. Despite that, his mind flickered in a state of emergency logic, assessing and recalculating routes and chances with cold speed.
He thought of the group leader, the orange-haired man — the only one among them with magical power.
The image of the orange-haired leader rose in his mind like a warning light: the man's haughty snarl, the way he moved like someone used to command, and the glint of something unnatural in his gaze. Those thoughts pooled with the ache in his ribs and drew a precise picture of danger.
He assessed the situation quickly in his head — if he kept running, he would not be able to escape, and even if he stood and fought, survival seemed impossible.
The group stuck together tightly like a hunting pack; their formation and mutual support made any plan of splitting them futile. There was no realistic way they would separate into smaller squads to give him an opening.
He continued to analyze even as he fled — every sound, every shadow was processed. Two or three more bullets grazed past him. The shots cracked in the air near his ears; once they tore the fabric of his shirt, another time they tore leaves from branches just behind him. The body that had once moved smoothly and confidently began to betray him — muscles twitching, breath coming harsh and fast, steps losing their precision.
He scanned his surroundings.
He found himself in a forest with no thickets to hide in; the trees were not large enough to conceal him properly and there were no animals nearby to create a distraction. The open spacing of trunks and a lack of underbrush meant he was exposed; anyone with good eyes could pick up his movements against the dim background. He searched mentally for some contrivance or situation that could save him.
"Impossible. There's no way I can escape from here!" — the thought pressed into his mind like a cold truth, yet he refused to let it fully form into surrender. His eyes blurred, speed slowed, and the body grew weak; fatigue and blood loss were rewriting the parameters of what he could still do.
"Hope... there must always be hope."
That fleeting belief — a candle in a storm — kept him moving. He would not collapse until he had exhausted every scrap of chance.
Ahead of him was a cliff. The area he was in was on a high mountain. Blue grass surrounded the spot where he stood. The ground dropped away sharply into a vast ocean. Waves below crashed and roiled, violent and restless. The wind carried the briny tang of sea-spray upward, a reminder that the height was real and the drop would be merciless.
He turned around and saw the group running toward him, about ten meters away. The sight snapped his muscles to action, but he also noticed a large tree in the distance that might provide shelter — though it was too far to reach in time. He stood still for a moment, breathing shallowly, calculating.
He could jump down because beneath him was a vast ocean, but the waves were violent. The ocean below was not a placid surface; it seethed with undercurrents and whitecaps, a potential grave rather than a refuge.
He smiled slightly, a movement more reflexive than joyful. Suddenly, the blue grass began to glow, healing him — but only partly. The light suffused his feet and legs and warmed the old wounds he had carried from before; it soothed and closed ancient hurt. The injuries sustained from the fight, however — the fresh, deep ones — could not be wholly mended by this strange grass. It was a mercy partial and bittersweet.
In his heart, he wanted to jump, but he hesitated because the orange-haired group leader had the power to pull him back or otherwise alter the outcome. So, he chose to raise the gun and shoot at the group leader. The recoil and tremor of the weapon bit at his hands; the effort was immense given his state.
Ten bullets hit Sentrie's body.
He felt each impact — the heat, the sting, the spread of pain. Yet fate wrenched one moment into a different shape: the bullet Sentrie fired hit the orange-haired group leader's head, killing the man instantly. The leader's body slumped under the suddenness of it; there was no cry, only the dull, final sound of collapse. A small secret smile slipped across Sentrie's lips; he realized that though he had been hit many times, the shots that struck him had not hit vital points — not yet.
He glanced at the group before jumping off the high mountain. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the wind and the cliff's edge. He plunged into the vast ocean. As he fell, the wind tore at his clothes and the sea rushed up to meet him; the world blurred and his consciousness ebbed away.
The group split into two: one group to tend to the leader and the other to track Sentrie. The second group arrived at the spot where Sentrie had stood. The blue grass there was glowing faintly — an eerie remnant of whatever small miracle had just occurred.
They searched for Sentrie but found nothing. No footprints, no torn fabric in the underbrush — merely the afterglow of the grass. Frustration and fury rose in their ranks.
"You won't get far." — the voice shouted, echoing across the area. It was said by a member of the group chasing Sentrie, a shout meant to rally and to mock. It rolled across the cliff and dissolved into the wind.
They failed to find Sentrie and returned to their group leader — to the body, to the shock. "No, we can't save him." A woman in the group cried out, her voice breaking — a small, human sound against the hardness of the chase. The group fell silent; some turned and went to look at the others whom Sentrie had killed.
The people in the group memorized Sentrie's face.
They pressed the image into their minds — the set of his jaw, the curve of his hair, the way he had smiled just before plunging away — as if storing a map of the man they had nearly destroyed.
"I will remember you until I get my revenge!"
They shouted out — a vow hurled into the wind. It was raw and loud, a promise to carry the wound forward, a resolve to find him again and to settle the debt. The words hung in the air, mixing with the scent of gunpowder and sea spray, lodged above the glowing blue grass like a vow written on breath.