The night reached its deepest hour when the screams overlapped. Not just one. Two, three—from the eastern guardhouse, along the western fence, nearly simultaneous. Men's voices, torn from the depths of their bellies. Elara jolted awake. Her journal fell from her lap to the floor with a sound, but there was no time to retrieve it. She grabbed her cloak and kicked open the door, stepping outside. The night air struck her cheek. But that wasn't all. The very quality of the air had changed, incomparably different from last night. That sweet, dark stench—the smell of magical essence warped and leaking from the Seam of Lamentation—hung thick and viscous in the air. Black fog was pouring in from the eastern edge of the village. Last night, there had been one beast. Tonight, they were too numerous to count. Small erosion-shadow beasts—shadow monsters formed when magical essence leaking from the Seam of Lamentation coalesced in response to human despair—were encircling the village's outer edges in a pack of more than a dozen. Their bodies, drinking in moonlight and darker than the surrounding shadows, swayed within the four-directional darkness. And behind them, a single shadow far larger than the rest. A massive specimen capable of crushing houses. Elara saw an unfamiliar pattern burned into its head. A vein of purple-black, pulsing artificial light. Natural erosion-shadow beasts bore no such marks—she intuited this much, though there was no time to put the reason into words. A torch fell. Somewhere, a thatched roof caught fire, orange flames scattering across the night sky. The sound of villagers fleeing in panic, children crying, old men shouting—all of it wove together into the sound of Hasla village breaking apart. Elara thrust her right hand forward. The star-shaped mark on the back of her left hand grew hot. Her right arm, still heavy with last night's exhaustion, felt weighted. Still, she drew the magical essence toward her. She pushed down the turmoil of emotion—she was supposed to be able to push it down. Reina's face began to surface, but she bit down hard and sealed it away. Not now. Now there was only light. A bundle of white light burst from her fingertips. Three of the small pack nearest to her responded. They repeated the same movements as last night, but far more violently. Rather than retreating—drawn forward as if magnetized—they rushed toward the light. "Again!" Elara cried out as she backed away. The light was drawing them in. There would be nowhere left to run. But she had to keep releasing it, or the villagers— All three leaped at once. Sharp pain tore through her right arm. Claws. Curved black talons pierced through her cloak's sleeve and split her skin. She felt the warmth of blood flowing down with strange clarity. Before the pain came the thought: she could not fall. She rolled across the ground and regained her footing. Blood dripped from her right arm. The three erosion-shadow beasts approached slowly. The villagers huddled at a distance, unable to help. Of course they couldn't. Without weapons imbued with magical essence or a mage's support, they couldn't leave a single scratch on those black, misty bodies. She wrung out more magical essence. The wound burned. A numbness spread through her entire right arm. Signs of petrification—the same sensation as last night, feeling dissolving. Still, she released it. Spreading light toward the three beasts, as a surface, in all directions— The massive specimen moved. Heavy tremors. A body the size of two buildings accelerated toward Elara. The sensation in her right arm vanished. She tried to clench her fingers. They wouldn't move. No feeling. Like last night, but this time her entire arm from wrist to shoulder felt like it belonged to someone else. She couldn't stand. Couldn't send magical essence through her body. The massive form bore down on her as she stood motionless, the villagers at her back. ———— White light tore through the forest's darkness. A single flash. That was all. The massive body was bisected silently at its center. Black fog exploded outward, scattering like rain—fragments of dark purple magical essence crystals fell to the ground. A single figure stood within the dispersing mist. Long sword lowered, motionless. Silver-gray hair swayed in the night wind. A black cloak rose slightly in the mist, and the eyepatch covering his left eye caught the firelight with a dull gleam. A white scar line ran across his right arm, standing out sharply against the orange flames. The stillness radiating from his 185-centimeter frame was utterly at odds with the chaos of the battlefield. That sword—a longsword etched with countless fine scratches—emitted a faint white glow where it had touched the erosion-shadow beast. A steel longsword imbued with trace magical essence, Frostbite. The blade he had inherited from his shadow-hunting master. The man moved. He advanced without hesitation toward the remaining small pack. There was no defensive posture. He closed the distance where the beasts' claws could reach, slashing, thrusting, parrying with Frostbite. His movements held no waste. And—above all—he showed no fear. The way he moved toward the core of the threat seemed less like tactics and more like instinct. Elara drew magical essence with her left hand. Her right arm was useless. But her left hand remained. She scattered light in time with the man's movements. Small particles of light like buckshot flew into the pack, filling the gaps in his blind spots. The two moved in strange synchronization without exchanging a single word. The last beast dissipated into mist. Silence fell. Only the sound of flames burning and someone weeping in the distance remained. The man came to Elara's side. Without a word, he extended his arm. Elara grasped it reflexively. He pulled her up. At close range, deep blue eyes looked at her. His left eye was hidden behind the eyepatch. Only his right eye, but it was more than enough—sharp and quiet, seeing the lingering glow of Elara's magical essence. For just a moment, his expression froze. Only the briefest instant. Something like touching an old wound—a microscopic change that crossed those blue eyes. Something shaped like loss surfaced for a moment, then vanished completely in the next. Elara saw it. She saw it clearly. The man released her hand without a word and turned away toward assessing the village's damage. Elara had no time to question that moment. The wound on her right arm throbbed. But deep in her chest, a small question fell like a seed—what had those eyes been seeing? --- Before dawn, the villagers moved. Checking damaged houses, tending to the wounded, clearing away burned straw. Nearly thirty percent of Hasla village's buildings had been damaged in a single night, and there were dead. The faces of the survivors bore exhaustion and fear as if it were their natural state. Even knowing this was inevitable, Elara couldn't bear to look at those faces. The village's healer had bandaged her right arm wound. It was shallow. The bone hadn't been reached. But the return of sensation was slower than last night. The fact that petrification was progressing gradually—Elara decided to face that truth this morning. Village Chief Fedor sat in the square. His round shoulders looked a size smaller this morning. Beside him stood the man. Last night's shadow hunter—he had given his name as Kael. That was all he'd said. His silver-gray hair was loosely tied back, and in the daylight, the years carved into his face were more distinct. Forty-eight years old. Beneath his dust-covered cloak, old leather armor. And what had caught Elara's attention last night—white peeked from beneath his cloak's hem. Bandages. Elara glanced at that white for just a moment, then looked away. Kael stood in the center of the square and spoke matter-of-factly. He had traced the path of last night's erosion-shadow beasts. The pack bore traces of being "driven" from the southeast. The massive specimen's head bore artificial magical essence marks. Someone was controlling them. "So there's someone manipulating the erosion-shadow beasts?" Elara asked. "Yes," Kael replied. Fedor furrowed his brow. "That's all?" he asked. "That's all," Kael said. The answer was too brief. Fedor exhaled with a deflated "haa." A few villagers in the square wore similar expressions. Elara almost smiled along with them—on a morning like this. But it let the air in the square breathe a little. Kael continued. He would head southeast. Into the depths of the Morine Great Forest—the sea of conifers spreading across the continent's southeast—alone. Elara stood up. "I'm coming too," she said. Kael looked at Elara once. Just for a moment, at the bandage on her right arm. "You'll be a burden," he said. "Light draws the beasts," Elara said. "Last night and the night before, the erosion-shadow beasts were drawn to my light. If this is abnormal behavior—we could use it in reverse. As bait or a tracking method. There's more utility in having me than going into the forest alone." "Your right arm is losing sensation," Kael said. "It's still working. For now," Elara said. "For now," Kael repeated. The argument went nowhere. Kael didn't answer her logic. He only repeated "burden" and "dangerous," never refuting her reasoning. As if he felt no need to. There was a quietness to it. Elara was about to speak again. That's when she noticed. The white of the bandage peeking from beneath his cloak's hem was larger than last night. Cloth was wrapped around his shoulder area. A wound from last night's battle—and this man hadn't mentioned it once. He hadn't told the villagers. He stood in the square and continued his report matter-of-factly, as if it were nothing. Something moved inside Elara. Not quite anger, not quite pity. A strong, silent person who treated his own body as if it meant nothing. Yet something inside him was surely wounded—last night's brief expression proved it—and still he said nothing. Such a person was about to enter the forest alone. *This person doesn't value himself at all.* It struck her chest sharply. "Let me treat your wound," Elara said. This time, not about coming along. "Please. You haven't rewrapped it since last night." Kael's gaze shifted. He noticed Elara was looking at his cloak's hem. A moment of complete silence. He neither refused nor agreed. He simply looked away, gazing at the edge of the square. --- After the sun began to set, Kael didn't leave the village immediately. He didn't explain why. He simply set down his pack under the eaves of the Wheat Ear Tavern. That was his only answer. Elara asked nothing. Before sunset, Elara treated his wound. Kael sat alone in a small storage shed behind the Wheat Ear Tavern. When Elara came in with herbs and cloth, he didn't drive her away. The wound across his shoulder and arm had been roughly treated by himself last night—only stopped from bleeding, with no disinfection or stitching done. Elara silently applied the herbs. Kael remained silent. In the narrow shed, the distance between them was close. It was a natural distance for treating a wound, but still—his body heat, the smell of leather and iron, and something else seemed to exist in that closeness. When Elara's left hand touched his arm, the air seemed to change just slightly. Elara herself didn't notice. She didn't notice, but her hand stopped. "Does it hurt?" she asked. "No," Kael said. "You don't have to lie," Elara said. "No," Kael said. The second answer was slightly lower than the first. She didn't ask further. --- Deep in the night, when the village had fallen silent, Elara stepped outside onto the stone steps in front of the Wheat Ear Tavern. Kael was there. Sitting at the top of the steps, maintaining Frostbite. He moved the cloth across the blade slowly, as if confirming each of the countless scratches one by one. No lamp. Only m