The walk was longer than he expected.
Knight passed through the outer gates of the city with barely a glance from the guard—just a tired wave and a grunt. The air changed immediately once he left the stone roads behind.
Actual grass. Not the mowed patches in Tokyo, not artificial turf or dry weeds along a curb. Real grass, wide and swaying, stretching far beyond what he could see. Soft green hills rolled gently under a pale sky. The wind moved through them in waves.
He stopped walking.
Birds chirped in the distance. The scent of wet soil filled the air. To his left, beyond the far fields, a massive forest stood like a wall of shadows—imposing, still, ancient.
He took a slow breath.
No cars. No sirens. No neighbors yelling through paper walls.
It was just the wind, the sky, and green.
For a moment, it was peaceful.
Then he remembered what he was here to do.
He followed the receptionist's directions: look for the white tree with a red mark. He found it near a cluster of rocks where the grass grew thinner. A trail of broken stems and hoof prints led deeper.
Knight gripped his dull sword tighter and moved forward.
Eventually, he smelled it.
Blood.
He crept over a small rise in the land and saw them—three wolves, larger than normal dogs, their black fur matted with blood, growling low as they tore into a dead cow, its ribs exposed and steaming.
Knight crouched low. His heartbeat thudded inside the helmet. He moved forward slowly, each step cautious as he wanted, unsure of his combat capabilities as a shut in.
Then—snap.
A twig cracked underfoot.
Three heads turned at him all at once.
Their yellow eyes locked on him.
The first wolf lunged with a snarl.
Knight barely raised his sword in time. The impact sent him sprawling backward—the weight of the wolf crashing into his chest. Its claws raked at him, painting crimson stripes across his shirt. His helmet rang like a bell.
He hit the ground hard and air was forced out of his lungs. The wolf was on him, snarling, teeth snapping inches from his visor.
Knight grunted and twisted, grabbing its scruff with one hand and flinging it off him. It slammed into a nearby tree and crumpled, stunned.
The second wolf was already on him.
Its jaws clamped around his right calf, ripping through skin. Knight screamed inside the helmet—a choked, raw sound.
The pain didn't stop him. If he wanted to live, he had to move.
With his wounds still stinging, he swung wildly with the sword but missed.
Then—the third wolf pounced.
Knight saw it too late. Its jaws opened wide, aiming for his neck.
He raised his bare arms just in time.
The teeth sank deep into his forearm.
The pain and agony hit his head.
But he didn't let go.
Instead—he grabbed the wolf's head with his other hand.
Gritting his teeth so hard they ached, Knight slammed the wolf's head into a rock beside him.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Blood splattered across his garments as its body went limp and its teeth slipped from his arm.
He didn't stop to breathe.
He turned, blood soaking through his sock and into his shoe, and stomped the wolf still latched onto his leg. Its head bounced once. He kicked it. Again. Again.
He felt something crack.
The body fell away.
He staggered back blood in his eyes. His arms were torn while his legs burned—and the first wolf was up again, foam dripping from its jaws.
It leapt.
Knight lunged forward, this time with everything he had, and drove his sword straight through its chest, slamming it into the ground with a metallic scream.
It thrashed once, coughed blood, then stilled.
Knight didn't breathe.
Until he heard movement.
He spun—
The second wolf. The one he kicked away.
Crawling.
Bleeding. Still alive.
Knight pulled the blade free and, with the last of his strength, stabbed downward—piercing its belly, driving the sword in to the hilt.
It clawed weakly at his legs before its body finally gave out.
Silence.
Knight stood there, hunched, panting. His arms were bleeding. His clothes were torn. His entire body screamed.
He leaned against a nearby tree, slumping down until he sat in the grass, too tired to move, too battered to care.
His lips curled into the faintest smile.
He then tore off a part of his clothes to use as a bandage for his wounds
He soon forced himself up
One by one, he bent down and plucked the proof from their bodies—teeth—his hands slick with blood and saliva.
He didn't feel heroic.
He didn't feel strong.
But he was alive.
And that would have to be enough.