The campfire crackled at the center of the camp, its flickering light illuminating the faces of the soldiers as they drank and laughed without a care.
"Hey, Darek," said one of the warriors, a man with a patchy beard and scars across his face. "Do you think Sigurd's already having his fun with that girl? She smelled bad, but she had a nice backside despite her young age."
The other soldier, a burly man with a broken nose and sharp, beady eyes, let out a guffaw, banging his mug against his knee.
"Hahaha, if you want, you can go after him," he replied with a lewd grin. "Though honestly, it's my turn next. But, to be fair, I prefer more developed women. You know, a girl isn't enough to satisfy me."
Their vulgar laughter spread among the nearby soldiers as they drank and traded crude comments about the prisoners in the cages. It was a scene often repeated along the empire's roads.
However, amidst their revelry, a dull sound interrupted the evening.
Something had fallen near the fire.
One of the soldiers turned his head curiously, but before he could say a word, the campfire went out in an instant. Darkness swallowed the camp in the blink of an eye.
"What the hell—?!" exclaimed one of the men as he jumped to his feet.
The mages reacted immediately. One extended his staff and began muttering a spell. A faint blue light emanated from his body as his incantation completed.
"I don't detect anything alive nearby," he announced, frowning.
Hearing this, the soldiers relaxed their stances. Some even resumed laughing, attributing the disturbance to a gust of wind or the mischief of the gods of fate. However, the more seasoned among them kept their hands on their weapons.
Another mage, a tall, gaunt man, raised his staff and conjured a sphere of light. The faint glow bathed the camp in a dim radiance, insufficient to restore their sense of safety but enough to dispel the deepest shadows.
It was at that moment that the first scream shattered the tranquility of the night.
A whistle sliced through the air. Something flew at impossible speed, and before the mage could react, his body convulsed in pain.
A wooden dart had embedded itself in his neck. His mouth opened in an attempt to cast something, but only a strangled sound escaped before he collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony.
"We're under attack!" roared one of the guards, drawing his sword.
The fragile calm broke into chaos. Swords were drawn, mages began chanting spells, and the warriors formed a defensive circle. The camp, full of mockery and bravado moments before, now descended into bedlam.
The soldiers moved swiftly and with discipline, raising large shields that, reinforced with their auras, formed a solid barrier around the mages. Two of the casters erected additional protective spells, creating overlapping magical domes, while another lit up the area and the last prepared an offensive spell.
But they were in the middle of the forest. The dim light barely dispelled the shadows cast by the trees, leaving numerous blind spots.
The wounded mage continued to writhe on the ground, his companions barely sparing him a glance. Meanwhile, 1765 moved silently among the shadows, his silhouette hidden by the forest's thickness.
He didn't have a clear shot at another mage. The raised shields made a precise hit difficult, and he couldn't afford to waste his darts. Each projectile had been painstakingly crafted and carried the venom extracted from the silent willow's fruits. He had brought two cartridges with him and had already used three darts from the first.
Making a decision, he pulled out a wooden plate and hurled it with precision toward one of the shields. The plate broke through the magical barrier and struck the metallic surface of the shield with a dull thud. It caused no harm, but it did sow confusion. The soldiers recoiled at the realization that their defenses could be breached so easily.
Two guards reacted immediately, breaking from the formation to try to flank their attacker. They found no one.
In that instant, 1765 descended from a branch in a calculated motion. His landing wasn't entirely silent, and every gaze turned toward him.
The attacker's strange attire puzzled them: dark wooden armor, an expressionless mask, and a stance that betrayed an unusual expertise.
But before they could analyze him further, 1765 moved.
In a fluid motion, he swapped the magazine of his dart gun and fired in quick succession. Five projectiles flew toward the mages: three struck one caster, another hit a second, and the last flew toward a third. Simultaneously, 1765 lunged forward, brandishing his short sword and slashing the nearest mage's throat in a clean cut.
The magical barriers dissipated, and the light vanished. Darkness once again enveloped the camp.
The only sources of illumination now were the faint auras of the soldiers, which only served to reveal their positions.
The hunt had begun.
Clouds had covered the moon, plunging the forest into near-total darkness. However, silence was absent. Screams, the clash of steel, and the crunch of branches underfoot echoed among the trees.
The soldiers had scattered, their formation shattered by the chaos. They were trained men, but nighttime combat in unfamiliar terrain had left them vulnerable. With each passing moment, they heard their comrades' cries but couldn't see who or what was attacking them. The shadows seemed to move on their own, and with every passing second, their numbers dwindled.
1765 moved among them with lethal precision, using the confusion as his greatest ally. He struck those who lacked proper defenses or were disoriented. His movements were calculated and precise. A slash to the throat, a strike to an artery, a shot to a weak point in the armor. Each action had a purpose: to kill without wasting energy.
One soldier, sword raised, turned at the sound of a noise to his left. Before he could react, a dagger plunged into the base of his neck. His body crumpled to the ground with nothing more than a strangled gurgle.
Another swung desperately at the air, convinced something was stalking him in the darkness. His strike met no resistance, but his arm was left exposed. Moments later, he felt a sharp pain in his side and collapsed to his knees, watching his blood seep into the earth.
Fear began to consume the warriors. Their enemies were usually loud bandits or rebels, easy to spot. But now, they faced something else. Something invisible. Something relentless.
The girl felt a strange tug within herself. Her slavery mark… she had seen it countless times reflected in water, engraved on her skin like an eternal curse. But now, that blue glow was being extracted, absorbed by the wood as if drawn by an invisible current.
Her breath caught. She didn't understand what was happening, but her heart raced with desperation. Was this some kind of magic? What did it mean? Was it an illusion?
Before she could speak, the masked figure effortlessly picked her up and, in a few agile movements, carried her to a hollow trunk. He gently placed her inside, ensuring her small body was concealed in the darkness.
"Stay here. I'll come back for you soon," he whispered in a deep, low voice, one that seemed immutable, unyielding.
With precision, he gathered a handful of bushes and dry branches, concealing the trunk's entrance meticulously. His movements were methodical, calculated, as if this were part of a plan he had executed countless times before.
And just like that, the masked figure disappeared into the night, merging with the darkness as though he had never been there.
Hidden in the shadows of the forest, 1765 observed the camp with an analytical gaze. He counted twenty-five escorts in total: twenty warriors and five mages. It was a standard composition, at least from what he had observed in his previous incursions. Typically, escorts consisted of these two classes, leaving other specializations for the military or societal roles.
Everyone was still awake; it was early in the night. He could wait for their vigilance to wane, but it was risky. There were too many prisoners, and the road they occupied wasn't entirely deserted. Any passing traveler could complicate his operation.
The best course of action was to strike swiftly.
1765 moved slowly through the shadows, his silhouette blending with the darkness. His mind focused on his plan, his breathing steady, his pulse calm.
As the moon rose high in the sky, a scene of the hunt unfolded.
The campfire crackled at the center of the camp, its light reflecting off the soldiers' careless faces. The escorts continued their revelry, oblivious to the predator lurking in the shadows.
1765 remained silent and still, his eyes fixed on his prey. He had already visualized every possible route, every angle of attack. His heart beat steadily as he prepared for what was to come.
And then, like a shadow born of the night, he moved.
The first mage fell silently, his throat slit before he could conjure a single spell. The soldiers didn't notice until it was too late. By the time they realized they were under attack, 1765 was already a phantom among them, striking swiftly and retreating into the darkness.
The battle was chaos. Soldiers shouted orders, their voices trembling with fear. They slashed at shadows, hoping to hit something, but their efforts were in vain. The masked figure moved like smoke, his strikes precise and deadly.
In the midst of the chaos, the enslaved prisoners watched in stunned silence. They had witnessed warriors before—clad in gleaming armor, wielding swords with deadly precision. But this was different. The figure attacking their captors was no warrior; he was a predator, hunting his prey with ruthless efficiency.
For the prisoners, it was a surreal sight. Their entire lives had been marked by helplessness and submission. Yet now, they watched as their tormentors fell one by one, powerless against the force that had descended upon them.
In a matter of minutes, the camp was silent once more. The bodies of the last escorts lay motionless on the ground, their weapons scattered, their blood soaking the earth.
The enslaved didn't move. They huddled in their cages, too fearful to hope for salvation, too resigned to expect a change in their fate.
And then, a torch flared to life.
The prisoners turned their heads toward the light. A humanoid figure emerged from the shadows, its face expressionless, its armor rough and primitive yet efficient. But what caught their attention most were the figure's eyes—deep, cold, blue orbs that glowed intensely in the dim light.
As the figure approached the cages, it held up a wooden plaque and pressed it to the forehead of one of the prisoners.
Everyone watched as the plaque absorbed the slave mark from the prisoner's skin, leaving no trace of it behind. A murmur of astonishment rippled through the cages.
They knew the mark. They knew what it represented—their total subjugation. It was the guarantee of their servitude, the seal that made them property. It could be used to punish them or transfer them to new masters as mere commodities. But never, in their miserable existence, had they seen someone erase a slave mark.
1765 extended his hand and crushed the lock on the cage with a single squeeze. He opened the door, threw the plaque to the ground, and said firmly:
"If you want freedom, use it yourselves."
He moved from cage to cage, repeating the act. He opened the doors, placed a plaque in each one, and left the torch planted in the camp's center, illuminating the cages so the prisoners could see their choice.
Without another word, 1765 turned to rekindle the campfire and move the bodies of the escorts.
In total, he had freed forty-five slaves. Fifteen cages opened. Forty-five pairs of eyes fixed on those wooden plaques and open doors.
And one word, whispered among them, carrying a meaning they had never known before:
"Freedom."
1765 didn't take long to pile the bodies. Then, he sat by the fire, watching the confused prisoners decide their next move.
He didn't have to wait long. One of the prisoners, the eldest of the group, hardened his gaze and clenched his fists. Memories of suffering, pain, and helplessness flooded his mind like a storm. He took a deep breath, reached down, and picked up the wooden plaque from the ground.
When he placed it against his forehead, everyone saw the glow as the mark was absorbed, but he felt no pain. He felt nothing—except an indescribable emotion swelling in his chest. Freedom.
And so began a chain reaction. The plaques were taken, passed from hand to hand, and one by one, the marks vanished into the glow of the night.
The slaves emerged from their cages with hesitant steps, some stumbling, others supported by their stronger companions. No one stayed behind.
One by one, they approached 1765. He observed them silently, analyzing their condition. They were a pitiful sight—bodies emaciated to the bone, skin hardened by hunger and mistreatment, scars marking their flesh like trophies of a life of suffering. Yet among the exhaustion and despair, he saw something different in their eyes: a spark.
It wasn't a fierce flame like the one he had seen in the girl from the forest, but a small light—a glimmer of hope beginning to take hold.
1765 nodded, grabbed several torches, and handed them out to the group. Then, in a calm but firm voice, he said:
"Follow me."
No one spoke. There were no questions or doubts. They simply followed him, moving through the darkness of the forest, guided by the faint glow of the torches. Their steps were unsteady, but their determination drove them forward.
Their first destination was the hollow tree where 1765 had left the girl. When he removed the leaves and branches hiding the entrance, her wide eyes stared back at him with relief. But when she emerged from her hiding place and saw the group of freed slaves behind him, her expression changed. She blinked in surprise, her gaze moving across their faces, noticing something that left her speechless: none bore the mark of slavery on their foreheads.
One of the women in the group approached silently and wrapped the girl in a protective embrace.
The girl felt her eyes well up as she looked at the masked figure. She didn't understand how, but she knew he was the one who had granted them freedom. Through silent tears, she bowed her head in a gesture of gratitude.
1765 didn't wait any longer. Turning on his heel, he spoke again, his tone calm but resolute:
"I'll take you somewhere safe for now. Don't stray. Follow me."
Thus began the silent procession. 1765 set the pace, walking slower than usual so everyone could keep up. The group trudged along, their weak bodies barely enduring the effort of the nighttime journey. To avoid surprises, SILAS used its ability to detect electromagnetic fields, functioning like a radar that allowed them to steer clear of the forest's predators. Having cataloged numerous frequency types in this world, it could now differentiate and avoid any potential threats.
Time passed in absolute silence, broken only by the crunching of leaves and branches beneath their feet. No one knew how far they had walked, but the fatigue and cold began to take their toll. Finally, amidst the dense grove, they found what they were looking for: a cave.
1765 stopped at the entrance and, after inspecting the area, instructed:
—You can sleep here tonight. It's not warm, but it's better than being outside. Stay close together to keep warm.
The former slaves, still processing everything that had happened, began settling inside the cave. The night was cold, but at least they had shelter. They huddled together, sharing what little body heat they had, embracing for the first time a sensation they had never known: safety.
For the first time, they slept as free people.
Early the next morning, the girl opened her eyes. She didn't fully remember what had happened the night before, but her body, accustomed to routine, assumed it was time to eat. She expected that greasy, foul-smelling paste the guards used to give them daily, but something felt different.
A gray rock ceiling loomed above her. This wasn't the cage she was used to. Then, the memories began to return.
With a trembling hand, she touched her forehead. Her skin was smooth. She didn't feel the mark that had been with her for as long as she could remember. She froze for a moment, unsure of how to feel. She was free. But then, what now? How would she eat? What would she do?
The smell of cooked meat reached her nose. It wasn't the first time she had smelled it. Before, she had caught its scent from her small cage, watching from a distance as the guards feasted on the food she and the other slaves were never given. But now… now her feet moved on their own.
She stepped out of the cave with timid steps, following the aroma to the entrance where a campfire burned with glowing orange embers. Next to the flames, she saw a human figure sitting with their back to her. The daylight revealed their silhouette clearly.
It was a young man with a strong, well-built body, muscles defined but not excessive. His black hair fell messily, as if he had never had the luxury to care about his appearance. On the ground next to him was a wooden mask, connected to small wires that he manipulated with dexterity.
When the young man turned slightly, she saw his eyes for the first time. They were a deep, hypnotic blue, as though they contained an ocean within. They were cold and analytical, yet calm, devoid of any hostility.
The girl froze, realizing that the masked man who had rescued her from the darkness wasn't a monster. He was human.