Zarathis awoke to the pungent scent of blood and the warmth of the morning sun pressing against his skin. His body ached, a dull, relentless pain gnawing at his muscles as if he had been trampled by a stampede. A groggy haze clouded his thoughts, but as his vision cleared, so did the horrifying reality around him.
Corpses.
Bodies lay scattered across the bloodstained earth, their expressions frozen in terror. Some had been ripped apart by the Fendors, their mangled forms a testament to the night's slaughter. The once-sturdy caravan was nothing more than splintered wood and shredded cloth, a ruined husk left behind by the monstrous attack. The Fendors had long since moved on, leaving only death and silence in their wake.
[System Alert: Welcome back, sleepyhead! How's it feel waking up in a pile of corpses? Oh wait—you wouldn't know, this is your first time, right?]
A groan escaped Zarathis as he rubbed his temple. "Great. The first thing I hear after nearly dying is you."
[System Tip: That's what I'm here for! Well, that and watching you struggle. Oh, and congrats on not dying last night. Truly an underdog story.]
He pushed himself upright, gritting his teeth as pain flared through his arms and legs. The events of the night came rushing back—the fight against the Fendor, the Bloodclaws, the desperate struggle for survival. He flexed his fingers, still feeling the phantom weight of the crimson blades that had formed from his very own blood.
A chill crept up his spine.
Something was wrong.
His warrior's instinct kicked in just as he felt it—the cold, sharp press of steel against his throat.
His breath hitched. His entire body went rigid.
A calm yet firm female voice spoke from behind him.
"Move, and I cut."
Zarathis swallowed hard, his pulse spiking. Slowly—very slowly—he turned his head, locking eyes with the woman holding a sword to his neck.
She was the elf from the caravan.
Blonde hair framed her sharp features, slightly disheveled but still strikingly fierce. Her piercing emerald-green eyes held a dangerous intensity, locked onto him like a predator studying prey. A faint scar ran over her left eye, only adding to the battle-hardened aura she exuded. Beneath her tattered cloak, Zarathis could see the glint of armor—practical, yet form-fitting.
In her hand, she held a slender sword, its blade gleaming in the morning light.
[System Alert: Ding ding ding! Congratulations! You've unlocked a new event—'Tomboy Elf with Trust Issues' has entered the scene!]
'Not now,' Zarathis thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
The elf remained still, the sword steady. "Name."
He exhaled carefully. "Zarathis. Zarathis Hart."
She didn't lower the sword. "You're not from the Obsidian Hand, are you?"
Zarathis blinked. Obsidian Hand? The name sent a shiver down his spine. Whoever they were, they clearly weren't friendly.
He had two choices. Tell her the truth—that he was from another world, completely clueless about this mess. Or...keep things vague to avoid getting his throat slit.
"What makes you think I am?" he countered instead.
Her eyes narrowed. "Because I sense no mana from you. And yet, I saw what you did last night."
Zarathis tensed. She saw me fight?
"Normal people don't rip through a Fendor without magic," she continued, pressing the blade closer. "And the only ones who can perform feats like that without mana are members of the Obsidian Hand."
[System Alert: Ooooh, buddy, she thinks you're with the bad guys! That's rough! Quick—play dumb! Oh wait, you already are.]
Zarathis exhaled. "Look, I don't know what you're talking about. I just did what I had to do to survive."
Her piercing green eyes studied him for what felt like an eternity. Finally—finally—she lowered her sword just slightly.
"Hmph. You're either a very good liar or a very bad one."
She stepped back, keeping her hand on the hilt of her sword. "I'm Erynn. A Templar fom the Temple of Lima."
Templar? Zarathis filed that information away. Clearly, she was more than just a wandering elf. And if she was hiding her identity, that meant being a Templar wasn't something she wanted widely known.
He rubbed his throat, exhaling in relief. "Nice to meet you, Erynn. You always introduce yourself with a blade?"
She smirked. "Only when the situation calls for it."
Before Zarathis could respond, a noise cut through the silence.
Footsteps. Multiple.
Someone—no, a group of people—was approaching.
Erynn's expression shifted immediately. Without a word, she grabbed Zarathis by the arm and yanked him toward the nearest bushes, her movements swift and precise.
"Not a sound," she whispered.
The tension in the air thickened as the first shadowed figures emerged into the clearing.
Zarathis held his breath.
And then—
To be continued.