Borrek took a step back. Just one step. But it was enough.
Lucy saw it. A crack in his confidence. A tiny doubt. That was all he needed.
"What's wrong, fatty? Is the fire giving you indigestion?" he joked, voice sharp but breath ragged.
Borrek roared, raising his sword. But he had already moved—sliding left, kicking up dirt with his feet. He spun behind the giant and slammed a hard kick into his knee. The colossus fell like a broken chair.
Before Borrek could react, Lucy elbowed him in the gut. The blow stole his air. He staggered backward, straight into the man with the club. They fell together, hitting the forest floor with a dull thud and a growl.
No time to breathe. Another shadow was already falling toward him. The agile one, with the dagger, dropped down again from above. Lucy didn't think—just twisted and caught the wrist in midair. The dagger barely grazed his cheek.
Using the man's momentum, he spun and slammed him against the ground. A loud crack echoed. Maybe a collarbone. Maybe worse. The man let out a sharp, broken scream.
"Was that your shoulder or your pride?" Lucy murmured, more out of habit than humor. It wasn't funny anymore.
Borrek roared again, a guttural growl, and flames burst from his sword. A wave of fire rushed toward him.
This time he didn't dodge. He danced. Twisted beneath the blaze, close enough to feel the heat licking his skin. His back burned. It hurt. But he kept moving.
The pain faded into the background. His whole body throbbed—ribs, shoulders, legs. Everything pulsed. But something else pushed him forward. Mana. Rage. Survival.
"One more... just one more."
Lucy charged. No frills. No warning. Just a sudden movement.
He hit Borrek in the stomach, cutting off his breath. A second punch smashed his jaw, snapping his head back. Then he spun, using his last strength, and delivered a kick straight to the chest.
The giant flew back, arms flailing wildly. He crashed into a tree with a crack and fell.
Borrek didn't get up.
The fire died out. The sword slipped from his hand. Silence settled.
Lucy stood in the clearing, chest heaving like a drum. He looked around.
The giant groaned on the ground. The man with the club huddled, muttering something about his mother. The agile one had stopped moving entirely, twitching occasionally.
He trembled. Not from fear, but exhaustion. His mind floated in a fog of pain and fatigue. The surge of mana—the strange, desperate power he'd unleashed—faded away.
His body screamed. Breathing hurt. Every step was like walking on glass.
But he was still standing.
Lucy stumbled, leaning on a tree. His right leg shook. His left arm hung uselessly. His back burned from the burn. His ribs throbbed with every breath.
Still, he kept walking.
He limped through the trees, leaves crunching underfoot. Something else hung in the air: faint whispers, barely audible. Soft voices brushed his ears without forming clear words. They ignored him; his mind was too drained, exhausted, and confused to care.
Then, ahead, the cart appeared. Resting on worn, dusty wood lay Edgar. He didn't move, just lay still, eyes open, a mix of fear and resignation.
Silence ruled. The whispers died on the breeze. A calm breath. The hardest part was almost over.
And next to the cart, one last bandit.
The skinny one. The one left behind. The one with the broken nose and calloused hands. He held a knife, but he wasn't ready. Not really.
Entering the clearing, no words were spoken. Silence filled the space.
The skinny bandit saw Lucy and froze.
He looked terrible. Blood on his face, burns on his arms, torn clothes, and a crooked smile. He limped, dragging himself forward like a ghost.
"D-don't come closer," he stammered, stepping back. His voice shook. The knife trembled in his hand.
Lucy moved forward with slow, deliberate steps. He said nothing.
"I told you, I will!" the bandit shouted.
Behind him, Edgar lay still. Eyes open. Paralyzed, not scared—terrified.
Lucy raised a hand. Mana glowed faintly on his fingers, barely a spark. No force. It was all he had left.
The bandit panicked and lunged.
He tried to strike back, to move, to raise his arm.
But his body failed him.
He collapsed.
No drama. No screams. Just a soft sigh and a body falling to the ground.
Dust rose around him. His limbs stopped responding.
The skinny bandit blinked, looking at him. Then at Edgar. Then back.
"Is he... dead?"
Lucy coughed weakly, barely able to breathe.
"Shit," the bandit muttered, stepping back. He didn't attack. Didn't run. Just stood there, knife loose in hand, breathing hard.
Edgar made a noise, moving slightly.
"Are you alive?" he whispered.
He moved his lips. Blood dripped from the corner.
"Not for long if you keep talking."
Then he lost consciousness.
The forest stayed silent. The wind stirred leaves in the treetops. An owl hooted in the distance.
Edgar stared at the body. He wanted to scream. To run. To help. But stayed still, trying to calm his racing heart.
The skinny bandit was close, breathing hard like he'd been running. He neither approached nor fled—caught between uncertainty and caution.
Lucy didn't move. Blood darkened the ground. The chest rose and fell—barely.
After what felt like an hour, the skinny bandit lowered his knife.
He looked around, as if expecting the forest to suddenly change. Then sat on a stump, keeping his gaze on both Edgar and the unconscious body.
Edgar breathed deeply. In, out. In, out.
He watched from a distance.
He fought like a demon, moved like lightning—now he looked like prey after the storm.
Edgar swallowed hard. He had to be ready. Something was going to happen. It always did.
He didn't know how long had passed.
Then, a noise.
Footsteps. Leaves crunching.
The skinny bandit jumped with the knife in his hand.
A figure appeared between the trees. A young woman. In a cloak. With a hood. She carried no weapon, but her stance was sharp.
Her dark hair framed a fierce, beautiful face. High cheekbones, sharp violet eyes, lips tense in a knowing smile. There was calm power in her presence—quiet but commanding
She looked at the bandit, then at Edgar. Then at the body.
Her eyes narrowed.
"...Took you long enough," she murmured.
The bandit raised his knife.
"Don't come any closer!"
She didn't flinch.
"Put that down before you embarrass yourself."
The man hesitated.
The woman stepped forward. Her presence was calm. Cold. Like a tide rolling in.
"I said—"
The bandit lunged at her, knife held high.
But she moved first.
She twisted his wrist, tore the weapon from his hand, and shoved him back.
Then, with a quick touch to his forehead—a faint glow flickering at her fingertips—he went limp.
The knife hit the ground with a dull thud. So did the man.
Edgar blinked.
The woman stepped past the unconscious body and knelt beside Lucy.
She placed two fingers on his neck.
"Still breathing. Barely."
She sighed, pulled a small vial from her robe, uncorked it, and touched a drop to her lips with visible distaste. Then she leaned down and kissed him, passing the liquid mouth to mouth.
"There." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "He'll live."
Edgar tried to speak. The woman leaned closer.
"Wh-who are you?" he asked hoarsely.
"You'll find out later," she said. "Let's get out of here before the others wake up."
She stood, then turned to the wounded boy.
"You really are a mess, huh?"
And then she smiled. Just a little.