Moonlight cast dappled shadows through the forest canopy. Silas moved like a whisper over the thick bed of fallen leaves, making almost no sound. For three years, he, once No. 7, had relentlessly followed the Er River, a hollow shell programação in this strange, unforgiving land.
Three years since the Sanctuary. Three years of damp caves and cold riverbanks for beds, roaming the wilderness like a stray. Why this river? A half-forgotten voice sometimes echoed in his memory: *follow the river home*. But home was a word that had lost its meaning.
Occasionally, villages offered odd jobs for meager supplies. And in these three years adrift, one glaring, often dangerous, truth emerged: his accent.
The local villagers spoke with a thick, nasal drawl, a dialect that made communication a frustrating chore. Whenever *he* spoke, they'd stare, shocked, as if he were some exotic beast.
"That wandering young lord from Huaxu Kingdom, the one with the perfect capital accent, he's back."
Gossip followed him like his shadow. Illegitimate son of a diplomat? The Pope's secret child? A runaway noble fleeing a loveless marriage? The ridiculous titles were a constant, dull ache.
Then, one day, the ever-imaginative villagers bestowed a new name:
Silas. "Hermit of the forest."
Hearing it, the vividness of that dream, Meritamon's voice, returned:
*"You can find your own name too."*
*Yes,* he'd thought. *My name. Anything is better than No. 7.*
And so, No. 7 vanished. Only Silas, a ghost, remained, haunting the world.
The night wind, sighing through the trees, carried the damp breath of the distant Er River. Silas paused in a hidden clearing. His crude tent, a patchwork of tattered cloth, sagged nearby. Beside it, his meager possessions, collected from riverside hamlets: a rusty iron pot, half a bag of coarse salt, a few pieces of rough, mended clothing.
As Silas bent to enter the tent, he froze.
From the enveloping darkness, countless pairs of ghostly green eyes materialized, glinting in the moonlight, flickering like will-o'-the-wisps. A soft rustling from the deeper shadows – something approaching, fast.
A faint blue shimmer around Silas's legs, his knuckles white with tension. Moonlight caught his eyes; pupils contracted, breath shallowing to near silence.
*Swoosh—*
A black streak erupted from the bushes. Silas sidestepped, the dark mass brushing his tunic, its passage stirring a foul, musky wind. Moonlight revealed a massive gray wolf, nearly man-high when reared, its sharp fangs gleaming with a cold, deadly light.
The alpha wolf landed, spun, and launched itself again. This time, Silas didn't dodge. As its claws neared his chest, he dropped low, hands shooting out, a precise, lightning-fast grip on its forelimbs. Using its own momentum, he flipped the massive wolf, pinning it to the ground.
"Still with the ambushes, are we?" A rare flicker of amusement touched Silas's voice, his fingers expertly scratching the wolf's chin. "Tired yet, Scamp?"
The pinned giant instantly relaxed, a low, ingratiating whine rumbling in its chest. Its thick tail thumped against the fallen leaves, raising a small cloud of dust. Silas released his grip. Scamp scrambled up, affectionately butting its head against his leg, its rough tongue a warm rasp on the back of his hand.
The surrounding thickets rustled. Seven or eight more gray wolves emerged, some with freshly killed rabbits dangling from their jaws. They circled Silas, their green eyes gleaming with an intelligent, watchful light. He'd found this pack three years ago, far upstream. Scamp, then, had been a lame, outcast cub, dying alone by the river.
Silas ruffled Scamp's thick fur. The giant wolf narrowed its eyes in contentment. "Thanks," Silas murmured, "for watching my things." The Purity Army bandits, he knew, avoided this stretch of forest because of them. And these shaggy companions had, in their own way, kept the crushing loneliness of the past few years at bay.
He lifted the tent's waterproof flap. A wave of fetid heat, a miasma of mildew and raw animal musk, assaulted him. Silas's expression froze. There, on his sleeping bag: three fresh, steaming piles of wolf droppings, a few half-gnawed bones scattered like an insult.
Scamp peeked into the tent, then darted back, ears pricked, ready to bolt. Silas inhaled sharply, knuckles cracking. The pack retreated; Scamp vanished behind a large tree, one luminous eye warily observing.
"Forget it, you mangy curs," Silas gritted out, snatching up the soiled sleeping bag. "Looks like it's tree-camping from now on."
Silas was no fool. He knew tackling fifty armed men alone, especially without proper gear, was suicide.
He climbed a tree, retrieving his hunting kit: a short, sharp knife; a simple bow and arrows from a village tinker; a pouch of dried meat. Tonight, reconnaissance. If luck favored him, perhaps a swift strike: *capture the leader, and the rest might scatter.*
An hour later, he reached the small hill north of Sordin Town. His information indicated the Purity Army camp was here. He moved like an autumn wind through the trees. Scamp, struggling to keep pace, was signaled to wait. Two years they'd hunted together; their understanding was seamless.
He stood at the forest edge, watching the distant, flickering campfires, fingers lightly caressing the hilt of his knife. He'd honed it himself; it held a faint, cold gleam in the darkness. His quiver held ten arrows, fletching meticulously trimmed.
Three years. He'd seen many, met many. None could wield the Tidal Force. They brandished steel, bellowed slogans, believing brute force could change the world. To him, they moved like Scamp, struggling through thick mud.
The night wind, carrying the first cool breath of autumn, sighed through the canopy. Silas's eyes, in the deep gloom, emitted a faint blue glow. His pupils dilated, his vision sharpening to daylight clarity. Distant mountain silhouettes, the trembling of individual leaves on the furthest branches – all were rendered with a startling, crystalline precision. A new trick, mastered in his solitude: manipulating his eyes with Tidal Force, augmenting his already excellent sight.
The firelight grew closer.
The Purity Army camp was more… professional… than he'd anticipated. A sturdy wooden palisade, neat rows of tents within. Crude watchtowers, manned by torch-bearing figures. A shallow trench, bristling with sharpened stakes, encircled the perimeter – a defense against beasts, or stealthy intruders.
Silas narrowed his eyes, his gaze sweeping every corner. The priority: the leader's tent. Infiltrate, learn their plans, then act.
He moved closer, using the bushes for cover, observing. The watchtower guards were lax, yawning. The northwest corner of the fence lay in deep shadow – a possible blind spot.
Then, a faint *crack* – a twig snapping underfoot, from above.
Silas tensed, fingers instantly on his knife hilt. He looked up, slowly, his gaze locking onto a large tree just outside the camp. Dense crown, leaves rustling in the wind. Nothing overtly unusual.
But his ears didn't lie.
Something was in that tree. No, not something. *Someone*.
His pupils contracted, the blue light in their depths intensifying. He held his breath, his vision piercing the layers of foliage, vaguely discerning a blurry silhouette. A figure, crouched on a thick branch, motionless, also, it seemed, observing the camp.
Who? A Purity Army sentry? Or… like him, an unwelcome, unseen guest?