The interior of the chief's hut was bathed in the warm, flickering orange of a low-grade mana lamp. The smell of stewed root vegetables and toasted grain filled the small space, providing a grounded, domestic comfort that felt worlds away from the violet static of the thicket.
Aiven sat at the small, rectangular dinner table, his right hand gripping a wooden spoon. The empty space on his left side felt like a heavy silence of its own. Beside him, Virelle had finally stopped crying, though her eyes remained puffy and her silver hair was tied back in a messy, practical knot Elin had helped her with earlier.
Across from them sat the village chief, a broad-supported man with a weathered face and hands calloused by decades of labor. His name was Bram. Beside him sat Elin, who was busy ladling soup into wooden bowls.
Aiven's gaze drifted to the empty side of the table. There were four of them, but the arrangement felt like it was missing a piece. He noticed a small, dried flower arrangement on a shelf near Bram's seat, and the absence of any woman's voice other than Elin's. Aiven was curious, but some questions were better left unasked.
Bram cleared his throat, his voice deep and resonant. "Mr. Roan," he began, looking Aiven directly in the eye. "I know words are a poor substitute for what you've lost. To sacrifice a limb for a village you've never seen... it's a favor we can never truly repay. Greenhollow is forever in your debt."
Aiven shook his head, looking down at his soup. "I was just doing the job I took. And... I'm not even sure if the threat is gone. Kobolds are persistent."
"It's been two and a half days since Ms. Viirelle brought you back through the gates," Elin added, sliding a bowl toward Virelle. "Usually, we'd have seen a dozen sightings by now. The livestock would be gone, and we'd hear them yapping at the edge of the fence. But the past few nights were quiet. I think we should be fine now."
Bram nodded. "The gatherers who ventured out today said they found scorched earth and a crater in the mountain. They mentioned it was a strange sight—no human remains were found in the devastation, though the ground was littered with charred kobold corpses and the blackened bones of forest animals caught in the blast."
"Speaking of kobolds," Bram continued, his voice thick with disbelief, "a four-armed Kobold? I've lived on this island for forty years, and I've never heard of such a deformity."
"How did you know about the four arms?" Aiven asked, glancing at Bram. "I didn't think I'd mentioned it yet."
Bram smiled, gesturing toward Virelle. "Ms. Virelle told us the whole harrowing tale while you were in the fever-sleep. She told us how you fought tooth and nail against that nightmare. How you had it on the ropes, your blade almost delivering the final blow, before that vampire appeared. Strange, though—how a vampire found its way into an ordinary forest like that and allied himself with a creature like a kobold."
Bram's expression turned grim. "She told us the vampire used underhanded, forbidden arts to paralyze you—binding you while you were winning—just so that monster could land a cowards' strike. A tragedy, truly. To lose an arm not to a lack of skill, but to a cowardly ambush."
Aiven froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. He blinked, mentally replaying the actual events: his terrified dodging, his shattered sword, his sluggish movements, and the moment he was hoisted into the air like a ragdoll.
"She told you... I was dominating the fight?" Aiven managed to get out, his voice cracking with a mix of disbelief and sheer alarm. He shot a glance at Virelle, whose silver hair seemed to shimmer with sudden, defensive energy. Virelle suddenly sips the warm tea, the ceramic mug hiding the lower half of her face.
"Almost had the head off, she said," Bram added, impressed. "Brave lad. But the part that really had the men talking was what happened after. She said that even after the blow fell, you didn't stay down. You tapped into some ancient, dormant lineage—a pillar of white starlight that nearly blinded her. Then you stood back up with only one arm and stood side-by-side with her, pouring your very soul into a combined strike to drive that bloodsucker away. To think, an E-rank holding enough power to scar the earth itself."
Aiven looked at Virelle again. She shifted in her seat, her prismatic orb giving a small, guilty chime. She finally spared him a split-second, sidelong glance—a silent, pleading look that said 'Just go with it'—before she returned to her intense study of the tea leaves.
"Right," Aiven muttered, a strange mixture of warmth and embarrassment bubbling in his chest. "The... underhanded tactics. They really catch you off guard."
"We'll see to it the Guild knows the truth of your heroism," Bram said, raising his mug. "A hero's price was paid here."
Aiven nearly choked on his soup, the spoon clattering against the wooden bowl. "No," he said, his voice sharp and urgent, cutting through Bram's admiration. "Please, sir—don't let the Guild know any of that. If you report the completion, just say we cleared out a pack of regular Kobolds and I was injured in a stray collapse. That's all they need to know. Heroics... they bring the kind of attention we can't afford right now."
Virelle finally spoke, her voice regaining a bit of its silken, smug edge. "Master is too humble. He's always like that—downplaying the way he stood his ground against terrifying creatures most could not defeat."
Aiven sighed, realizing that in Virelle's version of the story, he was already halfway to becoming a myth. He reached for a piece of bread, his right hand trembling slightly. He had lost an arm, a sword, and who knows what else due to the mana outburst—but as he looked at the girl who had lied to an entire village just to protect his dignity, he realized he hadn't lost everything.
"Tomorrow," Aiven said, changing the subject before Virelle could claim he had also wrestled a dragon. "We should think about heading back to the city. I need to report to the Guild. And... I need to figure out how to be an adventurer with one hand."
Virelle reached out under the table, her hand finding his knee and squeezing it once—a grounding, solid gesture. "One hand is more than enough, Master," she whispered, her eyes finally meeting his with a soft, fierce loyalty. "I'll be the other one."
Bram insisted they spend the night in the room where Aiven had been nursed, apologizing once more for the humble surroundings.
"I apologize, Mr. Roan," Bram said, his voice heavy with a sense of inadequacy. "We are a small community. This is likely a far cry from the quality of bed you are used to in the city."
Virelle, who had been inspecting the thatched ceiling, let out a soft huff. "It is quite alright. We could hardly expect a tiny village like this to have a prosperous economy or silk linens. This is adequate for the circumstances."
Aiven winced, his face heating up as he bowed toward Bram. "I am so sorry for her. We truly appreciate the hospitality, sir. It's more than enough. Thank you for everything."
Bram gave a weary, understanding smile and left them, pulling the door shut.
The room fell into a heavy silence. Aiven sat on the edge of the bed, the shifting straw inside making a rustling sound that seemed loud in the quiet hut. He looked at his bandaged left shoulder, the phantom sensation of a missing hand still a dull, confusing ache in his mind.
"Virelle," Aiven whispered, glancing toward the thin wooden door. "Can you cast the anti-sound magic? The one from the office?"
Virelle nodded solemnly. She raised a finger, tracing a silent rune in the air. A faint, shimmering ripple expanded through the room before vanishing. "It is done, Master. No one outside can hear a breath we take."
Aiven exhaled, the tension in his shoulders finally unspooling. He looked at her, his expression turning grim. "The vampire. Do you know him?"
Virelle floated down to sit beside him, her silver hair spilling over the rough blanket. "I have no idea who he was," she said, her voice dropping into a rare, unsettling register of uncertainty. "I have never encountered a signature like his, but thinking of his face makes my mana itch with repulsion. He was something… wrong."
"He knew who you were," Aiven noted, his eyes narrowing as he replayed the encounter. "Or at least, he knew what you were. He didn't say he wanted your power for himself. He said, it's only a matter of time before your power becomes theirs. He's part of something."
Virelle looked away, her prismatic orb pulsing a troubled, jagged grey.
"And those chains," Aiven continued. "You said you've never felt a binding like that. What would it take to hold someone like you? You're supposed to be a miracle."
Virelle went quiet for a moment, her fingers twisting a loose thread on her sleeve. "An artifact of that power… it isn't something you find in a dungeon or buy at a market. It would have to be an extremely rare relic, or… it would have to be amplified by a mythical-level spell. A tier of magic that shouldn't exist in the hands of a common undead."
Aiven stared at her. The implication was a heavy stone in his gut. "Then there's someone else. Someone behind him. Someone who is as powerful as you are, Virelle. Maybe even stronger."
Virelle tried to shrug it off, her usual smug smirk twitching at the corners of her mouth, but the expression felt fragile. "Stronger than me? Master, you really do have a vivid imagination. I am… surely the highest authority of magic in this sky," she said, but her voice wavered toward the end, lacking its characteristic edge. The statement sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than him. As she met Aiven's gaze, a flicker of genuine doubt crossed her eyes—a shadow she couldn't quite banish.
Aiven looked down at his right hand, the only one he had left. It had been less than a week since he had summoned Virelle. In that short time, he had gone from a logistics clerk to a maimed survivor.
He had to stop being a burden. He had been so focused on testing his sword that he hadn't realized the world he had entered didn't give out practice rounds. Whoever these beings were—the vampire and his team or organization—they were coming for Virelle. And if he remained this weak, he wouldn't be her Master; he would be her anchor, dragging her down into the dirt until they were both erased.
I have to get better, he thought, his jaw tightening. But first… I have to learn how to live with one arm. He looked at the bandage once more, the cold reality of his new life finally, fully sinking in.