Morning came with clear skies and dry wind. They’d packed up early, the wagons groaning back into motion just after sunrise.

  By midday, the rhythm had returned. Hooves on dirt. Wagon wheels creaking. Wind brushing dry grass in soft waves.

  Ethan kept walking, the cool weight of his waterskin pressed against his side like a quiet blessing. The rest of the Pack had fallen into travel mode—Moose taking point in an ever-watchful trot, Pixie zig-zagging across the path ahead like a caffeine-powered scout, Buster plodding along behind them, grumbling softly with every step.

  Buster had stopped muttering numbers, but Ethan could feel the calculations still spinning in the bond. He said nothing. For now, the big dog was quiet. Content, even.

  Pixie was not.

  She trotted up beside Ethan, tail wagging fast enough to blur.

  “I’m BORED. Why are we WALKING? I want to run! I want to chase! But noooo—it’s just feet. Feet forever. Nothing but FEET. Ugh! We’ve been walking for TEN YEARS. I want to attack something. Or chase something. Or at least bite a leaf. But no. It’s just... foot. After foot. After foot.This is torture. Endless walking. No sprinting, no zooming, no glorious pounce. Just feet. Forever. Like some kind of smell-based punishment. I haven’t zoomed in hours. I haven’t even pounced. What is this? What is life? It's just feet.”

  Ethan raised an eyebrow. “You want a story or something?”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Pixie barked. “A story with a monster! And teeth! And someone being very brave!”

  Ethan sighed. “Okay. Have you ever heard of Little Red Riding Hood?”

  “Nope!” she chirped. “Is it about zooming?”

  “Not exactly. It’s about a little girl in a red hood who goes to visit her grandma. But when she gets there, there’s a wolf in the house instead.”

  Pixie’s ears perked. “A WOLF?! Like Emmy?!”

  “Sort of. Except this one talks, eats the grandma, and then pretends to be her by wearing the grandma’s clothes so he can eat the girl too.”

  Pixie skidded to a stop. “HE ATE THE GRANDMA?!”

  Buster, a few paces behind, blinked. “Wait. The wolf eats the grandma and crossdresses to impersonate her?”

  Moose’s voice came from up ahead. “Human morality tales are... oddly violent.”

  Pixie stared at Ethan. “Was he wearing a HAT?”

  Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. “I... think the pajamas had a nightcap. Or maybe a bonnet?”

  Pixie narrowed her eyes. “I knew it. Monsters always have hats...”

  She tilted her head, ears twitching.

  “Do all of your stories end in murder?”

  Ethan exhaled. “This was a bad story choice... I’m never going to tell you what happens to Bambi’s mom.”

  Pixie trotted ahead, still muttering about hats.

  Ethan tried to smile, but something in the rhythm of the road had changed.

  The rest of the Pack seemed to sense the same unease that was creeping over Ethan. Their confident pace began to falter, and he noticed how their steps became more cautious, more deliberate. The silence around them wasn't just quiet—it had an edge to it, like the forest itself was holding its breath and waiting for something to happen.

  The trees ahead began to press closer together, and the road gradually narrowed as it wound between two uneven ridges. Something about the brush here bothered Ethan—it was too dense, too carefully arranged, like someone had been shaping it. He found himself slowing his pace without really thinking about it.

  Moose must have felt it too, because he dropped back to match Ethan's slower steps. "There aren't any birds around here," he observed, his ears swiveling as he listened. "Everything's gone quiet. That's not normal for this time of day."

  Pixie had darted ahead to investigate a fallen log, but now she was zigzagging back toward them, her nose working overtime. "Something smells off," she reported, her voice tight with concentration. "There's people-scent everywhere—oil, metal, sweat. Fresh, like they were here recently."

  Buster’s ears flicked. “This is feeling familiar.”

  Moose’s voice sharpened through the bond. “They’re closing in. Two dozen. Maybe more. Too many scents. Too fast.”

  Ethan didn’t hesitate. He sprinted toward the lead wagon, boots pounding dry earth.

  Durgan sat up front, reins in one hand, posture relaxed.

  “Durgan!” Ethan shouted. “They’re surrounding us—two dozen or more. The Pack’s locked on them!”

  Durgan blinked once. Then moved. He dropped the reins, grabbed his horn, and barked orders even before his boots hit the ground.

  “Guards up! Pull the wagons in—tight wedge, front to the ridgeline! Cargo center, archers rear! GO!”

  The caravan snapped into motion. Wagons jerked, horses strained, and guards scrambled into place. They couldn’t form a full circle—the narrow pass wouldn’t allow it—but the wedge they built was solid. Tight enough to defend, open enough to strike.

  An arrow slammed into the second wagon with a sharp thunk, splintering wood and snapping the air in the same breath.

  Another followed. Then three more—thwip, crack, thud—ripping through canvas and cargo.

  A horse screamed. One of the guards shouted something Ethan couldn’t make out. And the quiet road became a warzone.

  Moose moved first. He surged forward from Ethan’s side, dropping low into a defensive stance between the lead wagons and the rising treeline. His shoulders squared, his breath slowed.

  “Contact,” he said through the bond, calm as ever. “Multiple. Both sides.”

  His Protective Barrier shimmered like heat rising off stone—barely visible, but unmistakable.

  Ethan slid into motion, hand closing around the hilt of the steel sword Lydia had given him. It still felt new, unfamiliar, but the bond steadied his grip. “Command Surge—go.”

  The bond snapped tight. Power rippled through it like a pulled wire—immediate, directional, alive.

  Buster charged left, fur bristling. He hit the first attacker with a shoulder-check that cracked ribs—Body Check—and drove two others back into the brush. Pixie vanished in a flicker of intent, her Quick Strike warping her behind a raider mid-swing. Her teeth caught the back of his knee; he collapsed, howling.

  “MUCH better than walking!” she crowed through the bond.

  Moose intercepted two more bandits trying to reach the front wagon. One swung a rusted sword—Moose didn’t dodge so much as adjust. The blade missed. His jaws didn’t.

  Ethan ducked beside a wagon wheel and scanned the treeline. Another bandit—closer now—charged from the right, sword drawn, fast. Ethan reached into his pouch and pulled a Firestone—small, rough-edged, and deep red, cool against his fingers. He held it like he had at the campsite—between two fingers and a thumb, tip forward—then pushed mana into it, fast, focused, deliberate.

  The tip sparked. A tongue of red flame flickered to life. Then it changed. The color shifted—from red to orange, to white-hot, then to blue. A narrow jet burst out with a roar, hotter and tighter than anything he’d seen before. It caught the bandit full in the chest. The man dropped mid-step, trailing smoke.

  When the flame cut out, the Firestone cracked in Ethan’s grip, splitting down the middle. “Still terrifying,” he muttered.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Sam, silent and focused, grabbed a Lightstone from his belt—not meant for combat, just basic illumination—but he’d overcharged it, hard. He lobbed it underhand toward the treeline. It detonated midair, flooding the ridge with raw mana light—brighter than the sun and loud enough to rattle teeth. Two raiders staggered, stunned and blinking, completely exposed.

  The archer woman didn’t miss.

  Thump. Thump. Two arrows. Two drops.

  “I’ll cover the right!” she shouted. “You keep the fancy beasts moving!”

  Pixie’s voice snapped through the bond. “HAT LADY’S A MONSTER! But she’s OUR monster!”

  Durgan crouched near the lead wagon, braced behind a wheel with a heavy crossbow balanced across one knee. He fired without looking—one clean shot, one bandit down. Another raider got too close. Durgan dropped the crossbow, grabbed the war hammer at his side, and stood like a storm breaking loose. One swing flattened the man, and the dwarf stepped back into place like it was nothing new.

  “Don’t let ’em breach the wagons!” Durgan shouted.

  The first wave didn’t come all at once—it rolled in. Small clusters. Feints. A rush from the left followed by a flank from the right. Arrows rained down at angles meant to distract, not kill—but some found their marks anyway.

  A guard Ethan had spoken to earlier—Jovan, the quiet one who always walked with a limp—cried out as an arrow took him in the shoulder. He staggered back, lost his footing, and vanished behind a wagon wheel. Ethan never saw him get back up.

  Another guard took a sword to the gut trying to protect one of the merchants. He went down hard, screaming. The merchant didn’t make it either.

  To Ethan’s left, a horse reared and shrieked as an arrow embedded deep into its neck. It toppled sideways into a pile of crates, knocking one wagon half off its alignment.

  “Pixie! Left side needs disruption!” Ethan shouted.

  “On it! Many bad people! So many ankles!” she howled.

  The first bandit in the flanking group went down with a shriek as Pixie’s teeth found his hamstring. The second turned, swinging wildly at the blur of motion, only to hit empty air as Pixie darted between his legs.

  “Buster, support her!” Ethan called.

  Buster plowed through the melee like a battering ram, taking down two more of the flankers with brutal efficiency. “They keep coming,” he growled. “Too many. Math says bad odds.”

  Ethan didn’t have time to answer. Three bandits converged on him at once—a woman with twin hatchets, a hulking figure with a spiked club, and a lean man wielding a curved blade. He ducked under the first swing, felt the breeze of the second pass his ear, and barely deflected the third. The impact jolted his arm. No room. No space to retreat.

  Pixie’s agility surged through him. He twisted low, nearly slipping between strikes. The curved blade grazed his forearm. “Need help!” he shouted.

  Moose answered immediately. He broke from his defensive position and charged. Three strides, jaws open—the club-wielder didn’t even scream, just dropped.

  With space cleared, Ethan countered. Buster’s strength flowed into his arms as he struck back. His sword caught the curved-blade fighter across the chest. The woman with the hatchets flinched. That hesitation cost her. Ethan's blade opened a gash in her shoulder. She dropped one weapon and staggered back.

  Pixie finished off the remaining flankers while Moose swept the last off his feet.

  Ethan moved to stand back-to-back with the archer woman. “Out,” she muttered, pulling a long knife.

  “Then let’s make room,” Ethan said. “Basic Directive—converge and push.”

  The Pack hit from three angles—Moose, Buster, Pixie—and the formation broke.

  But the second wave was already moving.

  Despite the Pack’s push, the bandits kept coming. A third of the caravan’s guards were already down—some wounded, some not moving at all. Buster's flank wound had reopened, blood soaking into the dirt as he drove forward. Pixie's Quick Strikes slowed, not from hesitation but from sheer exhaustion. Her mind stayed sharp, but her body was starting to lag. Even Moose, solid as he was, was favoring his left side now.

  Amelia jumped down from the wagon before Ethan could stop her. She darted forward in a quick, low burst and snapped at a bandit’s ankle, forcing him to stumble. It wasn’t enough to drop him, but the misstep slowed his swing long enough for Buster to crash into him a second later. Instinct, nothing more — but enough to help.

  Ethan’s mana bar was down by two-thirds—steady but low. Not empty, but close enough to feel it in his bones. Every surge he pushed into the Pack came back as weight behind his eyes. His vision swam at the edges. “We can’t hold much longer,” he said through gritted teeth.

  A crossbow bolt arced down from the ridge—headed straight for Moose. Ethan didn’t even have time to call out before it hit and bounced off the shimmering field of Moose’s Guardian Stance.

  The archer woman dropped the shooter a second later with a clean shot to the throat. “Your dog’s got tricks,” she muttered.

  “Yeah,” Ethan panted, “so do you.”

  More screams followed. Another horse went down, its legs tangled in harness. A wagon tipped, scattering barrels. A burst barrel of grain spilled into red mud.

  Amelia’s bond pressure spiked. There weren’t words yet—no full thoughts—but the feeling was clear: protect, help, stay close.

  Stay, Ethan told her firmly. We need you safe. Not yet.

  She didn’t move, but her eyes never blinked.

  A guard fell, blood gushing from a deep chest wound. A bandit raised a sword for the killing blow, and Buster hit him like a meteor, knocking him into three of his companions. “He was ours,” Buster growled.

  Ethan didn’t reply.

  Then came the horn—three short blasts.

  The bandits broke. Some tried to drag the wounded; most ran.

  A ragged cheer rose from the remaining guards. But Ethan didn’t lower his sword.

  He looked out over the aftermath—bodies, crates, arrows, blood. Two bandits still breathing, one pinned under Moose and the other under Buster. The rest didn’t get back up.

  Ethan dropped to one knee, pulled a standard healing potion from his belt, and drank. Warmth spread through his limbs as his wounds closed and the bond pressure eased.

  Moose’s breathing leveled out. Buster grunted quietly. Pixie flopped onto her side and started licking her paw. “I LOVE MAGIC GRAPE JUICE,” she muttered through the bond.

  Ethan’s lips twitched. Then he saw the young guard—barely sixteen—lying near the third wagon, pale and barely breathing.

  Ethan grabbed his last healing potion and rushed to him. “Here, drink,” he said, holding the vial to the boy’s lips. The boy managed half the bottle before his hands gave out.

  Sam knelt beside him with a scarf, trying to stop the bleeding. “It’s not enough,” Sam said softly.

  The boy was gone a moment later. Ethan didn’t speak. He crushed the empty vial in his hand and stood.

  Durgan limped into view, blood streaking down his temple, his leg dragging slightly. He didn’t say anything at first—just moved to a wagon and opened a hidden compartment behind a rune-locked panel. Inside was his private stash: eight high-grade healing potions, some gold-threaded, one violet-black.

  “There goes my damn profit margin,” Durgan muttered, grabbing five.

  He handed one to Sam, one to a nearby guard, and kept one for himself. Then he looked to the archer woman—knife still in hand, not a scratch on her. “You good?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Of course ye are,” he said. “Damn scary, that.”

  Then he moved down the line, handing out bottles and giving orders. “Anyone who can be saved—save ’em. Don’t ration it. Dump it in their mouths if you have to.”

  Ethan drank a mana potion—silver-threaded and sharp as ice. His head cleared. The bond surged clean.

  “Stabilized,” Moose said through the bond.

  “Still hurts,” Buster muttered. “But hurts better.”

  “Nap now? Yes, please,” Pixie yawned.

  Ethan didn’t answer. He just looked at the field again.

  He hadn’t meant to look at the one he burned, but he did. Clothes blackened. Skin cracked. The air thick with cooked leather and scorched blood.

  And not just him.

  He’d killed others—the curved-blade man, the hatchet woman, the one who never even saw it coming. All of it deliberate.

  And it hadn’t even felt wrong.

  Back then, it had all been instinct. Now it felt different—real. Tangible. Like something had shifted.

  He looked at his sword, still slick with blood.

  I didn’t want this.

  Then he looked up. Moose stood bloody and solid, unmoving. Pixie lay still but breathing. Buster crouched over a survivor, daring him to move. Amelia was silent, watching, still.

  But I’ll do it again if I have to.

  Ethan clenched the sword tighter. This is my family now. My Pack. I don’t care how much blood it takes—I will protect them.

  Not just survival, but commitment.

  Durgan walked the line, slow and methodical. He didn’t look at Ethan when he said, “Twenty-seven dead. Two still breathing. Four got away.”

  Ethan nodded once. “We’ll start with these two.”

  The System responded instantly.

  [COMBAT VICTORY!]

  [Defeated Hostile Group: 27/33 – Human Raiders]

  [Bonus EXP for protecting non-combatants]

  [Bonus EXP for tactical leadership]

  [Bonus EXP for defeating opponents above your level]

  [LEVEL UP!]

  [LEVEL UP!]

  [LEVEL UP!]

  [LEVEL UP!]

  [Ethan Cross – Level 10]

  [Level Milestone Reached]

  [4 Stat Points Gained]

  [New Ability Slot Unlocked]

  [Trait Selection Available – Choose 1]

  Ethan blinked. The notifications hovered in the corner of his vision, sharp and waiting.

  “Level ten...” he muttered under his breath. He hadn’t even fully processed level six yet.

  Across the bond, the ripple struck like a shared breath.

  “Pulse steady. Level confirmed,” Moose reported.

  “I feel good,” Buster said slowly. “I shouldn’t feel good, but I do.”

  “Level ten!” Pixie yelped. “Is that high? It feels high. Can we bite higher now?”

  Amelia didn’t speak, but her presence shifted—deeper, focused, watching. Ethan could have sworn she grew a little in that moment.

  He didn’t open the menus. Not yet. He let the notifications fade into the corner of his vision, still glowing faintly.

  “Later,” he said. “First, we deal with this.”