Chapter 118

  Written by Bayzo Albion

  My vision swam, thoughts unraveling like smoke in the wind. In a flash, her image appeared before me—utterly composed, her icy, all-seeing gaze, her quiet, precise words... A fresh wave of fear crashed over me, cold and sticky, pressing down so hard it stole the air from my lungs.

  *It's not the ants I'm afraid of... not their mandibles, not death by claws or fangs... It's her. Just her. More than the rest of this cursed world combined.*

  An overwhelming, all-consuming weakness engulfed me. Final. Absolute. My legs turned alien, soft and unresponsive; they buckled beneath me without warning. The ground rushed up with terrifying speed, and I crashed face-first into the cold, damp grass, the scent of rot and rich earth filling my nostrils.

  I convulsed in a desperate attempt to rise, pushing off with my hands—but my arms shook violently, elbows giving way, refusing to obey. Darkness crept in at the edges of my sight, black spots flickering like dying stars. The last dregs of my energy betrayed me, leaving behind only a fragile, hysterical shell.

  And so I lay there, sprawled on the earth. A small, feeble, drained body abandoned in the vast, indifferent wilderness. Utterly alone. Alone against a world that had suddenly narrowed to just her.

  Sleep claimed me without warning. I don't even recall closing my eyes—my body simply decided it could endure no more. Pain, fear, thoughts—all swallowed by a black abyss.

  ...And then I awoke.

  The first sensation was warmth. Soft, enveloping. Not the chill of the soil or the forest's dampness. The warmth of another human body.

  I opened my eyes and realized—I was cradled in her arms.

  Her embrace was gentle, careful, as if I were a delicate toy that might shatter. My head rested against her chest, each subtle rise and fall of her breathing, each faint thrum of her heartbeat, lulling me, quieting the storm in my mind.

  Above us, a campfire crackled softly, flames dancing in the night. She'd laid one blanket beneath us like a makeshift mattress, and the other draped over us both, warding off the chill.

  I held my breath, unsure how to react. My heart raced, but against all reason, my body relaxed. In the softness of her chest, in this unexpected warmth, I felt... safe. For the first time in what felt like forever.

  And that feeling terrified me most of all.

  She slept deeply, her breaths even, her face serene, as if the world's troubles were a distant memory, irrelevant to her.

  My heart quickened as I carefully propped myself up. Curiosity and suspicion burned hotter than any lingering fear. With trembling hands, I slowly lifted the edge of her dress.

  And I froze.

  No seal.

  No runes, no symbols, no mark of slavery. Nothing. Just smooth, unblemished skin.

  The world spun around me.

  *So... she's not a slave. She never was. She's a pretender. Or... a hunter. Maybe her hobby is killing those who take slaves just to torment them. And now... now she's with me.*

  I clenched my jaw, fighting to hide the tremor in my limbs.

  In that instant, her eyelashes fluttered. Her eyes opened slowly.

  And there it was—the mark.

  The slave brand glowed on her skin, as if it had always been there. As if it materialized only because she awoke and willed it into existence.

  I recoiled, but too late. With a sudden, almost commanding pull, she drew me close again. Her arms locked around me firmly, her chest pressing against my cheek—soft, warm, soothing in a way that sent shivers down my spine.

  I trembled, not from cold—from fear mingled with a strange, forbidden thrill.

  "Good morning, Master..." Her voice was sweet and soft, but laced with an underlying power that sent a chill racing along my back.

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  I held my breath for a second. Her chest was too close, her tone too gentle. But I was no longer the broken boy who'd collapsed in the grass from terror and fatigue.

  I'd slept.

  My mind was clear, sharp as the morning air.

  A faint smile tugged at my lips—not from pleasure, but from resolve.

  "Let me go," I said evenly. "That's an order, since you call me Master."

  She stilled, as if testing my seriousness. Her arms loosened—not immediately, but they did. I rose carefully, straightening my clothes, standing tall.

  My head was free of fear, of obsession. No intoxicating haze from the kills clouded my thoughts. I thought with crystal clarity.

  And that clarity filled me with a strange, steady confidence.

  I looked down at her—for the first time feeling like I controlled the moment.

  "Good morning," I added calmly. "But let's make this clear: no more embraces without my permission."

  She narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Her face slipped back into that doll-like mask, though her gaze sparked briefly—with irritation, or perhaps intrigue.

  She rose after me, the blanket sliding from her shoulder. For a moment, her slender legs in black stockings were exposed, her dress rumpled and riding up, revealing more than it should. Her movements were languid, sleepy, and in that disheveled state, there was something... dangerously alluring.

  Heat rushed to my face, my chest tightening, thoughts tangling for a heartbeat.

  *Damn... this is too much...*

  She seemed oblivious—or perhaps not—as she adjusted her dress slowly, carelessly, as if accidentally putting on display what any ordinary girl would rush to conceal.

  I turned away sharply, fists clenched.

  "Enough," I said harshly. "No more... sloppiness. No movements that distract me. I forbid it."

  Behind me, I heard a soft exhale—part sigh, part chuckle. But when I glanced back, her expression was neutral again: even, calm, as if she'd done nothing at all.

  "I'm serious," I repeated, quieter now. "This is your last warning."

  She nodded slowly, obediently. But her eyes... they gleamed with that odd spark I was starting to loathe—or fear.

  The darkness faded as dawn's gray light filtered through the branches. The forest came alive with the chorus of birds and the rustle of small creatures stirring.

  We set off toward the city.

  I still limped, each step a labored effort. My side throbbed like a heated spike embedded in my flesh. Waves of pain surged with every movement, but I gritted my teeth and pressed on in silence.

  She walked beside me, light-footed, as if the night's battle had never touched her. Her face was placid once more, as though everything had happened to someone else entirely.

  My gaze drifted downward by chance, landing on her clothes. Spotless. Not a trace of blood. The black fabric looked freshly tailored, pristine.

  I touched my own shoulder, running a hand over my uniform. Clean as well. No stains, no crusted blood, though I knew yesterday it had been soaked in gore.

  *At least that's something,* I thought with a wry twist. *No need to mend, patch, or scrub. The enchantments do their job.*

  I smirked through the pain. My body might ache, each wound a reminder of my folly, but at least my clothes wouldn't give me away.

  We walked in silence. The city was still distant, but the mere idea of its walls, a roof overhead, and a proper bed felt like the greatest reward imaginable.

  The city greeted us with its usual morning bustle: merchants hauling crates to their stalls, the air thick with the aroma of fresh bread and damp soil. But none of it mattered to me. I could barely stay on my feet.

  My first stop was the guild. A healer—yes, I needed one urgently, but I had no idea where to look. The guild knew everything.

  As I pushed open the heavy door, the familiar hum of voices and laughter filled the air. But it died the moment I stepped inside.

  Silence blanketed the hall like a heavy shroud.

  I hobbled forward, eyes downcast. My face was grim, as if I'd lost an entire war. Exhaustion and emptiness churned in my chest.

  And the guild members sensed it.

  No one smirked, no one tossed a snide remark. Instead, their gazes turned serious, even wary.

  I saw conversations halt mid-sentence, mugs set down quietly. In their eyes, there was no mockery, no glee—only a cautious respect for someone who'd returned from the forest bearing wounds and shadows.

  I reached the counter. The same receptionist—as if she truly worked around the clock, always in place, with that unchanging composure.

  "For the quest... it'll take me about three months," I exhaled. "So far, I've only killed four ants."

  She nodded without surprise, her eyes lingering a bit longer, assessing my condition.

  "That's fine," she replied evenly. "Quests like this aren't finished in a day."

  I managed a half-smile.

  "Where can I find a healer?" I asked. "Right now, if possible."

  "Any local can point you," she said without hesitation. "Healers usually set up near the city gates. That's where they're needed most. In the center, there are others... but those are for the elite. The ones who pay triple for the same service."

  I nodded, dropping my gaze.

  Of course. The wealthy heal with gold, while I'd make do with humble hands.