Caravaggio's hooves thudded steadily against the dirt road, each step a drumbeat pulling us closer to the forest's edge.
I sat in front of Paul on the saddle, hands gripping the horn, feeling the comforting weight of his arms loosely around me. His sword hung at his side, polished and ready. My small wand was tucked safely into my belt.
Around us, a handful of village men marched on foot or rode sturdy mules, their faces set in grim determination. Most carried axes or machete-like swords—crude but effective against beasts and monsters. They weren't professional adventurers like Paul, but they had enough experience to fend off threats when needed.
From what I had gathered through conversations with Roxy and Paul, monster extermination wasn't a rare event in rural areas. Villages near forests or wildlands often organized patrols to keep the boundaries safe. Sometimes it was just wild beasts; other times, monsters driven by hunger or miasma spill-over. Either way, letting them fester too close to human settlements was a recipe for disaster.
Today was about pre-emptive action.
And learning.
My heart thudded with a different rhythm—half excitement, half tension. This wasn't a sparring match or a practice session. This was the real thing.
Paul seemed relaxed, almost casual, but I could tell he was alert beneath that easy smile. His eyes scanned the horizon constantly, trained by years of adventuring.
"Remember," Paul said as we rode, his voice low but firm. "Don't try to be a hero. If things get dangerous, you run to me or stay behind the villagers. Understand?"
I nodded immediately. Observe before action. I had promised myself that much.
The forest loomed ahead—tall, ancient trees standing like silent sentinels. Shadows curled at their roots. Somewhere in that darkness, threats waited.
I tightened my grip on the saddle horn.
Whatever lay ahead, I was ready to face it.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Caravaggio's hooves slowed as the forest's shadow stretched closer.
The villagers chatted softly among themselves, but a sense of tension hung in the air. The tools in their hands—axes, machetes, old swords—gleamed dully under the morning sun. They knew what could lurk in these woods.
As we neared the treeline, one of the men, Adam—a broad-shouldered fellow with streaks of gray in his hair—cleared his throat.
"Don't mind me, Paul," he began, his voice respectful but firm, "but is it safe to bring your son for this extermination? There's always the chance we won't just find beasts... monsters could be lurking too."
The other men nodded quietly.
Adam continued, "We trust your strength. In fact, most of us believe that your and Zenith's presence here in Buena Village is Saint Millis's blessing to us. But... even if nothing happens to the child, won't he be traumatized by such sights?"
Paul's easy smile faltered for a second. I felt him tense behind me.
Another villager, Joseph, chimed in—leaner and more serious in demeanor, his eyes kind but concerned.
"Yes, Paul. We've seen young Rudeus perform some spectacular magic, as the bard's tales have already started spreading. But..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "shouldn't you have brought Miss Roxy instead? We've come to know she's an A-Rank Adventurer herself, and a Saint-Rank Mage to boot. She has the experience. The young lad might be talented, but... is this truly the right place for him?"
Their words weren't accusing—just honest, coming from older, more seasoned men who understood the blood and fear that real combat often demanded.
Even those walking beside us turned their heads, glancing first at Paul, then at me.
I took a breath.
These men were right to worry. They were not weak-hearted—they were pragmatic. They were older than Paul, and it showed not just in their weathered faces, but in their cautious, seasoned approach to risk. Paul, after all, was still young in their eyes—he was only about nineteen when I was born. Their maturity was hard-earned through years of facing real dangers.
Paul shifted slightly in the saddle, his hands tightening for a moment on the reins. He seemed... complicated inside. Like he was second-guessing himself.
Before the awkwardness could deepen, I spoke up, projecting my voice clearly so all could hear:
"Thank you for your care, everyone," I said with a small bow from the saddle. "But I believe this is a great opportunity for me to learn the practical application of my skills."
Their expressions shifted slightly—surprise, approval, still some lingering worry.
"I have accompanied Roxy-san on various tasks around the village," I continued, "as some of you may have seen. It was both a service to Buena Village—as the son of its Knight—and practical training for myself. But while I have learned to use magic to help others, like healing or clearing fields, I must also learn how to use it for defense... for protection... for battle, if needed."
I looked around, meeting their eyes one by one, steady and sincere.
"And under the guidance of my accomplished father, and with the wisdom of experienced villagers like yourselves, I hope to learn new things... and expand my horizons."
The wind stirred the trees as silence fell for a moment.
Then Adam chuckled, scratching his beard. "Well spoken for a lad your age."
Joseph gave a slow, approving nod. "He's got spirit... and sense."
The tension eased. Smiles, small but genuine, broke across a few faces. Even Paul seemed to relax slightly, ruffling my hair with a hand rough from sword training.
"See?" Paul said, recovering his grin. "Kid's tougher than he looks."
The men chuckled softly, and with that, we pressed forward—into the deep, waiting green of the forest.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We hadn't ridden much farther when a younger villager, Aaron—a lad barely older than Roxy, by the looks of it—called out to me with a playful grin.
"Hey, kid," he said, adjusting the axe slung across his back. "You've got some way with words, don't ya? How old are you, anyway?"
I turned slightly in the saddle, keeping my balance with ease, and answered politely:
"Yes, sir. You could say that I've been given a good education and proper manners by my family and my mentor, Roxy-san. That might make me seem eloquent, but truthfully, it's less about knowing the right words and more about being honest when speaking from the heart."
I smiled earnestly.
"As for my age—I'm five years old. Correct, Father?"
I looked back at Paul for confirmation, and he gave a lazy nod, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
The reaction from the men was immediate.
A collective, almost visible, jolt ran through the group. Some of them blinked in disbelief. Others muttered under their breath. A few stared openly, incredulous.
Five years old.
And here he was, riding off to a beast-culling mission—a task that, even for seasoned adults, carried risk.
In a synchronized, unspoken realization, every man there reached the same conclusion:
Paul wasn't bringing his son here to "train" him.
He was trying to keep the boy out of the house while the women prepared his birthday party.
And worse yet... they had become the babysitters.
I caught the subtle shifts—the side glances, the resigned sighs, the half-exasperated, half-amused looks passed between them.
Even Aaron, who had asked the question, shook his head with a chuckle. "Five years old... and here I thought I started early," he muttered.
Paul must have felt the judgment, too. His back stiffened slightly behind me, his hands tightening on the reins. But he said nothing, kept his gaze fixed ahead, posture proud.
After all, Paul wasn't just another man of the village—he was the Knight of Buena Village. A noble. In this society, that still carried a certain weight.
Whatever they thought privately, none of them would openly question him. Not here. Not now.
And if Paul felt any guilt about the situation... he buried it under the stoic confidence of a man determined to see things through.
I hid a small smile.
At the end of the day, I didn't mind.
Today was an opportunity, whether others understood it or not.
And I intended to make the most of it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Adam let out a booming laugh, his voice echoing through the trees.
"Well, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," he said, thumping his axe on his shoulder. "The boy's got good manners and speaks better than most adults I know. And magical prowess, too! With Zenith's blood in him, he's got a bright future ahead."
Paul smirked, then threw a dramatic hand over his chest. "Hey! What about me? Isn't he lucky to have a father like me?" He pointed back and forth between us. "Look at us! Father and son. Peas in a pod!"
The group exchanged glances, barely suppressing their amusement.
Someone muttered under their breath—loud enough for all to hear, "It's okay, kid. You could've looked better if you had taken more after your mom. Life doesn't give us everything."
The laughter that followed was unrestrained.
Paul gaped, his expression a perfect blend of mock outrage and wounded pride. "Hey! What the hell?!"
I couldn't help myself. With a calm nod and a small, resigned sigh, I replied,
"I totally understand. I'll work harder on my skills since I've clearly lost the face lottery."
That broke the dam completely.
Everyone erupted into laughter, some doubling over, others clapping each other on the back. Even Paul chuckled despite himself, ruffling my hair with mock irritation.
We kept the banter alive, talking and joking along the way. The journey, while long, passed in easy conversation—filled with teasing, laughter, and good-natured jabs.
But as we neared the treeline, the mood shifted.
Subtly at first—voices lowered, smiles faded—the atmosphere tightened like a noose around the group.
Ahead, a wooden watchtower rose from the ground, simple but sturdy. Two figures were perched atop, keeping a sharp lookout.
As we approached, one of the men descended swiftly. His golden-blond hair caught the sunlight, his sharp, pointed ears betraying his elven blood.
Rawls.
Sylphiette's father. A ranger of sorts, and one of Buena Village's first lines of defense.
The men greeted him warmly. I dismounted carefully and offered a respectful bow.
Rawls raised a brow at the formality, but nodded back. His eyes quickly scanned the group, then landed on me—and widened slightly in surprise.
"A kid?" he muttered, glancing at Paul.
Then, more formally, he asked, "Do you want Meln to watch your boy from the tower?"
Paul shook his head confidently. "No need. I brought him here to show him real beast-culling. It's time he practices magic in actual field conditions."
Rawls's brow furrowed. He looked around at the other men for confirmation.
"You guys agreed to this?" he asked.
Adam scratched his beard. "Well, we weren't thrilled at first. But the kid's smart. He requested it himself. And..." he chuckled, "today's his fifth birthday. It's sort of his wish."
Rawls stared at Paul as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"You brought your son on his fifth birthday to a beast-culling?" Rawls said flatly. Then shook his head, laughing under his breath. "Man, I knew it. S-Rank adventurers all have major issues."
Paul scowled, jabbing a finger toward him. "Oye! Oye! Pointy-ears! Quit judging me, alright? You'll see—today, my son's going to take down a wild beast. He's gonna be as cool as his old man. Right, Rudeus?"
I stepped forward, standing tall despite my small size.
"Yes, Father. Today, I will learn to apply my magic to situations I cannot fully control. Under your guidance, I hope to achieve great results."
Rawls gave a low whistle, visibly impressed. "Well, I'll be damned. Kid talks better than most adventurers I know."
He adjusted the bow slung across his back, his tone growing serious.
"Listen up," Rawls said, addressing everyone now. "We've spotted Feral Wolves in the area. A High-Level Beast. But there's something else..." he paused, his face grim. "At least one of them has undergone full monsterification. A Devil-Wolf."
A ripple of unease passed through the group.
"Pack monsterification is rare," Rawls continued. "Either a Devil-Wolf wandered in, bred with the Feral Wolves, and raised a pack... or—worse—an entire pack got tainted by miasma and turned."
He slung his bow over his shoulder and looked Paul dead in the eyes.
"Either way, this isn't just pest control anymore. This could turn ugly fast."
The forest behind him loomed larger now, darker, filled with unseen dangers.
For the first time, a real weight settled over my chest.
This was no training exercise.
It was a hunt.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rawls continued, voice low and grim:
"It's not just Feral Wolves I've spotted. I've seen Razor-Wolves too. They're weaker than Ferals—can't even be compared to a Devil-Wolf—but they're far greater in number."
He crouched down, drawing quick marks in the dirt with a stick, outlining rough positions.
"It looks like the Devil-Wolf is trying to form a major pack," Rawls explained. "Maybe he's planning to take over, maybe he's just gathering strength. Either way, once the mating season arrives..." he grimaced, "we'll have an explosion of half-monster pups. We'd either have to hire adventurers from the cities—which will cost the village dearly—or worse, face being overrun."
Paul's face darkened.
"Who's closer to the village?" he asked sharply. "Razors, Ferals, or the Devil?"
Rawls pointed to the crude map. "Razors."
Paul nodded, mind already racing. His tone shifted—professional, crisp.
"Then we take the Razors out first. If we wipe out the scouts, it'll force the pack to retreat deeper into the jungle. Let the bigger monsters deal with the Devil-Wolf once they cross into their territories."
He paused, voice harder now.
"But if it had been Ferals or the Devil near the village," he said, glancing at everyone, "I would've ordered a full retreat immediately. Be it Razors, Ferals, or even the Devil himself, I might survive—but I can't guarantee your lives. And I sure as hell won't risk my son's life on bravado."
There was a somber nod from everyone.
Rawls added, "We'll move in fast. The Razors are scouts, but they usually have one or two Ferals guarding them. If we're lucky, we'll catch them by surprise."
He pointed between himself and Paul.
"I'll focus on one Feral from range—try to kill or at least injure it before it gets close. Paul, you handle the other. The rest of the men will eliminate the Razors while I provide backup to anyone overwhelmed."
Paul nodded approvingly. "Good plan."
He turned to the men, his tone commanding but steady:
"We'll advance in diamond formation—Rawls leads us to the location. Rudeus stays mounted on Caravaggio."
He locked eyes with Adam.
"Adam, I trust you to keep my son safe. Caravaggio won't spook easy—he's trained for this—but I want a man ready near him just in case."
Adam nodded grimly.
Paul continued, "Remember, this is not a full extermination mission. We strike, sow panic among the pack, and withdraw. Tomorrow, Rawls and I, along with Roxy, will track the wounded ones. Roxy's advanced magic will clear the field for easier clean-up."
He scanned the group seriously.
"If anyone has suggestions or arguments, speak now. Once we move, the plan is final."
The men exchanged glances—but none spoke.
I watched quietly, impressed.
Paul—the same Paul who flirted shamelessly with Zenith in the mornings and joked around like a teenager—now stood like a seasoned commander.
His instincts were sharp. His leadership natural.
He wasn't just strong; he thought clearly under pressure.
Maybe there was more to my father than I'd given him credit for.
Then, without thinking much, I raised my hand.
The entire group turned toward me—some curious, some concerned.
It was understandable.
They probably thought I was scared. Or about to ask some childish question.
I didn't blame them.
Back in my past life's marine training, we were never prepared to kill monsters. Wild animals, maybe. Humans, unfortunately. But magical beasts and corrupted creatures? This was new territory.
Paul gave me a soft, fatherly look.
"Rudeus," he said, gently, "if you want to stay back at the Watchtower with Meln, it's alright. Don't think any less of yourself for it. Rawls, call Meln down—"
I shook my head firmly.
"Father," I said clearly, "I don't want to abandon the mission. In fact, I might be more useful than we first thought."
The men straightened, listening.
I took a breath, then continued:
"This mission might require a larger-scale attack. If you permit me, I can cast an Intermediate-Level Great Fireball from a distance to target the Ferals—or the bulk of the Razors. That would weaken them before melee engagement, reducing the risks for everyone."
Silence fell.
Then murmurs—impressed, skeptical, curious—all at once.
Paul stared at me for a heartbeat... Paul smiled approvingly but raised a hand to temper the excitement.
"Rudeus, that was a good suggestion," he said, his voice steady and patient. "But listen carefully—beast and monster culling isn't just about killing them. It's also about harvesting materials from their bodies afterward."
I blinked, a little surprised.
Paul continued, "That's why fire magic is considered the last option in culling missions. It burns away valuable parts—the hides, the fangs, the claws, even the internal organs we could have used."
Rawls stepped in, nodding thoughtfully.
"Exactly," he said. "Young one, Razor-Wolves have fur that's far warmer than normal wolves. It's prized for winter clothes. Feral Wolves? Their hide is so tough, it can resist blade attacks to a certain extent—perfect for armor-making."
He shifted his bow slightly on his shoulder.
"And if we were ever lucky—or unlucky—enough to kill the Devil-Wolf," Rawls added, "then almost every part of its body would be valuable. Bones, fur, claws, even its internal mana core. Devil-Wolf materials are rare and can be sold for a small fortune."
I listened carefully, absorbing every word.
Rawls finished, "Beasts themselves aren't good for eating—too much miasma corruption—but their remains are crucial for alchemists. Medicines, enchantments, even magical tools sometimes."
Adam chuckled, stepping forward.
"Don't get disheartened, young one," he said, giving me a reassuring thump on the back. "You weren't aware of the harvesting part. Still, suggesting an early strike with powerful magic? Shows you're thinking about strategy, not just survival."
There were nods of agreement among the men.
Even Rawls gave a small, approving grunt.
Paul ruffled my hair again, this time with a softer, more fatherly gesture.
"Smart thinking, Rudeus. Next time, just remember—sometimes the goal isn't just to win... it's to win without destroying what you came for."
I nodded seriously.
Another lesson.
Another piece of real-world experience.
The kind no textbook or classroom could teach.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the group settled into the plan, another villager, John—a sturdy man with weathered hands and a kind voice—spoke up.
"Remember, young one," John said, "monster culling isn't just for safety. It's also how we earn a little extra coin."
He gestured around the forest with a broad sweep.
"Even if we kill low-level monsters, we can harvest their materials—furs, claws, bones—and either sell them or use them ourselves. For example, a coat made from Razor-Wolf fur can keep a family warm through the harshest winters."
The others nodded in agreement.
John continued, his voice steady, but tinged with a kind of practical gratitude.
"Sometimes, the village organizes cullings like this collectively. It's how we afford things that normal farming wages can't cover—like hiring high-ranking mages or healers when we desperately need them."
He smiled warmly at me.
"Thankfully, your mother... Zenith-san... she's provided healing to the villagers for almost nothing. Saved us more money than we could ever repay."
A few murmured in agreement, bowing their heads slightly at the mention of her name.
I nodded, absorbing every word, the weight of their reality settling more deeply into me.
"I understand," I said earnestly. "Then... what about me using Intermediate-Rank Stone Cannon magic instead?"
The group turned to listen.
"It's not a wide-area attack like Great Fireball or Great Waterball," I explained, "but I'm confident in my aim. I've been practicing precision shots for two years now. I'm sure I can land a clean hit."
Paul looked at me, considering it carefully, then turned to Rawls.
"What do you think?" Paul asked. "Can it work?"
Rawls scratched his chin, thinking it over.
"Practicing on stationary targets is one thing," Rawls said slowly, "but hitting a fast, living target—especially a Feral-Wolf—that's a whole different beast."
He paused, then pointed toward a nearby tree.
Its bark was rough, with a few old circular marks etched into it—practice targets.
"Show me," Rawls said. "Let's see how good your aim really is."
I felt a slight twinge in my chest.
Chantless incantation.
That was my real strength.
But I had promised.
Roxy, Paul, and Zenith had all begged—especially Zenith.
The memory of her plea, her voice trembling almost like an old nun's prayer, was enough to steel my will.
No chantless spells in public until I turned fifteen.
So, I pointed my hand toward the marked tree and recited the full chant:
"Answer my call, God of Obscurities, and shatter my enemy! Stone Cannon!"
The magic surged, condensed, and fired—a compressed stone bullet whistling through the air.
Crack!
The Stone Cannon struck the tree, nearly dead center on the target.
Not perfect.
Not as clean or fast as my chantless shots could have been.
But still impressive enough.
There was a pause.
Then a few low whistles of approval from the men.
Even Rawls raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed.
"Not bad," he admitted, tapping his bow lightly against his shoulder. "Not perfect... but good. Better than I expected for your age."
Paul grinned proudly, his arms crossed over his chest as if he could barely contain his satisfaction.
"That's my boy," he said, puffing out his chest a little. "Just like his father."
Rawls smirked, adjusting the strap of his bow.
"Kid, you got lucky," he said dryly. "You inherited your mom's brain and her magical talent."
There was a ripple of chuckles among the men. Some nodded in agreement; others outright muttered, "Yeah," under their breath.
Paul scowled dramatically, waving his hand at the group.
"What? Just like his father, can't you see?" he protested, jabbing a thumb proudly at his own chest. "He even looks like me!"
Rawls didn't even miss a beat.
"Yeah, that's unfortunate," he said with a deadpan expression. "But don't worry, kid. Being ugly isn't a crime. Just don't let it stop you from living your life."
The group erupted into laughter, some men even bending over slightly, wiping imaginary tears from their eyes.
I bowed slightly from my seat on Caravaggio and replied as seriously as I could:
"Thank you, Rawls-san. I hope that with my skills and future status, I'll be able to marry a good girl like my mother someday. If you have a pretty daughter, please let us meet, okay?"
For a second, there was silence.
And then the group exploded again, louder this time.
Paul was laughing the hardest, slapping his thigh, nearly falling over with howling laughter.
Some men clapped Rawls on the back, teasing him mercilessly, while others just shook their heads in mirth.
Between their laughter, several voices called out, half in jest, half in admiration:
"He's truly Paul's son!"
"Like father, like son!"
"Same shamelessness! Same spirit!"
Rawls just sighed, muttering something about "raising my daughter with stricter standards" under his breath, but there was a small smile on his face too.
I smiled quietly.
It was moments like these—laughter before the storm—that made bonds stronger.
But deep inside, I knew—
Soon, the laughter would fade.
And the real test would begin.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The forest grew denser as we moved.
The playful banter faded behind us like an echo of another life.
Now, only the sounds of careful footsteps, the soft jingle of gear, and the muted breathing of men remained.
Rawls was at the very front, his steps light, barely making a sound even on the thick underbrush. His hand rested loosely on his bowstring, ready to draw at the slightest sign of danger.
A good distance behind Rawls walked Paul, leading the main group. His sword was unsheathed but held low, parallel to the ground, moving silently like an extension of his body. His shoulders were relaxed but his eyes were sharp, constantly scanning the surroundings.
The other men followed, tense but disciplined. Their axes and machetes were drawn, knuckles white on hilts.
I was the only one mounted, sitting atop Caravaggio.
The sturdy horse snorted quietly but obeyed every gentle tug of the reins. Adam walked beside me, holding Caravaggio's lead rope, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his weapon.
Everyone's focus was absolute.
Every leaf rustling in the breeze, every bird's sudden flight, every shift in the shadows was scrutinized with wary eyes.
Then—
Rawls raised his fist into the air.
Instantly, the entire group froze.
No one spoke. No one even breathed loudly.
Paul held up a closed fist in reply, signaling the halt to those behind him.
I tightened my grip on the saddle horn, feeling the horse's muscles tense under me as Caravaggio picked up on the sudden shift in atmosphere.
Rawls knelt low, peering through the dense foliage ahead.
Following his gaze, I caught my first glimpse of them.
Wolves.
Not ordinary wolves.
Two large, hulking shapes slinked between the trees.
Even at this distance, I could tell—their fur was unnaturally dark, almost black, with streaks of corrupted silver running down their flanks. Their eyes glowed faintly in the gloom.
Two Ferals.
Their size alone dwarfed any normal wolf. Each one looked easily capable of taking down a man in seconds.
Surrounding them, more movement—smaller, faster shapes flitting through the shadows.
Razor-Wolves.
At least half a dozen.
They were leaner than the Ferals, their fur a dirty gray, and their movements were jittery, constantly sniffing and twitching.
A scouting party.
Just as Rawls had warned.
The two Ferals stood like lieutenants, overseeing their smaller kin as they sniffed the air and prowled, likely looking for scents of prey—or threats.
I could feel the tension rise around me like a wave.
Rawls slowly backed up toward Paul, using hand signals—brief, crisp motions—to relay what he had seen.
Paul knelt beside Rawls and me, his voice low and steady.
"Everyone, stick to the plan," he said, glancing at each man. "Rawls and Rudeus will target the two Ferals first. Rawls with his bow. Rudeus with his Stone Cannon."
He turned toward Joseph, John, and Aaron.
"You three are with me. The moment the Ferals are hit, we strike the Razors. Fast and clean. No unnecessary risks."
Adam, standing firm beside Caravaggio, gave a nod.
"Adam stays close to Rudeus," Paul continued. "Protect him at all costs."
The men gave short, silent acknowledgments. The formation shifted slightly, each man slipping into his role like parts of a practiced machine.
I tightened my grip on the saddle, steadying my breathing.
This was the plan all along.
No sudden changes. No improvisation.
It was just time to act.
As Rawls took position, nocking an arrow with calm efficiency, I pointed my right hand at the second Feral—my target.
Mana surged through me, familiar and ready.
But even as I focused, a bitter thought crossed my mind:
If only I could use chantless magic right now...
With chantless incantations, I could have adjusted the Stone Cannon's speed, strength, and even its size, depending on the situation.
A faster, sharper shot to pierce the beast's eye.
A heavier, slower one to shatter its ribs.
Precision, flexibility, control—everything was superior without the burden of chanting.
But I had promised Zenith.
And Roxy.
And even Paul.
No chantless magic in public until I turned fifteen.
Not just a request—a plea.
And I would honor that.
So I began the full chant aloud:
"Answer my call, God of Obscurities, and shatter my enemy! Stone Cannon!"
Beside me, Rawls pulled his bowstring taut, the arrow gleaming under the slivers of morning light that broke through the canopy.
Rawls raised three fingers.
Three.
Mana compressed sharply into the Stone Cannon in my hand, crackling with restrained power.
Two.
My target—the second Feral—sniffed the air, its body tensing as if sensing danger.
One.
At the exact same moment, we fired.
Thwip!
Crack!
Rawls' arrow tore through the air like a whisper of death, while my Stone Cannon roared like a cannonball.
Impact.
Rawls' arrow struck cleanly—burying itself deep into the first Feral's throat.
The beast stumbled once, shuddered, and collapsed heavily onto the forest floor without even a final snarl.
Dead.
Meanwhile, my Stone Cannon slammed into the second Feral's left side, embedding itself into the beast's ribcage with a sickening crunch.
The Feral yelped loudly, staggering, blood spraying from the shattered wound.
It didn't fall.
It didn't die.
It roared in anger and pain, its savage eyes locking onto our group with newfound hatred.
I hit it... but I didn't kill it.
Not enough precision. Not enough power.
I clenched my fists, acknowledging the gap between myself and a seasoned hunter like Rawls.
He hadn't just aimed at the beast—he knew exactly where to strike, precisely how deep to kill in a single shot.
Experience.
The Razor-Wolves immediately reacted, growling and snapping, confused by the sudden assault on their leaders.
Paul didn't give them a chance to regroup.
"Now!" he barked, voice like a whip crack.
He led Joseph, John, and Aaron forward in a tight, fast assault, weapons flashing.
Adam tightened his stance near Caravaggio and me, shielding us both as the chaos erupted.
The Razor-Wolves howled, some scattering, others leaping to counterattack.
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The injured Feral-Wolf let out a gurgling, pain-filled howl—high-pitched and desperate.
It staggered forward, trying to join the fray, its blood staining the forest floor with every struggling step.
Meanwhile, Paul was cutting through the Razor-Wolves like a storm.
His sword moved with terrifying speed and precision—slashing, stabbing, parrying without a wasted motion. Every Razor that dared approach him was either killed outright or wounded badly enough that it couldn't stand.
Joseph, John, and Aaron cleaned up the rest, hacking down the Razor-Wolves that slipped past Paul's onslaught.
For a moment... it seemed like we had won.
The men straightened slightly, relaxing. Adam shifted his stance, loosening the reins on Caravaggio. Even I started to lower my hand from my ready spell-casting position.
This feels too easy...
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
Something was wrong.
The wounded Feral snarled and lunged at Paul—but Paul, faster than the eye could follow, spun on his heel and cleaved through its neck in one clean, brutal strike.
The Feral collapsed, twitching, blood steaming against the cold air.
Paul stood over the corpse, sword ready, breathing steady, as if the fight hadn't even taxed him.
He wasn't just strong—he was brilliant. Every attack, every defense, was clean and efficient. No wasted strength, no unnecessary risks. Pure swordsmanship.
Rawls still had his bow raised, arrow nocked, ready to support anyone who needed it.
I allowed myself a breath.
And then—
it happened.
A howl.
No—a roar.
It wasn't the shrill cry of a normal wolf.
It was deep. Monstrous.
So loud it seemed to rattle the bones inside my body.
For a second, my heart simply... stopped.
I couldn't breathe.
My vision blurred.
Cold sweat broke across my forehead—
No.
Not just sweat.
I realized, humiliated, that I'd wet myself slightly from the sheer terror.
But I wasn't alone.
Adam froze.
Even Rawls stiffened, jaw clenched hard.
The others—Joseph, John, Aaron—all looked pale, their eyes wide.
Only Paul moved differently.
Only Paul seemed to thrive on the danger.
He didn't freeze.
He didn't slow.
He became faster, more deadly, carving through the last remaining Razors like a demon unleashed.
My awe of him grew tenfold in that instant.
Then—
Twang!
Rawls released an arrow—not at a visible target, but straight into a nearby shrub.
Yelp!
A Razor-Wolf hidden in the foliage cried out and collapsed.
They were circling us.
I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to focus.
Adam moved forward, machete drawn, standing protectively in front of Caravaggio and me.
Rawls suddenly grabbed my arm with his free hand.
"Hold on," he muttered.
Before I could react, he pulled me up into the nearest tree with surprising strength, practically throwing me onto a thick, sturdy branch. He climbed after me with a speed that betrayed his years of forest experience.
He crouched beside me, bow drawn again, covering Adam from above.
Adam stood below, blade glinting, breathing hard but steady.
I knew I couldn't stay passive.
I started chanting immediately, forming another Stone Cannon spell in my mind.
I glanced at Rawls's quiver—only about 17 to 20 arrows left, at best.
He knocked another arrow but didn't fire yet—waiting, watching, measuring the distance and number of enemies.
More Razor-Wolves were emerging from the brush, eyes wild and desperate.
Rawls barked urgently:
"Adam! Get up here if you can! I'll cover!"
Adam didn't argue. He started to climb, hacking through undergrowth as he moved.
Rawls turned to me, voice clipped but controlled:
"Kid—how many Stone Cannons can you cast before you run outta mana? Two? Three? Or... you don't know?"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I could hear it.
The low growls.
The snapping twigs.
The breathing—too many breathing, circling us like sharks.
And Caravaggio.
The loyal horse shifted nervously beneath the tree, hooves stamping the ground anxiously, letting out short, fearful whinnies as he called out for Paul.
But no one could come.
If anyone tried to get down now, they'd be dead meat.
Maybe Adam or Rawls could kill two or three wolves before falling... but not enough. Not against so many.
We were being surrounded.
And Caravaggio—our family's faithful companion—was trapped because of me.
If it weren't for me, he would've been left safely at the Watchtower.
He was our pet, our mount, our companion.
I couldn't just sit here and watch him die.
I gritted my teeth, heart pounding, and looked at Rawls.
He asked again, quick and urgent, "Kid! How many spells can you still fire?"
I gave him a number that sounded realistic, but honestly, I didn't care about realism anymore.
"One hundred Stone Cannons."
Rawls almost dropped his bow.
"What?! This ain't the time for jokes, kid!"
But before he could scold me further, I moved.
The Stone Cannon I had prepared fired instantly—whistling through the air—and slammed into a Razor-Wolf, punching through its chest like paper.
The creature let out a broken yelp and collapsed instantly.
Dead.
The spell's effectiveness was clear—Intermediate magic was more than enough to kill these Razor-Wolves outright. After all, Stone Cannon could tear through trees easily.
But it wasn't enough.
There were still too many of them.
And Caravaggio was trapped.
My eyes narrowed.
It's time for something flashier.
I gathered mana again, this time reaching into the memory of my basic training.
I began chanting the spell:
"Let the great protection of fire be on the place thou seekest. I call the bold heat of a torch here and now—Fireball!"
A small, burning orb formed in my palm and shot outward.
Whoosh!
It struck one of the Razor-Wolves, charring its fur badly and sending it yelping and rolling across the ground—but it didn't die.
The fire scared the others slightly—they backed off—but not enough.
The circle tightened again.
I could see Caravaggio shivering, wanting to bolt, to flee, but he stayed frozen, loyalty outweighing fear.
Stupid horse.
Brave, stupid horse.
Time to up the ante.
No more half-measures.
I clenched my fist and called upon my Intermediate Fire magic.
The chant thundered in my mind:
"Let the vast and blessed flame converge at thy command!
O raging fire, offer us a great and blazing gift—Ex-Flame!!"
Mana surged through me, hotter and heavier than before.
A massive fireball, nearly two meters in diameter, formed above my hand and then rocketed toward the ground.
BOOM!!
The Great Fireball struck.
One Razor-Wolf was obliterated instantly—reduced to little more than charred remains—and three others nearby were badly burned, howling in agony, scattering in disarray.
The shockwave knocked leaves and debris into the air.
I didn't waste time.
I leaned forward and shouted:
"Run, Caravaggio! Run, boy! GO!"
The horse whinnied desperately, torn between fear and loyalty.
For a terrifying second, I thought he'd stay frozen.
But then—he moved.
Caravaggio turned sharply, muscles bunching, and bolted toward the path leading back toward the Watchtower, hooves pounding against the earth like thunder.
Relief flooded through me.
At least he was safe.
Meanwhile, up in the tree, Rawls watched me out of the corner of his eye, his expression a complicated storm of disbelief and amazement.
What in Saint Millis's name...? he thought.
The kid's using Intermediate magic like it's nothing.
First Stone Cannons, now Fireballs, and then a Great Fireball—without even a hint of exhaustion.
I'm not a big adventurer, Rawls admitted silently, but I've seen enough real mages. They're cautious about their mana. They measure every spell like it's gold.
But this kid?
This kid fires spells like he's got a whole lake of mana inside him.
He remembered what Rudeus had said a few minutes ago:
"One hundred Stone Cannons."
At the time, Rawls thought it was just a cocky joke.
But now?
Watching this boy fight?
Maybe it wasn't a joke at all.
Maybe this kid was really a monster—
—not just in skill, but in potential.
Rawls reloaded another arrow, heart pounding.
Paul always bragged about his kid's education, sure.
He's a noble—he's got money to waste.
But this...
This ain't something you can buy with money.
This is real, natural-born talent.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Adam shifted slightly, balancing on a thick lower branch just below me and Rawls.
His machete gleamed faintly as he kept it at the ready, crouching low, prepared to strike at any wolf that dared leap up toward the tree.
All three of us were perched now—an improvised defense.
Adam glanced upward at me, and even through the dim light, I could see the tightness in his jaw, the slight tremble in his arms—not from fear of fighting, but from sheer disbelief at what he had just witnessed.
This isn't normal, Adam thought, gripping his machete tighter.
This is beyond anything I've seen.
Adam had experience in beast and monster culling.
He wasn't some green farmhand.
He could read and write—a rare skill among the villagers.
He had survived attacks, droughts, and the slow, grinding cruelty of nature.
But he wasn't an adventurer.
Not truly.
When monsters surrounded you like this, the reality was brutal:
You sacrifice the horse.
You wait.
You hope the beasts lose interest or reinforcements arrive.
Even the D-Rank and C-Rank adventurers the village sometimes scraped money together to hire—they used magic sparingly, cautiously.
Never waste mana.
Never risk exhaustion.
But this child—barely five years old today—
—was throwing out spells that could obliterate trees, shatter bones, and torch entire groups without so much as a pause.
Stone Cannons. Fireballs. A Great Fireball.
Adam swallowed hard.
He's... stronger than me already.
Stronger than most men I know.
And what's more—it wasn't just magic.
It was how the boy fought.
Protecting his horse, refusing to give up loyalty for safety.
There was something frighteningly pure about it.
Something... heroic.
I glanced between Rawls and Adam.
Both were tense, watching the woods, expecting another wave at any moment.
I took a deep breath and spoke:
"I'm sorry."
Both of them turned slightly toward me.
"I'm sorry for destroying the materials," I said honestly, my voice low but clear. "But Caravaggio's life was more important to me. I couldn't let him die because of my mistake."
Rawls gave a quiet grunt, not quite a laugh, but not anger either.
Adam only nodded, still gripping his machete, his body ready to defend.
They understood.
In their world, sacrifices were practical.
But loyalty, protecting your own... that was something they respected more.
I straightened up, feeling the fire still burning in my chest.
"I think it's time to up the ante," I said, my voice steeled with resolve.
"If you don't mind."
Rawls finally cracked a grim smile, his arrow nocked, pointing toward the trees.
"Kid," he said, voice low, "after what I just saw... I'm not about to stop you."
Adam, crouched lower, just chuckled under his breath—half disbelief, half admiration.
"Just don't burn the tree we're sitting on, alright?"
The wind shifted.
The Razor-Wolves howled again in the distance, regrouping, angrier and more desperate.
This wasn't over.
Not yet.
And I was ready to show them that today wasn't the day to hunt this prey.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I kept my eyes locked on the wolves below.
They paced in the shadows, snarling, their yellow eyes glowing like embers.
They didn't retreat.
They didn't even hesitate.
Why aren't they backing down? I thought grimly.
Aren't animals supposed to fear fire?
The Great Fireball I had cast earlier should have terrified them—should have driven them away.
Was it because they were Beasts?
Had the miasma corrupted them so deeply that fear no longer registered?
I didn't know.
But I knew one thing for sure:
Something was wrong.
I made a mental note—ask Rawls about it later—if there even was a "later."
Adam shifted slightly below me, crouched lower on his branch, machete ready, scanning the woods.
I caught his nervous glance and offered him a small smile.
"Don't worry," I said quietly.
"It's time to cool things down."
I lifted my right hand, feeling mana surge within me, gathering the spell together.
If I could use chantless magic, I could fire faster, I thought bitterly.
I could adjust the number of ice shards, the angle, the speed—everything.
But I promised.
No chantless casting until I turn fifteen.
So I began the full chant aloud:
"King of Frost, supreme ruler of the arctic lands, sovereign wrapped in all white whose frigid cold robs all heat.
Freeze thy enemy, oh glacial king who governs death—Blizzard Storm!"
Mana burst outward the moment the chant ended.
A storm of sharp, gleaming ice shards exploded around me, blasting outward in a controlled arc toward the Razor-Wolves below.
Shhhk! Shhhk! Shhhk!
Several of the wolves yelped in pain as icy spears impaled their legs, shoulders, and flanks.
Two dropped immediately, twitching on the frozen ground, their blood turning to mist in the chill air.
But the others—
—kept coming.
Their bodies shook from wounds.
Some limped.
Some bled.
But none of them turned back.
Their eyes were wild, manic, driven by something deeper than survival instincts.
They're not thinking about survival anymore.
They're being driven to fight. To kill.
I gritted my teeth.
I needed another spell.
Quickly, again forcing myself to chant aloud, I began:
"King of Frost, supreme ruler of the arctic lands, sovereign wrapped in all white whose frigid cold robs all heat.
Freeze thy enemy, oh glacial king who governs death—Blizzard Storm!"
Another barrage of deadly ice erupted outward.
More wolves fell, impaled and twitching.
Still, others slithered through the gaps in the assault—wounded, but still moving, still snarling.
They weren't scared.
Not of fire.
Not of ice.
Not even of death.
Before I could voice my confusion, Rawls cursed under his breath, his voice rough with disbelief:
"What the f*ing hell is going on?!**"
He fired another arrow, cleanly striking a Razor through the eye, dropping it instantly.
Rawls barked, panting hard:
"Why aren't they scared of fire?! Of death?! Where the hell are Paul and the others?!"
Below me, Adam hacked downward, swatting away a wolf that had leapt up toward his branch.
The blade slashed with a wet, sickening thud, sending the beast crashing to the forest floor.
I gritted my teeth harder, my whole body tensing.
This wasn't natural.
Something—or someone—had broken their instincts.
Had turned them into mindless weapons.
And we were still surrounded.
Still outnumbered.
Still trapped.
I need to think fast.
I need to act faster.
If only I could skip the chant...
If only I could fire spells without waiting for words to end...
I could have saved us so much time.
But promises were promises.
And for now—I had to survive within the limits I had accepted.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
But where was my father?
Where was Paul?
Where were Joseph, John, and Aaron?
Both Rawls and I turned at the same time, looking toward the direction where they had been fighting earlier.
And what we saw—
—turned our faces ghostly pale.
There, not too far away through the thinning mist and broken trees—
My father stood alone, his sword flashing desperately as he tried to hold back a horde.
Not just Razor-Wolves.
Not just Ferals.
A horde of them—dozens, maybe more—snarling, snapping, rushing toward him.
And behind them—
—leading them—
—stood a creature that froze my blood.
The Devil Wolf.
It towered over the others, huge and menacing.
It was bigger than a grizzly bear I remembered from my past life—far bigger.
Its black fur rippled like oil, muscles bulging, eyes glowing a deep, baleful red that seemed to burn through the fog.
Even from a distance, I could feel the malice rolling off it like a physical force.
The three villagers—Joseph, John, and Aaron—had wisely climbed into nearby trees.
From their higher positions, they swung their swords or threw stones to try and harass the monsters, desperately staying out of reach.
But Paul—
Paul couldn't climb.
If he did, if he abandoned the ground, the entire horde would simply climb after them.
Monsterification had changed these creatures—
Razor-Wolves, Feral-Wolves—
—they could now climb trees almost like giant cats.
The moment Paul climbed, they'd scale the trees too.
And none of the villagers would survive that.
He had to stay on the ground.
He had to fight.
Alone.
Rawls paled beside me, visibly shaken.
He gripped his bow tighter and hissed through gritted teeth:
"That Devil-Wolf's a female...!"
My heart skipped.
Rawls's face hardened, voice rough and grim:
"If there's a female leading... then there must be a male nearby."
The implications hit me like a thunderclap.
If a male Devil-Wolf was lurking too—bigger, stronger, more aggressive—
We weren't just fighting for survival anymore.
We were staring death in the face.
------------------------------------------------------------
Rudeus's Pov
I squinted into the distance.
From our position on the higher ground, I could see them—
Paul and the others—nearly 600 to 700 yards away.
It wasn't close.
But it wasn't too far for magic, either.
It's time to help.
I tightened my grip on the tree branch, my heart hammering in my chest.
I turned to Rawls and Adam, my voice low but sharp:
"It's time for some real fire."
Rawls glanced at me sharply but nodded once, understanding.
Adam braced himself lower on his branch, machete ready for anything trying to climb.
I steadied myself, gathering mana—a huge amount this time.
I began the full chant aloud, the words heavy with power:
"Raging spirit of flame, bastard of hell!
Rise to the land of man and swing your fist!
Strike down my sworn foe and consume them within darkness—Exodus Flame!"
The magic built rapidly.
A dense, roaring wave of fire surged into existence, coiling around my hand, the intense heat making the air shimmer.
Even from where I stood, the sheer pressure of the flames made Adam flinch, made the tree bark crackle slightly under the heat.
I aimed carefully toward the Devil-Wolf's horde.
Paul was fighting for his life.
For himself.
For the three villagers who had trusted him—who had followed him into this culling mission, thinking it would be simple.
None of us had known that a monster horde was lurking so close.
None of us had expected the cursed howl from that Feral-Wolf earlier to trigger a full assault.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
And now...
Now, my father fought alone against an enemy no man could face without fear.
I grit my teeth, pouring everything I could into the spell.
Father... hold on.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Paul's POV:
A massive explosion rocked the battlefield.
Paul recognized the magic instantly.
Exodus Flame.
An Advance-Rank Fire Magic spell.
It was a technique he had once seen Talhand—the dwarf mage in his old S-Rank party—use against monsters.
No ordinary village mage could cast this.
The fire tore through the enemy, injuring the female Devil-Wolf and killing dozens of monsters in a single blast.
Seizing the opening, Paul cut down the remaining beasts near him.
He sprinted toward the Devil-Wolf.
Fast. Ruthless.
With a single movement, he unleashed one of the Sword God Style's Advanced Techniques:
"Long Sword of Silence"
The blade whistled through the air—
—and severed the Devil-Wolf's head cleanly.
The horde, seeing their leader fall, broke instantly.
The surviving Ferals and Razors fled into the forest.
Paul didn't wait.
He ordered the three surviving villagers to follow him, sprinting toward the last place he had heard the sounds of battle—toward where his son was.
Breaking through the bushes, Paul's survival instincts kicked in.
He dropped into a Water-God stance just in time to deflect a Stone Cannon that had been fired at him.
Too close.
Far too close.
Meanwhile, from Paul's point of view—
He fought like a whirlwind.
Sword flashing.
Sweat dripping.
Muscles burning.
He wasn't fighting for glory.
He was fighting to keep Joseph, John, and Aaron alive—
—his men who had come with him, trusting in his strength.
Each swing bought them seconds.
Each parry, each strike, was survival.
Paul knew the odds.
He knew he was stalling against inevitable death.
But he also knew something else.
He trusted Rawls.
He trusted Adam.
He trusted—
His son.
He had heard the explosions.
The flames.
The shockwaves.
Rudeus is fighting.
Rudeus is alive.
He had to believe in that.
He had to believe help was coming.
Even if it cost him his life.
Back atop the tree—
I let the Exodus Flame loose.
A massive surge of fire, thick and molten, blasted across the battlefield in a straight line—
—a raging river of flame tearing through the air.
The heat was unbearable even for me, standing far away.
As the flames slammed into the ground near Paul's location—
BOOM!!
The earth shook violently.
The inferno exploded outward, swallowing dozens of Razor-Wolves and Ferals in one fiery wave.
The Devil-Wolf flinched, snarling furiously, its fur singed but not truly harmed—
—but the smaller beasts around it were roasted or scattered instantly.
A hole had been torn in their formation.
A chance.
A window.
Father—move! I thought desperately.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I kept staring into the direction of the chaos.
From our higher ground, Paul and the others were 600, maybe 700 yards away.
They were still fighting—still alive.
It's time to give them some real help.
I looked at Rawls and Adam.
"It's time for some real fire," I said calmly.
They nodded, trusting me.
I gathered my mana again, focusing harder than ever before.
The heat surged violently under my skin as I began the full chant:
"Raging spirit of flame, bastard of hell!
Rise to the land of man and swing your fist!
Strike down my sworn foe and consume them within darkness—Exodus Flame!"
Mana roared around me.
The air shimmered.
I unleashed it.
A giant wave of flames tore across the battlefield, exploding on impact deep inside the horde of monsters.
BOOM!
The blast was tremendous—killing dozens of Razors and Ferals, wounding even the Devil-Wolf.
But right after—
We felt it.
A wave of killing intent hit us.
Not just from stragglers.
From something bigger.
The bushes around us rustled violently.
Rawls's face paled as he screamed:
"Hold on tight!"
I grabbed the branch tighter.
Adam gripped his machete, slashing downward as the first Ferals struck the base of the tree, causing it to shake violently.
The Razor-Wolves clawed upward, their frenzied howls echoing in the forest.
Adam managed to slash at one—but another Razor lunged and bit into his forearm.
"AGH!!"
His machete clattered to the ground below.
The next instant—
CRACK!
The tree trunk split, splinters flying.
The tree collapsed.
As we fell, everything moved too fast:
Rawls screamed:
"It's the end...! I don't want to die... My family... My wife... I can't even save this kid... Mother... Hope... Sylphiette..."
Adam gasped:
"Oh, Martha! I won't be coming home today..."
The world spun.
The wolves scattered to avoid the crashing tree.
Adam hit the ground hard, bleeding and unconscious.
Rawls landed awkwardly; a sickening crack told me his bones were broken.
He sobbed weakly, helpless, watching a Feral slowly approach the defenseless Adam, teeth bared.
Hopelessness.
Despair.
Death.
But then—
There was light.
A glow of healing magic.
A child's voice, clear, furious, rang out:
"Enough of this bullshit."
The earth shook.
Spikes of stone exploded upward from the ground at terrifying speed, impaling Razor-Wolves and Ferals alike.
Their savage howls turned into pitiful whimpers.
A circular wall of stone spears rose around us, fencing us in.
The tree itself—broken and battered—was lifted atop a cradle of earthen pillars.
Rawls looked up through his haze of pain and saw—
Rudeus.
Blood spattered on Rudeu's face and clothes—but not a scratch on his body.
He walked calmly through the battlefield, casting Intermediate-Rank Healing Magic over Adam first, glowing softly, carefully closing his deep wound.
No chant.
Rawls thought he was hallucinating.
Or maybe dying.
He blinked hard as darkness began creeping into the corners of his vision.
But Rudeus moved next to him, placing his hand on Rawl's chest.
Another wave of healing magic surged into him, easing the broken bones and heavy bleeding.
Enough to stabilize him.
---------------------------------------------
Rudeus's Pov
Not perfect—Zenith had taught me that Intermediate Healing Magic couldn't heal severe blood loss.
Advance-Rank spells could do more—but no ordinary family could afford those ancient tomes.
Even we couldn't.
I knew the fight wasn't over.
The wolves outside the wall were howling.
Barking.
Challenging.
I glanced at Rawls and Adam.
Both unconscious.
Good.
I didn't want witnesses right now.
I crouched, placing my palm flat against the ground.
I sent out my mana in wide waves, feeling the subtle vibrations of approaching feet.
I can feel them... moving...
Eyes closed, I focused purely on the earth, on the tremors, on the rhythm of life pounding against the ground.
I directed my mana precisely—
—and erupted Earth Spikes under the incoming beasts, targeting their steps.
Yelps. Whimpers. Screams.
When I opened my eyes, I saw the result:
A 200-yard circle of bloody spikes.
Razor-Wolves and Ferals, impaled everywhere.
The male Devil-Wolf, massive—almost the size of a moose—stood injured at the far edge, snarling in pain and fury.
Its rage washed over me like a hot wind.
But it didn't matter.
I touched the ground again.
A massive earthen spear burst upward, impaling the Devil-Wolf through its leg, pinning it mid-run.
It roared in agony.
I didn't hesitate.
Mana gathered—this time without chanting.
I formed a Stone Cannon instantly and fired it straight into the Devil-Wolf's skull.
CRACK!
The beast dropped heavily, its roars dying into gurgled whimpers.
I was tired.
Fatigue itched under my skin, but I hadn't over-exerted yet.
As I caught my breath, I heard a rustle.
Movement from the bushes.
I spun, quickly firing another Stone Cannon—
CLANG!
It deflected off a sword blade.
I flinched—
—and saw Paul standing there, sword raised.
Behind him, Joseph, John, and Aaron stumbled forward, battered but alive.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lowering his sword, Paul saw—
Rudeus.
Standing there.
Blood on his face and clothes.
But alive.
Rudeus wiped sweat from his forehead and sighed heavily.
"Ahh... sorry about that, Father," I said weakly.
"I thought you were a wolf."
I let myself drop to the ground, exhausted but relieved.
"This... this is too much for a fifth birthday," I muttered with a wry smile.
"Let's gather the materials..."
I leaned my head back against the broken tree, staring at the sky.
"...and go home."