The sun was barely a promise in the east, but the pain in Leo's hands was wide awake. The bandages Old Maren had wrapped were already stiff with dried fluid, the skin underneath a raw, weeping fire. Bron's words echoed in his mind: Don't come back until you can hold an axe.
He was holding one now. His grip was weak, clumsy, but it was a grip. He wasn't heading to the logging camp. He was heading deeper.
The familiar path forked ahead. To the right, the wide, trodden trail led to the logging teams—to routine, to safety, to another day of earning coppers that would never be enough. To the left, a narrow track disappeared into the overgrown edge of the Ironwood, a path rarely used and poorly maintained. A path that led toward danger. Toward the places the foremen warned you not to go.
Every step sent a fresh spike of pain from his burned hands up his arms. He welcomed it. It was a reminder of why he was here.
He didn't know exactly what he was looking for. Not yet. But he knew what he needed—something the logging camps couldn't give him. Something the safe paths stripped away before you even realized it was gone. Power, leverage, or knowledge sharp enough to cut through the life he was trapped in. The safe path was a guaranteed failure. The only chance for something to change—for him to bring back something worth silver—was out here, where the rules were simpler.
Kill or be killed.
The air grew colder as the dense canopy of the Ironwood swallowed the morning light. The damp smell of earth and decay filled his lungs. He passed a crude memorial carved into the trunk of a massive tree: a name, a date from last season, and a rusty hatchet blade wedged into the bark.
He died, Leo thought, his mind cold and sharp. What mistake did he make?
He studied the placement of the blade. Too shallow. Panic-driven. Whoever it had been hadn't committed fully—had hesitated. A flicker of disgust twisted in Leo's gut. The thought was ugly, but it was honest. He couldn't afford pity. He could only afford to learn from the dead.
Suddenly, a shriek cut through the morning quiet.
It wasn't a Beast.
It was human.
A woman, high-pitched and terrified. It came from the west, back toward the village.
Another scream followed, cut short by the frantic, clanging ring of a perimeter warning bell.
Trouble. Not deep in the forest. Not the slow, distant danger he'd prepared himself for.
Immediate. Close. Sloppy.
Leo's head snapped up. The western fields. A foraging area. Whatever it was, it had slipped past the outer watch before anyone realized. This wasn't the kind of threat you planned for—it was the kind that left bodies if no one reacted fast enough.
He hesitated for only a second, his selfish hunt colliding with something colder and more practical. If the village fell into chaos, there would be no forest left to gamble in. No place to grow stronger. No one to trade with, or return to.
Then he was running.
The axe was locked in his searing hands as he turned back toward the chaos, teeth clenched against the pain, toward whatever waited at their doorstep.
He burst through the brush into pure chaos.
A swarm of Razorwing Bats—at least forty of them—had descended on a group of five foragers. The air was a storm of black, leathery wings and screeching fury that hurt his ears. The bone ridges on their wings caught the morning sun, glinting like honed blades.
A woman screamed. A bat dove, its wing flashing past her arm. It wasn't a bite; the wing itself was the weapon. Leo saw a flicker in the air, a ripple like heat haze, and then a deep gash opened on the woman's arm, blood welling up a second after the creature had already passed.
Wind Slash.
The name, a whispered rumor from the tavern, slammed into his mind. He understood now why people said swarms like this wiped out entire foraging parties before help could arrive. Why the warning bells rang too late.
The foragers were panicked, swatting uselessly at the air, their frantic movements only agitating the swarm more. One man, his face a mask of terror, tripped over a root and fell hard.
Three bats descended on him in an instant.
Their wings were a blur of motion, not flapping but slicing. The man's scream was cut short, ending in a wet gurgle as his throat was torn open. His body went still, a dark pool spreading beneath his neck. It was over in a single, brutal second.
Just then, three militia members crashed into the clearing. Leo recognized the man in the lead—Joric, a Level 2 cultivator with Gale Chi. He moved with a confidence that felt like an insult.
"Formation!" Joric's voice cut through the panic, sharp and clear. "Civilians behind us! Now!"
Leo was frozen at the edge of the clearing, fifty meters away. His axe was useless against a swarm of flying targets. He had no chi, no techniques, no way to affect the slaughter unfolding before him. The desperate resolve he'd felt in the forest turned to ash in his mouth. He was just a spectator again.
He watched Joric, his body radiating a faint aura of power, and a venomous jealousy coiled in his gut.
He's not better. He was just born lucky. That should be me.
His jaw tightened, breath catching in his throat. Shame burned hot on its heels. It was an ugly thought, and it was true.
As the two remaining militia members formed a defensive line, protecting the terrified foragers, a teenage girl broke from the group. She ran, blind with panic, and found herself cornered against a thick outcropping of rock and tangled roots.
A mistake.
A trio of bats peeled off from the main swarm. Their movements weren't frenzied; they were deliberate. Their crimson eyes locked onto her, their wings adjusting for a diving strike.
She was going to die.
Joric was occupied, his sword a blur of silver as he held the line against the main swarm. The other militia members were focused on protecting the group. No one else saw the girl. No one else was coming.
Leo looked from the cornered girl to the bats diving toward her, and knew with a sickening certainty that whatever he chose to do next would cost him something he couldn't afford to lose.
And if he did nothing—
She would be dead before she hit the ground.
Joric moved. It wasn't the frantic scramble of the foragers; it was controlled, efficient, and terrifyingly fast. "Hold them!" he yelled to the other two militia, his voice a blade that cut through the chaos.
He didn't wait for their reply. He launched himself toward the main swarm.
The ground beneath his rear foot cracked, dirt spraying outward as he used Explosive Step. Leo felt the pressure shift before his brain caught up. Joric covered twenty meters in a single, fluid motion—not a sprint, but a controlled burst of power that was both beautiful and horrifying. Leo's attention locked onto him, involuntary, like watching a lightning strike.
Joric's sword swung in a clean overhead arc. But it was more than just steel. A visible shimmer of compressed air formed at the edge of his blade, extending outward. The Wind Blade shot forward, silent and deadly. It passed through three Razorwing Bats, and their bodies fell in neatly bisected pieces, blood fountaining in the morning light.
A gust of displaced air hit Leo, tugging at his clothes and lifting grit from the ground. He watched, mesmerized, as Joric moved again, a whirlwind of precise, chi-enhanced strikes. Each movement was economical. Each swing ended a life.
And a cold, ugly truth settled in Leo's gut.
Joric wasn't a legend. He wasn't a noble prodigy from the capital. He was a Level 2 cultivator from the village militia. Standard. Competent, but standard.
And the gulf between them was infinite. Leo's body felt slow, breakable, and useless by comparison. He was watching a man from another world.
While Joric held the main swarm, Leo's eyes snapped back to the cornered girl. The three bats were diving.
He ran.
The pain from his burned hands flared as he gripped the axe, but he ignored it. His legs pumped, ignoring the ache from his morning's labor. He had no techniques. He just had his body and a desperate, stupid plan.
He reached the girl a second before the bats did. "Down. Now," he snarled, shoving her hard behind the rock outcropping. She stumbled, falling into the dirt, her eyes wide with terror.
The bats screeched, their wings unleashing a volley of Wind Slashes.
Leo didn't try to attack. He raised the axe, turning it sideways, using the thick handle and iron head as a shield.
The invisible blades hit with the force of thrown knives.
Thwack. The first slash struck the axe handle, sending splinters flying into Leo's face.
Clang. The second hit the iron head, the vibration nearly tearing the axe from his raw hands. He roared, tightening his grip.
He was too slow to block the third.
The slash slipped past his guard and sliced deep into his right thigh. Pain, sharp and blinding, erupted through his leg. It buckled instantly. A hot spill of blood soaked his trousers and filled his boot. Nausea spiked, and his vision tightened to a pinprick.
Not good.
His footing was gone. He couldn't move cleanly. Blood loss was now a problem.
He almost died in that moment. The bats circled for another pass, sensing his weakness.
Then, a gust of wind.
Joric was there, appearing beside him in another perfect Explosive Step. He didn't even glance at Leo. His sword flashed twice. Two more Wind Blades, clean and efficient. The three bats fell, their wings severed. The threat was gone.
The entire exchange had taken less than two seconds.
Joric looked down at Leo's bleeding leg, then at the girl huddled behind the rock. His face was a mask of cold assessment. "You're a liability," he said, his voice flat. "Get the civilian out of here. Try not to die on the way."
He turned and moved back toward the main fight without another word.
The surviving bats were already scattering, the other two militia members pressing their advantage. The fight was over. Leo, leaning heavily on the rock, felt the adrenaline begin to fade, leaving only the throbbing fire in his leg.
He helped the terrified girl to her feet and pushed her toward the village. "Go. Don't stop."
As she ran, he saw that the other militia members weren't celebrating. They were already moving among the corpses, pulling out small, sharp knives. They were harvesting.
Vex Tracker was there now, standing at the edge of the clearing. He watched the militia work, his expression unreadable. Then his eyes found Leo. He pointed with his chin toward a nearby bat corpse.
"You want coin? That's coin," Vex said, his voice a low rumble. "Degrades fast. Thirty minutes and it's worthless. Cut."
Ten silver. The thought hit Leo harder than the Wind Slash. Enough for medicine. Enough for firewood.
Ignoring the fire in his leg, he limped to the nearest bat corpse, pulled out his own small skinning knife, and began to cut into the creature's chest. His hands shook, his burned skin protesting every movement.
"What do you think you're doing?" Joric's voice was sharp with contempt. He strode over and kicked the bat carcass away from Leo's reach. "You didn't kill these. Militia property."
Leo looked up, his vision blurring with a fresh wave of pain and humiliation. He was bleeding, his hands were on fire, and he was being denied the one thing that might make it all worth it.
Before he could say something that would get him beaten, Vex stepped between them. He didn't raise his voice, but the authority in it was absolute.
"The boy saved the girl. He drew the bats that would have killed her."
Joric's jaw tightened. Leo could see the muscle clench. He looked from Vex, a Level 3 Harmonized Hunter, to his own pristine uniform, then back to Leo's bleeding leg. He was outranked.
With a low snarl, Joric pointed to the bat at Leo's feet. "Fine. Take that one. And be grateful." He turned and stalked away, his disgust clear.
Leo didn't waste a second. He knelt, his leg screaming in protest, and finished harvesting the crystal. His hands were slippery with his own blood, but he forced them to be steady. He pulled the small, grey-white stone free.
It was ugly. It was stained. But it was his. Ten silver coins, earned with blood. It was medicine for the sick child. It was hope.
He clutched it in his palm, the crystal's slight warmth a stark contrast to the growing cold in his limbs. He looked up to thank Vex.
But the Hunter wasn't watching him. Vex was staring intently at the ground near the forest edge, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.
Leo followed his gaze. He saw the ash trails from the Ember Wolf he'd encountered yesterday. But they were disturbed. Over them, new tracks had been pressed into the soft earth. Deeper. Heavier. A different gait entirely.
"Razorwings are a nuisance," Vex muttered, his knuckles white on his sword. "This... this is a problem."
Leo looked from the heavy tracks back to the small, ugly crystal in his hand.
This is what Vex was waiting for. The Razorwings weren't the problem.
The hope in his palm suddenly felt very small.