The forest was silent in the aftermath of battle.
Ash drifted through the air, soft and black like funeral snow, falling around the slumped corpse of a monstrous figure. Baphomet, a horned lord of slaughter, wielder of a cursed scythe, breaker of a dozen adventuring teams, now lay still, its crimson eyes dulled into glass. A massive horn, twisted and obsidian-black, jutted from its brow. The other had shattered in the fight.
Red stood still, breathing quietly through his nose. Not panting. Not heaving. Just breathing. He wasn't even winded. His armor, though worn and scarred, held its form, ash-coated steel plates engraved with faint silver runes, already dimming. Blood, both demonic and his own, smeared the leather cords across his arm and chest, but none of it seemed to bother him.
With a quiet grunt, he stepped over the monster's collapsed form and crouched beside its head. He reached for the intact horn and gripped it firmly. One pull, then two, and it broke free with a sound like cracking bone and tearing sinew. He slipped it into the side compartment of his travel bag.
No cheers. No crowd. No witnesses.
Just him and the corpse of a calamity that had once warranted emergency postings on every guild board across the kingdom.
Red pulled his adventurer's card from beneath his breastplate—a smooth rectangle of magically-imbued metal, etched with his name, guild seal, and a faint shimmer of light tracking his mana signature. With a touch, the card flickered to life.
[Quest: Baphomet Extermination – Rank: Mithril]
Client: Guild Council (Emergency Class)
Reward: 8 Gold + 800 QPS
Time Remaining: 29 Days
He stared at the last line for a long time.
Too much time, he thought. They always give too much time.
Red tapped the card again. The light vanished. He slid it back into its slot and turned his back on the corpse.
He didn't kill for glory. Nor for coins.
If anything, he killed to prevent others from trying. There were too many idealists with Copper badges, too many reckless teams with more bravado than skill. Baphomet had already wiped out two Silver-ranked groups in the last week alone. If he hadn't stepped in.
He didn't let himself finish the thought.
The sun was dipping low now, bleeding orange into the trees. Red slung his bag over his shoulder and began walking. No teleport scrolls. No mounts. He just, walked.
His home waited for him, twenty kilometers west of Silverhaven's city walls, far from the safety of patrolled routes, beyond the reach of market stalls and guild chatter. A humble cottage built with his own hands, tucked beside a quiet stream in the shade of whispering trees.
And it was perfect.
Red arrived just as the first stars blinked awake.
The stream beside his house still murmured softly, curling around smooth stones like it had done for years. Fireflies blinked lazily in the tall reeds. He could smell the faint tang of pine sap and damp moss. It was cooler here. Peaceful.
Before approaching the door, he checked his perimeter.
Five traps. Concealed in bushes and under dirt. One of them had snapped shut on something, an unfortunate forest bear. Red freed it, cleaned the trap, and reset it without a word. He didn't waste meat. The bear was slung over his shoulder for later.
He stepped through the front door of his cottage, low ceiling, stone floor, sturdy beams. There was no dust. Everything was clean, functional, organized. A single sword stand stood near the door. A hearth with stacked wood. A table with an oil lamp. Shelves of books, gear, and sharpened maintenance tools. A bed with a single pillow.
Everything had its place.
Red removed his armor slowly, piece by piece. Chestplate. Pauldrons. Gauntlets. He set them into their designated crate by the door and poured a small vial of cleansing oil onto the cloth beside them. He'd clean them tomorrow.
Tonight, he wanted the river.
He walked out naked, not even bothering to take a towel. There was no one here. No neighbors. No passersby. Not even a bird stirred at this hour. He stepped into the stream, the cold water biting at his ankles, then thighs, then chest. He exhaled softly, lowering himself until only his head remained above water.
Silence. Stillness. The night air chilled the water, but he didn't mind. His muscles ached pleasantly from the fight, an ache he welcomed. A reminder that he was still alive.
Red stared up at the stars for a while.
After the bath, Red returned inside, drying off with a worn linen towel and slipping into a simple tunic and trousers. He lit a lantern just long enough to check his gear—cleaned his sword, repaired a loose strap on his gauntlet, checked the edge on his dagger. Then he doused the flame.
The stars above were out in full, piercing through the canopy like ancient eyes. A wolf howled somewhere deep in the forest. Red didn't react.
He lay down on his bedroll, arms crossed behind his head, the Baphomet horn resting quietly on the table nearby. Tomorrow, he will deliver it. Maybe. Or maybe he'd wait a few more days. The guild wouldn't mind. He'd already saved lives by killing it alone. That was enough.
The horn glinted faintly in the dark, a reminder of the thing he'd slain.
But Red wasn't thinking about the fight anymore. His thoughts drifted towards the slums on the outer edge of Silverhaven. Toward the faces that would never know who protected them. The orphans, the crippled ex-adventurers, the ones abandoned by the system he served but never trusted.
He exhaled again.
The world was quiet. And that was how he liked it.
For now.