The blond-haired man's grip on his sword was tight, almost desperate. His breathing had become ragged, his movements growing more frantic as the moths darted around him like shadows. He swung his blade again, narrowly missing one of the creatures as it weaved out of his reach, circling back as if it were toying with him.
"Stay away from me!" he shouted, his voice carrying both frustration and exhaustion.
The moths didn't listen. They didn't hesitate. They moved with an unnatural intelligence, as if they understood his fear, as if they thrived off of it.
Another one dove at him. He stepped back instinctively, raising his blade in a clumsy, defensive arc. But just as he thought he'd miss again, his strike connected. The sword sliced through the creature's body, severing it with a wet, sickening sound. The remains hit the ground beside him, twisting slightly as its legs spasmed.
The man exhaled sharply, his body sagging slightly as he looked down at the thing he had just killed. "Yes… one down…" he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with relief.
But that relief was short-lived.
A flicker of movement in the dim light caught his eye. The second moth was already upon him, and it was to late for him to react.
His breath caught in his throat as he watched it close the distance in a blink. Its abdomen flexed forward, revealing a long, thin spike that jutted from its underside, gleaming with venom. The man's eyes widened in horror. He had no time to raise his sword, no time to dodge.
The moth was inches from his face, its spike aimed directly at him.
Then—something struck it mid-air.
The impact sent the moth crashing to the ground, twitching violently. The man blinked, disoriented, before his gaze snapped toward the direction of the attack. It was a dagger.
His eyes followed the blade's trajectory, his breathing still uneven. He spotted movement through the trees, and Amukelo was running toward him.
The man barely had time to react, his mouth opening slightly to ask, "Who are—"
"Watch out!" Amukelo yelled, cutting him off. "The last one is coming as well!"
The man's instincts kicked in, and he whipped his head back just in time to see the third moth barreling toward him. He didn't have time to swing his sword—it was already too close.
He lifted his left arm just as the creature struck, the spike aiming for his flesh. The moth's stinger slammed into the leather of his forearm piece, but the thick material held. The weaponized appendage failed to pierce through, getting stuck momentarily in the hardened surface.
The man gritted his teeth, jerking his arm violently, and the moth was flung to the ground. It landed with a small, distorted screech, its wings flailing.
He didn't give it a chance to recover.
He stomped down hard, pinning it to the earth, and without hesitation, he brought his sword. The blade pierced through its body, cutting off its unnatural movements in an instant. The clearing fell silent.
For a few seconds, the man simply stood there, panting. His body trembled slightly, his exhaustion finally catching up to him.
Then, he slowly turned back toward Amukelo.
The two men locked eyes for a brief moment, their surroundings still eerily quiet.
"Thanks, man." The blond-haired man's voice was steadier now, the edge of desperation gone. His breathing was still uneven, but there was something firmer in his stance now. "You saved us."
His sharp blue eyes flickered downward, taking in Amukelo's appearance for the first time. His gaze traveled over the torn fabric, the makeshift shirt fashioned from animal skins, the blood-stained rags that barely counted as clothing anymore. His brows furrowed slightly.
"What happened to your clothes?"
Amukelo barely glanced at him. His attention had already shifted to the three fallen figures. He had seen them earlier—two women and another man, all lying motionless, those creatures still attached to their faces. He exhaled through his nose, his mind already moving ahead.
Without answering, he stepped over to the moth he had taken down, crouching beside it. With a single, efficient movement, he pulled his dagger free from its corpse, wiping the blade clean on his forearm. Then, still without looking at the blond man, he said flatly, "Aren't they in danger for you to be asking about that?"
The man's eyes widened slightly before he blinked, as if realizing how stupid his question had been. He straightened his posture, shaking his head. "Right."
His gaze moved back to his fallen companions, a brief flash of concern crossing his features. But then he exhaled, nodding to himself. "But with the amount of time they've been grabbed, they shouldn't be in danger."
He stepped forward, motioning toward the mage. "Start with her," he said. "She was hit first. I'll release the others."
Amukelo crouched next to the mage, his dagger still in hand. His eyes flickered to the grotesque moth clinging to her face, its legs still tightly wrapped around her. The sight made his stomach twist.
"…Is it fine for me to just kill this thing?" he asked after a brief pause. "I mean, won't it harm her?"
The man shook his head. "No. Actually, killing them is the best way. Their legs will loosen, and you'll be able to just grab it and lift it off without hurting her."
Amukelo stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly.
He gripped his dagger a little tighter, his gaze shifting back to the unconscious woman beneath him.
This was the first time in years he had been this close to another person. The first time in in his life he had truly saved someone. And he wasn't sure how he felt about that.
Amukelo gripped his dagger firmly, positioning it just above the grotesque moth clinging to the mage's face. He took a slow, steady breath, forcing his hands to remain steady. One wrong move, and he could harm her. The insect's thin legs twitched slightly, its wings flickering with the last remnants of life. He needed to end it cleanly.
With precise control, he drove the dagger down, piercing the moth's soft, swollen body just between its thorax and head. A faint, wet crunch echoed in the quiet forest as its insides ruptured, and a strange, viscous liquid oozed from its wound. Almost immediately, the moth's legs slackened, its grip on the woman's skin loosening. Amukelo wasted no time—he grabbed the creature by its crumpled wings and pulled it away.
The moth was dead. He could feel the faint twitch of its muscles as the last traces of life left it. Without hesitation, he tossed it to the ground.
His attention snapped back to the woman. She was still. Her eyes were wide open, staring upward, but she wasn't moving. Not even a flinch.
Amukelo's stomach twisted. The sight was unnatural—her gaze was too vacant, too still.
"Why isn't she moving?" His voice was edged with unease as he looked over at the blond-haired man. "I killed the moth, she's free. Are you sure nothing happened to her?"
The man was already working on the others. He had knelt beside them, methodically killing each moth just as Amukelo had, sliding his blade in swiftly, ending them before peeling them away from his companions.
"It's normal," he said without looking up, his tone calm and assured. He placed one of the lifeless creatures on the ground before finally meeting Amukelo's gaze. "These are Hollow Moths. They inject a paralyzing toxin—it's slow-acting, but once they latch onto their prey, they drain mana constantly. The paralysis lasts for about ten minutes, and then they need to sting their victim again to keep them subdued."
Amukelo exhaled, stepping back slightly as he glanced over the unconscious group.
The mage he had freed was a short woman, draped in white robes that were now stained with dirt and dust. Her black hair was smooth, falling in a loose braid over her shoulder. But what stood out the most were her deep green eyes. Though they were wide open, there was no life in them—only an eerie, vacant stare.
Amukelo shifted his gaze to the others.
The archer was taller than the mage, her frame lean and athletic. She wore lightweight leather armor, built for mobility rather than protection, with a quiver of arrows slung across her back. Her chestnut-brown hair framed her face, and just like the mage, her eyes were a piercing, unnatural shade of deep green. The similarity between them was striking, but Amukelo didn't dwell on it.
The last man was built differently from the one who had fought. He was broader, clad in robust leather armor reinforced with thick metal plating, and his gear was well-maintained, his broadsword lying beside him. His hair was short and dark. Even in his unconscious state, his presence felt heavier, more commanding.
Amukelo studied them for a long moment, his arms crossing over his chest. They were well-equipped, organized, clearly not just random travelers. But he still didn't know who they were or why they were here.
Then, the blond-haired man stood, dusting himself off, and extended his hand toward Amukelo.
"Thank you." His voice carried genuine relief, his sharp blue eyes meeting Amukelo's with undeniable gratitude. "So much. My name is Bral. What's your name?"
Amukelo hesitated for only a second before shaking his hand firmly. "Amukelo."
Bral nodded, his grip strong but not overbearing. There was no arrogance in his demeanor, only sincerity.
"If not for you, Amukelo, that moth would've caught me—and that would've been the end of us."
He released the handshake, taking a small step back, and then, in a gesture Amukelo hadn't expected, Bral bowed his head slightly.
"I am in your debt, Amukelo."
Amukelo blinked, caught off guard. He raised his hands in a defensive motion, shaking his head quickly.
"No, no, no. I didn't do much." He glanced at the lifeless moths around them, then at the unmoving bodies of the others. "I just threw a dagger. You were already fighting." He exhaled and added, "But... I'm happy I could help."
He didn't know why he said that. Maybe it was because he never had helped anyone. Maybe it was because, despite all the doubt, he was relieved he had acted.