Gwenna gave a sharp nod and adjusted the strap on her quiver. Without another word, she turned and started up the narrow slope that led away from the caravan clearing, her boots whispering against the packed earth.

  Moose moved into formation without a sound, falling into step just ahead of her. His ears were up—focused, watching.

  The rest of the Pack followed. Ethan moved with them, the quiet of the trees folding in around them like a thick wool blanket. Pine needles softened every footstep. Overhead, branches swayed gently in the breeze, masking their movement in the rustle of leaves.

  They didn’t talk. They didn’t need to. Between Gwenna’s trained eye and Moose’s nose, the trail was obvious—and they were moving fast. Ethan found himself jogging to keep up.

  Pixie shot ahead, her paws barely touching the ground. She skidded sideways, circled back, then dashed forward again in bursts of restless energy.

  “SOMETHING WAS HERE,” she blurted into the bond. “I SMELL… MUD. AND PEOPLE. AND... OH NO. SHOES.”

  Buster grunted. “I mean, yeah. They’re slavers. They have feet.”

  Pixie ignored him completely. “THERE’S A CRUSHED APPLE UNDER THIS BUSH! A CRIME!”

  Gwenna paused, crouching low beside the spot Pixie had pointed out. Her gloved fingers brushed a deep bootprint in the soil, then a second one—dragging slightly.

  “Twelve passed through here,” she said. “Heavy load-bearers. Two were limping.”

  Ethan stopped beside her. “Prisoners?”

  “Most likely.” Her voice was flat, but her eyes were cold.

  Moose stepped ahead again, scanning the tree line. “Two hours ahead. Maybe less,” he projected through the bond. “Their pace is slow. Too much weight.”

  “So we’re gaining,” Ethan replied.

  “We’re always gaining,” Moose said.

  “He’s been dramatic ever since the goblins,” Buster muttered. “I’m still recovering from that smell. Like bad bacon left in the sun.”

  Pixie leapt onto a low rock and struck a pose. “I am the tip of the spear! I scout for glory!”

  She promptly fell off the rock.

  Gwenna glanced back at Ethan, one brow raised. “...Is she okay?”

  “She’s enthusiastic,” Ethan said.

  “Is that what you call barking at apples and falling off rocks?” Gwenna asked.

  “She has a method,” Ethan said evenly.

  Buster snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

  They pressed on. The trail narrowed through a break in the tree line. Gwenna adjusted her pace to match Moose without even thinking. She didn’t need to speak—just moved in sync with him, step for step. It was unsettling how fast they moved together once the rhythm settled in.

  Ethan checked the bond again, a quiet pulse of instinct. Still three. Still no Amelia. He let the silence stretch in his chest and said nothing.

  She’s safer back there, he told himself. She’s just a kid.

  Moose’s voice broke into the thought. “Your mind is split. We need you whole.”

  “I know,” Ethan whispered.

  The terrain shifted. Pine gave way to a darker, older forest—oak and moss and the smell of deep soil. The light dimmed, even though the sun was still up. The trees just... swallowed it.

  Buster slowed slightly. “Anyone else feeling a horror-movie vibe? Or is that just me?”

  “You’re always like this before a fight,” Moose replied.

  “It’s how I cope,” Buster said.

  Then Gwenna held up her hand—fist closed. A signal. Everyone froze.

  She pointed through the trees. A flicker of orange light danced along the trunks ahead, rising and falling with a steady pulse. Ethan stepped up beside her and saw it too: firelight, low to the ground. There was no smoke trail, but the glow was there. Camp perimeter.

  “Dead center,” Gwenna said quietly. “They’re dug in.”

  Ethan scanned the shadows for movement. “How close?”

  “Too close to the enemy to keep moving like this without caution,” she replied.

  Then she shifted her weight and said, “I think we should split. I can cover you from the ridge with my bow, but we need a plan—and we need to party up.”

  Ethan blinked. “That’s… a thing?”

  Gwenna gave him a look like she wasn’t sure if he was joking or dangerous. “System-linked party. Position tracking, threat markers, shared pings. Standard coordination tool. You’ve never used it?”

  “No one handed me the manual when I got here,” he muttered.

  She huffed once—almost a laugh, but not quite. “System—form party.”

  A golden shimmer blinked to life between them, hovering in the air like a fragile lens of light.

  [Party Invitation – Gwenna Hale→ Ethan Cross]

  [Accept / Decline]

  Ethan tapped “Accept.”

  [Party Formed – 2 Members]

  [Shared Position Awareness – Enabled]

  A thin golden thread connected them—faint and weightless, like a spider’s silk that only appeared when he focused on it.

  Gwenna’s eyes flicked to the corner of her vision. She stopped. Squinted. Her eyebrows drew together.

  “…You’re level ten?”

  Ethan nodded. “Just hit it today.”

  “You’re level ten,” she repeated. “You’ve been coordinating a bonded pack, leading combat charges, and keeping pace with me for hours… and you’re level ten.”

  “I didn’t say it made sense.”

  Gwenna stared at him like she was trying to solve a riddle that had teeth. “I thought you were at least twenty-five. Maybe thirty.”

  “Well. I’m not.”

  “This isn’t right,” she said. “None of it makes sense.”

  She stepped back and knelt, palm against the earth.

  “By the Covenant that Binds us,” she said slowly, “I swear to guard what is revealed and hold its truth in confidence.”

  The system acknowledged it with a pulse in the air—soft pressure against Ethan’s chest.

  [Oath Accepted – System Lock Engaged]

  “Show me your status,” Gwenna said.

  Ethan hesitated, then brought up his interface and cast it forward. The system recognized Gwenna’s oath and automatically formatted his status screen for external display—clean, normalized, stripped of Pack-specific formatting. No mirrored indicators. No companion notes. Just the numbers.

  [Status – Ethan Cross]

  Class: Arcane Tamer – Variant

  Level: 10

  HP: 215 / 215

  MP: 1480 / 1480

  Attributes:

  STR – 26

  DEX – 20

  AGI – 26

  CON – 21

  INT – 28

  WIS – 21

  CHA – 11

  LUK – 19

  Gwenna scanned the sheet in silence, brow tightening with each line. She dismissed it with a flick of her fingers and turned toward the clearing below. “You and your Pack take the eastern approach. I’ll hit from the ridge. Wait for my signal.”

  Ethan nodded. “Understood.”

  The camp was bigger than expected—six tents, two large cages, and too many footprints in the dirt. They’d seen twelve men outside, but there was no telling how many were inside. Slavers didn’t live like soldiers. They spread like oil.

  Ethan crouched behind the ferns, sword across his thighs. The Pack held formation—Moose calm and ready, Buster twitching like a fuse, and Pixie already vibrating with excitement.

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  “Three on patrol,” Moose said. “Two near the cages. Four by the fire. Two at the big tent.”

  “One just went into the tent,” he added. “Could be more inside.”

  “Smells like more,” Buster agreed. “Gear. Grease. Unwashed fear.”

  Gwenna’s party marker pulsed from the southern ridge.

  [Ready]

  The Mirror Link was steady. Moose’s CON centered Ethan’s breath. Buster’s STR made the sword feel heavier—in a good way. Pixie’s AGI zipped through his legs and ankles, ready to launch. Amelia’s DEX steadied his fingers without him even noticing.

  “Buster—barricade. Moose—firepit. Pixie—take the cage guards. Go loud.”

  "I AM THE LOUD!" Pixie chirped.

  "Stay focused," Moose replied.

  Ethan nodded once toward the ridge.

  A golden mark lit over one of the cage guards.

  [Marked by Gwenna]

  The first arrow hit a second later.

  [Human – Level ?? – Marked by Gwenna] → [Neutralized]

  Ethan pushed the bond. “Go.”

  Buster exploded through the barricade like a freight beast.

  Unstoppable Force ignited on impact. Wood, rope, and a half-buried ward stone went airborne. Smoke and dirt lifted in a cone as he surged forward, catching a slaver full in the chest.

  "Still satisfying," Buster muttered.

  Moose was next. He moved like shadow—targeting the guard by the firepit. A clean hit. Jaws locked on an arm, dragging the man into the coals.

  Pixie blinked behind one of the cage guards and bit down hard on the back of his leg. Blink Fang lit briefly under her paws. The man dropped. She vanished again before he even hit the ground.

  "KNEE DOWN! WHO’S NEXT?!"

  Ethan moved in. His steps were lighter than they had any right to be. Strength from Buster. Timing from Pixie. Balance from Amelia. Awareness from Moose.

  First slaver: down in two moves. A parry, then a clean cut across the ribs. The tag above his head blinked once:

  [Human – Level ?? – Hostile] → [Downed]

  Two more slavers came from the firepit, yelling for backup. Gwenna marked them mid-run. Ethan saw the red icons light up just before the arrows hit.

  A tent flap opened and three more men emerged—half-dressed, armed, angry.

  “We’ve got sleepers,” Moose warned. “Coming from the rear side.”

  “Three more from the woods,” Buster added. “Small patrol returning.”

  Ethan cursed under his breath. “Pixie—circle right. Don’t let them regroup.”

  “I’M ALREADY BEHIND YOU!” she sang, blinking past a slaver’s sword swing.

  Moose hit one of the new arrivals before the man’s boots even touched the ground. Pixie popped behind another, bit him on the wrist, and zipped away again. Gwenna took the third with a shot through the shoulder—non-lethal, but enough to drop him.

  Buster grappled a large slaver in hide armor. They crashed into a tent wall, flattening it. Ethan finished off the man trying to crawl from the wreckage.

  Ten down. Three still fighting. One trying to run.

  Then the tent flap opened again.

  He stepped out like he was walking onto a porch—tall, broad, calm. The Butcher wore a chainmail shirt under a stained butcher’s apron, hands bare, cleaver slung across his back. His beard was trimmed. His boots were clean. He looked... composed.

  He scanned the field, eyes sharp and unreadable. “Kel, rally the left. Drav—cover the cage.”

  Two slavers moved, but he raised a hand, palm down. “Get back to work. I’ve got this.”

  Then he looked straight at Ethan.

  Ethan raised his blade.

  The Butcher drew his cleaver in one smooth motion and charged.

  The cleaver came in low, then rose at the last second. Ethan blocked—barely. The impact rang up his arms like a tuning fork. He stepped left, ducked under the second swing, used Pixie’s speed to dart in, and struck.

  The blade hit ribs. The Butcher twisted. It glanced off—too shallow.

  He countered with a short sweep that cut into Ethan’s side—shallow, but solid. Ethan’s breath caught.

  He tried to reset, but the Butcher didn’t let him. The second swing nearly took his arm.

  Ethan ducked and rolled, feeling Moose’s endurance tighten his lungs and steady his focus. He slashed upward. The blade connected deep, under the ribs.

  Blood sprayed. The Butcher dropped to one knee. Ethan stepped back, breathing hard.

  That should’ve been it.

  It wasn’t.

  The Butcher looked down at the wound, touched it—then stood up.

  The system flickered.

  [Corruption Exposed]

  [Aberrant – Hostile – Corrupted]

  [Arcane Dissonance Detected]

  No level or class. Just that.

  The weight of it dropped into Ethan’s chest—like the System was trying to tell him something it couldn’t explain. Something shifted. Not just the Butcher—the world.

  The bond flared. The air shimmered.

  And then the light started crawling under his skin.

  Molten orange-red, like lava under scorched clay. Runes pulsed beneath his arms and over the backs of his hands—irregular, broken, glowing in rhythm with his breath. His eyes flickered white-orange, like coals under ash.

  It wasn’t a transformation. It was a reveal.

  The Butcher moved—and Ethan couldn’t keep up.

  The cleaver came down in a tight arc—blunt, brutal, efficient. Ethan blocked, but the strength behind it buckled his arms and drove him to one knee. He tried to roll. Too slow. The next strike grazed his shoulder, ripping through cloth and burning down to muscle.

  Mirror Link flared, trying to keep up. It wasn’t enough. Another swing came. Ethan staggered back, his sword suddenly heavy, his hands slower. He was losing.

  He braced for the next hit—

  —and his shadow moved.

  He thought it might pulse, or shift, or even glow. It didn’t. It just launched.

  A flash of silver and black burst upward from the ground. Amelia exploded out of the dark like a bullet made of teeth and fury. She hit the Butcher center-mass, her momentum slamming into the corrupted bulk of him with a force that cracked the air. Jaws clamped onto exposed skin at the base of his neck. Her small form twisted midair, anchoring, digging in.

  The cleaver swung wide and missed Ethan’s head by inches.

  Ethan gasped, chest heaving.

  Amelia dropped to the ground in front of him and stood between him and the Butcher. “Me help Pack,” came her voice—clear, proud, still rough.

  The bond pulsed, hot and sharp.

  Then it caught fire.

  Not literally—but close.

  Something unlocked.

  The mana didn’t drain away or vanish. It circled—held steady, like it was looking for something.

  Feeding the Pack.

  Feeding back.

  [Mirror Link Surge – Active]

  [All Highest Stats Temporarily Combined]

  [Duration: 8 Seconds]

  The bond didn’t just pulse.

  It roared.

  Ethan stood. Straightened. And ran.

  The Pack struck together. Buster crashed into the Butcher’s left knee, dropping his stance. Pixie blinked behind him and bit the back of his thigh. Moose came from the side—low, silent, and unstoppable—barreling through like a sledgehammer.

  The Butcher swung wildly, but slower now—off-rhythm, overextended. Gwenna’s arrows struck next: two into his shoulder, one into his lower back. They stuck. He didn’t flinch, but he was off balance.

  Ethan closed the gap, sword in both hands, everything burning through the bond—STR, AGI, CON, DEX, INT, WIS—all of it, all at once. He drove the blade forward into the same wound from before. It hit deep.

  And this time, he didn’t stop.

  He let go—and pushed his mana in.

  [Arcane Resonance Detected]

  [Mana Flow: Overload]

  [Corruption Response: Unstable]

  The sword lit from within. Not with fire—but with light. Blue-white. Bright enough to blind.

  It was the kind of light Ethan recognized immediately—even here, even now. The color of blue-white plasma, like Luke’s lightsaber.

  It poured from the wound. From the eyes. From the cracks along the Butcher’s arms. From the cleaver itself, now trembling in his grip. The runes seared white.

  The Butcher opened his mouth to scream—but no sound came. He crumbled. Not with a boom, but like ash falling apart in a gust of wind.

  The cleaver hit the dirt.

  So did Ethan. His knees buckled. The sword slipped from his fingers. The Mirror Link surge faded, and with it, the fire in his limbs. His body went quiet—too quiet.

  He caught himself with one hand, breathing hard, fingers digging into the scorched soil.

  The system flared once more, like a sigh of pressure being released.

  [Corruption Cleansed]

  The static was gone.

  No more flicker at the edges of his vision. No more glitch in the bond.

  The world… leveled out.

  A familiar chime rolled through Ethan’s thoughts.

  [COMBAT VICTORY!]

  [Defeated Hostile Group: 19/22 – Human Slavers]

  [Bonus EXP for protecting non-combatants]

  [Bonus EXP for defeating opponents above your level]

  [Bonus EXP for successful raid coordination]

  Ethan checked his mana.

  Thirty-two.

  Still a number. But when you were used to over fifteen hundred, it felt like trying to walk on a drained leg—wobbly, lightheaded, off-balance.

  The bond confirmed what he already suspected. The Pack felt it too. Moose stood, but slow. Buster was still lying down, panting quietly. Pixie had stopped vibrating, which was its own red flag. Only Amelia remained alert—next to him, watching. Steady. Fierce. Small.

  He looked at her. “You were supposed to stay with the caravan.”

  She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

  “You disobeyed.” Her tail didn’t even twitch.

  Ethan exhaled. “You also saved my life.”

  She blinked once, tail thumping—once, sharp and proud.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” he added softly, reaching down to touch her head. “Thanks for watching my back.”

  She leaned into his hand.

  He pulled himself to his feet, turned, and picked up his sword. The blade cracked as he lifted it. The core shimmered faintly, warped from within—slagged. It had taken the full brunt of what he’d done, and paid for it. He let it drop. It wasn’t coming with him.

  Gwenna approached a minute later. She looked down at the cracked blade, then at him. “You’ll need something better.”

  Ethan reached down and picked up the cleaver. It wasn’t elegant, but it would cut.

  She stepped back. “I’m removing myself from the party.”

  The system responded in a low chime:

  [Party Member Left – Gwenna Hale]

  “I’ll see you back at the caravan,” Gwenna added. “And when we do, I’m going to have some questions.”

  Ethan nodded. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

  She turned and walked away.

  The Pack began gathering slowly. Pixie flopped over near Ethan’s boot and whined softly. Buster let out a single, long sigh and didn’t move. Moose stood watch—bloody, but proud. Amelia stayed pressed to Ethan’s side like a second shadow.

  Ash drifted through the air, quiet and slow.

  Ethan looked at the blackened spot where the Butcher had fallen, at the faint heat still rising from where something wrong had stood.

  “He was like a Cylon,” Ethan said, almost to himself.

  Pixie perked up from the ground. “What’s a Cylon?”

  “From Battlestar Galactica,” Ethan replied. “The new one. Not the ’70s version.”

  “Is it a kind of monster?” she asked.

  “They look human,” Ethan said. “Then something flips. And they stop pretending.”

  Pixie’s ears went flat. “I definitely hate Cylons.”

  Ethan nodded, watching the ash settle into the grass. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Same.”