When Grey's axe lodged deep in the orc's makeshift weapon, panic bit at the edge of his thoughts. The trunk trembled in the orc's grip, his blade quivering uselessly where it was trapped.
He staggered back a step, hands empty. For a heartbeat, instinct screamed at him to retreat further — but he stopped himself.
Ray was already shifting forward with his spear. Grey lifted a hand. "Don't."
The older man hesitated. The others looked ready to intervene, but the command in Grey's tone made them pause.
He wasn't going to run. Not this time. If he couldn't handle one orc, he had no right to dream of leaving this village.
Elaine's face flashed between the torchlights, tense and pale. Taek's knuckles whitened on his spear. Grey saw them — and turned away. This was his fight.
The orc growled and advanced, dragging the trunk like it weighed nothing. His axe dangled from it, catching the light like a mocking grin.
Grey exhaled once, steadying his pulse.
Good thing I practiced.
He darted forward again, keeping his distance from the swinging trunk. The orc's attacks were powerful but clumsy; each swing tore at the ground, sending soil and bark flying. The villagers flinched at every blow, but Grey moved lighter now — rolling, sidestepping, waiting.
Unfortunately, Grey wasn't lucky enough for the axe to fall because of the orc's swings, but it was okay.
The orc grew slower, panting in heavy bursts. They always did. That was why they were manageable prey for the hunters of Arand's Rest — as long as one didn't panic.
When the creature lowered the trunk for just a moment to catch its breath, Grey moved. Not for its open flank — for the trunk itself.
The orc blinked, confused, and tried to raise it again, but Grey was already there.
He grabbed the axe haft, fingers closing over the familiar, worn grip. For an instant, the world narrowed to the lines running beneath his sight — soft, glowing rings spreading across the wood: black, grey, and white.
He'd never called on the Art mid-battle before. But the moment the thought came, it answered.
"Art of Wood," he whispered.
The trunk split with a clean, sharp crack.
The orc roared, stumbling as the weight shifted. Splinters burst outward, the smell of sap cutting through the iron tang of blood.
Grey didn't stop. The next swing cleaved what was left of the trunk in two. The next carved the weapon down to a stump.
By the fourth strike, the orc had nothing left to swing.
He met its eyes and drove the axe into its chest. The beast dropped with a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh.
Silence.
Then cheers erupted from behind.
"Hah! He did it!"
"Grey killed it alone!"
He barely heard them. His arms trembled — not from weakness, but from the fading rush.
When he finally let go of the axe, his knees buckled. Taek caught him before he hit the dirt.
"Careful, hero," his friend said, grinning.
Grey tried to smile back, but the sound around him was fading — cheers, laughter, voices blending into something distant and soft.
He'd done it.
He'd really done it.
---
The camp was alive with light and noise. Three fires burned close together, their glow pushing back the shadows that crept between the trees.
"Finally a grown-up, huh, Grey?" Ray called out across the fire, a mug of water in his hand. "I remember your first hunt — you couldn't even kill a wild boar."
"Hey, don't start that story again," Grey said, half-smiling. " Also, I'm not a grown-up yet. Not till midnight. So enjoy pampering me while you can."
That earned a burst of laughter from the others. Someone clapped him on the back. The air smelled of smoke and cooked meat, the kind that stayed on your clothes for days.
Grey grinned, but he remembered the story Ray had mentioned all too clearly—his first hunt. The wild boar was charging through the brush, and he'd frozen.
Back then, he couldn't bring himself to swing. Not even to save himself.
In his past life, on Earth, killing had been something people only saw through screens. Food came wrapped and clean. Here, you looked into its eyes before the blade fell.
So, even though he wasn't actually 10 years old back then, he was weaker than one. Even against a monster or for food.
He tore off a piece of meat and chewed slowly. The taste was heavy — not bad, just real.
Around him, laughter faded into a comfortable quiet. Torches crackled, the forest whispered beyond the ring of light.
But I adapted to it soon. And I am glad that I did.
Of course, this wasn't the end. This was the beginning.
He wouldn't become a great fighter — not with the Art he had. The Art of Wood was a craftsman's tool, not a warrior's weapon.
Once you learned an Art, it claimed that space in you. Trying to learn another would only weaken both.
That was why most people didn't rush to take the first Art offered, and reached the end of their lives without an Art.
Just the rare possibility of finding a really strong Art kept them from learning the weak ones.
He hadn't had the luxury to wait, though. And he didn't regret it.
But still…
He looked at the axe lying beside him, its edge catching the firelight.
He could at least get stronger — physically, if nothing else. If he were strong enough to take on three orcs at the same time, he could leave the village.
Only then would he have the courage to see the world beyond these trees.
For now, the warmth of the fire and the sound of quiet laughter were enough.
Just for tonight.
---
The night deepened. The fires had burned low, their glow thinning against the dark. No one drank — not tonight.
Even with the outer forest cleared, it was still the forest. Firelight drew attention, and there were always monsters that slipped through the hunt.
After the meal, Ray divided the watch. Four adults would take the first shift, another four the second. They let Grey rest — he'd earned it — and the others made quiet jokes about "the new grown-up needing his beauty sleep."
But sleep wouldn't come. His body was exhausted, yet his thoughts spun like coals that refused to die out.
"Can't sleep?"
He turned. Elaine crouched beside him, cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. The firelight made her hair gleam like polished obsidian.
"I think I got too excited," Grey whispered. "It's hard to calm down."
She smiled faintly. "You looked cool."
He smirked. "I know. But please, continue."
"Idiot." She lightly hit his arm, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a grin. Then, quieter: "Why didn't you tell me you had an Art?"
He hesitated. "Maybe I was embarrassed. It's weak. And now it's the only one I'll ever have."
"You could still learn another," she said softly. "It would just… be weaker."
"I know that," he replied, voice steady. "But who would learn if it meant losing what you already have? Anyway, it is not important. I can achieve my dreams with this."
Elaine didn't respond right away. The fire cracked between them, the sound filling the silence she left behind.
Finally, she said, "You're going to leave, aren't you?"
The question hit harder than he expected. He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"Can I come with you?"
"No."
The word came out sharper than he meant. Elaine flinched.
"Why not?"
"It'll be dangerous," he said quietly. "And I don't even know where I'll be going."
She tried to smile, but it wavered halfway. "I don't mind not knowing. I just… don't want to stay behind."
Grey sighed and looked at her fully for the first time. She had a kind face, too kind for this world, and he hated seeing the tears she tried to hide.
"...Sorry, Elaine."
She turned away, brushing at her eyes.
For a moment, there was only the sound of the forest and the crackle of fire.
Grey wanted to say something to calm her. But before he could...
A scream tore through the night.
"Orcs! Orcs are attacking!"