Back at the cave, Oliver had just finished resetting the fish traps and was hauling a fresh catch of silver-scaled fish back to the base when he felt a sudden, sharp cold pressure of steal against the back of his neck.
"Move and you lose your head, heretic," a cold, feminine voice commanded.
Oliver froze. He hadn't heard a single footstep. He slowly raised his hands, the fish slipping from his grip and splashing back into the shallow mud. Turning his head slightly, he saw a woman clad in gleaming white and teal plate armor, her hand steady on the hilt of a massive, ornate broadsword. Her dark hair caught the dappled sunlight, and her piercing turquoise eyes were filled with a mixture of duty and disdain.
"You're one of them," she spat, her gaze flicking to the rough-spun robes Oliver had scavenged. "The cultists who dared to perform the forbidden ritual."
"Wait!" Oliver said, his voice steady despite the blade. "If you're looking for the cultists, you're too late. They're all dead. Every single one of them died during the summoning."
The knight's eyes narrowed, searching his face for a lie. Slowly, she lowered her blade but did not sheathe it. "I am **Alisa Valhym**, a knight of the Holy Order. I was tasked with finding the cultists and stopping the ritual before they could bring whatever calamity they planned into our world."
"Well, the calamity is just me and my friend," Oliver sighed, gesturing toward the empty camp. "And we have no idea where we are."
Alisa's expression softened slightly, though her posture remained rigid. "You are in the **Great White Forest**. If what you say is true, you are in grave danger. This forest is a death trap for the uninitiated. It is ruled by the **Four Great Kings**—monstrous entities of immense power that have carved this land into four lethal territories. No one leaves this place without their permission, or their heads."
She looked up at the thick canopy, her jaw set. "My unit was separated during the trek here. Until reinforcements arrive or I can locate my squad, we are stuck. Even with my training, wandering into the Kings' territories alone is suicide."
Oliver looked back toward the path Emmet had taken. "My friend is out there right now. If this place is as bad as you say, we need to get him back here."
Alisa nodded once, a sharp, professional gesture. "Gather your things. If the cultists truly perished, the mana from the ritual will act as a beacon for every scavenger and beast in the White Forest. We aren't safe in the open."
Oliver was about to object, but Alisa held up a hand, her eyes narrowing as she focused. "Stay put," she commanded, her voice dropping to a low growl. "I sense a demon. A low-rank one, but still a threat. Wait here."
Before Oliver could protest, Alisa melted into the dense foliage, moving with a silent grace that belied her heavy armor. Moments later, she emerged into a small clearing, her hand already on her sword hilt. She saw Emmet, his stark white hair and silver eyes shimmering in the dappled light, standing next to a cowering Violet.
Alisa's expression shifted, a flicker of surprise and caution replacing her initial aggression. She saw no discernible mana signature from Emmet, yet his appearance—those distinct, almost otherworldly features—spoke of power she didn't understand. "Demon Noble," she stated, her voice tight with suspicion. "You will surrender. I sense no mana from you, which means you're likely a weak demon sent here to die, like your companion."
Emmet, seeing Alisa, adopted his haughtiest possible demeanor. "Surrender?" he scoffed, puffing out his chest. "How dare a common foot soldier of the *Holy Order* demand terms from a scion of a noble house? Weak or not, I assure you, I could crush a lowly human such as yourself without lifting a finger."
The tension in the clearing ratcheted up, a palpable coil of suppressed fury from Alisa. Violet, seeing where this was headed, tugged desperately at Emmet's sleeve. "My Lord, please stop! You'll get us killed!" she pleaded, her voice trembling.
Emmet ignored her, a mischievous glint in his silver eyes. "Your kind is all bluster and shiny armor. Tell me, is your sword arm as useless as your manners? Or perhaps it's just your entire 'race' that lacks any true skill beyond shining pretty metal?"
That was the breaking point. With a roar of outrage, Alisa moved. She lunged with inhuman speed, her broadsword a blur aimed directly at Emmet's neck. He saw the fury in her eyes, the sheer, undeniable intent to kill.
But Emmet was faster.
With a sweeping motion of his hand, a torrent of almost invisible, gossamer-thin silk threads erupted from his palm, wrapping around Alisa in an instant. Her sword struck the ground with a loud *thud* as she was completely ensnared, her limbs bound tight, her body rendered immobile. She struggled violently, her armor clanking, but the threads held firm, biting into her gauntlets.
Emmet walked up to her, a wide, triumphant grin on his face. He laughed, a deep, satisfied sound. "Oh, my. Such a silly attempt to kill me. All you are is a pretty face beneath that armor, after all." He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Now, tell me everything you know, or you die." He tightened the threads, and Alisa let out a choked gasp, a tear tracing a path down her dust-smudged cheek. "Start talking."
After a few seconds of agonizing pressure, the knight broke. She began to spill everything she knew about the White Forest, the Kings, the Holy Order, and the political climate of this new, terrifying world.
Just then, Oliver burst through the undergrowth, his own summoned blade in hand, alerted by the clang of armor and Alisa's cries. He stopped dead, his mouth agape at the scene before him. Emmet, looking utterly unconcerned, stood over a blubbering, thread-bound knight, while behind him, Violet—the demon woman Oliver hadn't even known about—watched with wide, terrified eyes.
"Emmet!" Oliver exclaimed, bewildered.
"What the hell is going on? Who is *she*?!" He gestured at Violet. "And why is the knight crying on the floor
Oliver stood there, massaging his temples as the sheer absurdity of the situation set in. Emmet, looking entirely too proud of himself, began to explain how he had stumbled upon Violet in the woods. He detailed the encounter with the car-sized lizard and how slaying the beast had granted him the Silk Web skill.
"I figured since I just got the skill, it was the perfect time for a field test," Emmet said, gesturing toward the sobbing, bound knight. "The knight showed up talking trash, so I thought I'd see if the silk could actually hold someone in plate armor. Turns out, it works like a charm."
Oliver's face turned a deep shade of red. "Are you kidding me, Emmet?" he snapped, his voice rising in frustration. "You found a literal demon, picked a fight with a Holy Knight you didn't know, and used a brand-new power without any testing? You always do something stupid like this! You completely ignore your own safety for a punchline or a 'test'."
Fed up, Oliver pointed back toward the cave. "Go. Back to the camp. Now. Since you're so good at making silk, start refining it into rope. We need actual supplies, not just a mess of spiderwebs."
As Emmet grumbled and trudged away toward the cave, the silk threads binding Alisa began to shimmer and fade into nothingness.
Violet, who had been watching the exchange nervously, stepped forward.
"That silk won't last," she explained softly.
"Since it was unrefined and created with raw mana, it doesn't retain its physical properties for long. It just... evaporates."
With the knight free and the immediate tension broken, the group moved back to the camp. Since Emmet had already cleared the local Boss, they decided there was no point in moving their location yet; the area was as safe as it was going to get. Using the refined silk rope Emmet was now producing, they began to lash pieces of wood together, crafting basic furniture and reinforcing the cave to feel more like a home than a damp hole in the wall.
Once they settled by the fire, Oliver turned to Alisa with a look of genuine regret. "I am so sorry about him," he said, handing her a cup of water.
"Emmet had a serious accident when we were younger. Ever since then, his brain doesn't really process fear the way it should. It's why he has that constant cheerful personality—he doesn't really understand when he's actually in danger."
Alisa, still rubbing her wrists where the silk had been, looked toward Emmet as he hummed a tune while weaving rope. Her anger hadn't vanished, but the explanation made the "Demon Noble" seem a lot more human—and a lot more exhausting.