Zaber stopped mid-step.
Ahead, the forest grew denser again; the trees leaned against one another as though blocking out the sky. Light fractured as it fell, while the shadows stretched unnaturally, almost seeming to move. This was one of the abandoned paths—rarely trodden by men, yet never entirely without traces.
He planted the tip of his sword into the earth and drew a deep breath.
"Somewhere around here…" he thought. "Very close."
The heaviness in his soul had not yet dispersed. Heynler's memories had left marks in his mind. Not complete scenes, but fragments… and among those fragments were guiding signs.
Zaber slowly opened his palm.
The soul chain was still not silent. It had not calmed; rather, it waited—like something unfinished remained inside. An unhealed wound that throbbed from time to time, reminding him of its presence.
"If you can show me memories…" Zaber thought inwardly, "…then show me the path as well."
He gave no command to the chain.
He merely permitted it to speak.
One moment.
Then—heavy pressure.
Zaber closed his eyes.
The surroundings darkened.
He was no longer inside the forest.
He stood on high ground.
Below—a narrow ravine, flanked on both sides by sheer rock walls, with tree roots dangling overhead. Sunlight reached only certain patches; the rest lay in perpetual shadow.
The scene was familiar.
"This…" Zaber observed the memory. "…is the entrance path."
Within the memory stood Heynler—younger. A bow over his shoulder, a short sword at his belt. He scanned the surroundings with caution, measuring every step.
He signaled to the man beside him.
"We stop here," he said in a low voice. "There's a bend ahead. If we cross that point, we'll be visible from above."
The bandit beside him nodded.
"Any traps?"
"None." Heynler glanced downward. "But this place… if anyone comes from outside, they must pass through here first."
The memory continued.
Zaber watched.
They climbed out of the ravine and ascended along a narrow trail. The path had been deliberately made treacherous: exposed roots, loose stones, and in places the footing was guaranteed to slip.
"So…" Zaber concluded inwardly. "…the first line of defense is the path itself."
The memory shifted again.
Now he saw a wider clearing.
Deep in the forest, yet the trees had been intentionally cleared from the center. In the middle—an open space; around it, wooden platforms built at varying heights.
"Watch posts," Zaber murmured to himself.
In the memory, three figures stood above. One archer, one with a long spear, the third simply an observer. They were silent, but alert.
Heynler looked up from below:
"If I give the signal, this place answers first," he said. "Then the ones inside wake up."
"What if the enemy comes in force?"
"Then…" Heynler gave a faint smile. "…they won't get past here."
Additional details emerged in the memory.
Small bones hung from the branches. When the wind blew, they clacked against one another, producing a very low, almost inaudible sound.
"Warning system," Zaber deduced. "Crude, but effective."
The pain surged again.
Zaber clenched his teeth but did not break the memory.
"Keep going," he thought.
Time passed within the memory.
Now it was evening.
Beyond that open space lay a second ring. Temporary huts, stacks of firewood, chests for weapons.
The bandits moved openly here. Yet their weapons stayed close at hand. Every movement practiced.
"This place…" Zaber said inwardly. "…is their living area."
Voices drifted through the memory.
"Did the tribute caravan pass today?"
"Yes. From the city. As arranged."
"Did they leave anything?"
"No. They took it all."
Those words drew a cold smile across Zaber's face.
"So the connection with the city is confirmed right here."
The memory deepened further.
Now the central area.
Fewer trees, but the ground dipped noticeably. A small valley swallowed by the forest. In the middle—a large wooden structure: sturdy, rough-hewn, yet meticulously built.
"The leader's place," Zaber thought.
When Heynler entered this area, his posture changed. Shoulders squared, steps deliberate.
Inside—a large table. Spread across it, a map. The forest drawn in detail, paths marked, red and black symbols scattered over it.
The leader sat at the table.
His face remained unclear in the memory. Only a tall frame, broad shoulders, and an oppressive presence.
"Reconnaissance?" the leader asked.
"Clear," Heynler answered. "Outer paths are quiet. But lately, foreign tracks have increased."
"What kind of tracks?"
"Single. Heavy. Carrying the scent of blood."
The leader fell silent for a moment.
"So a hunter is moving."
The word rang in Zaber's mind.
"He means me," he thought.
The pain intensified again.
The memory came in fits and starts.
But it was enough.
Zaber opened his eyes.
He was back inside the forest.
His breathing had grown heavy, yet his gaze was clear.
"The layout…" he said quietly. "…three rings."
He traced the air with his fingers as though drawing it.
"First ring: the path and natural obstacles."
"Second: lookouts and signal system."
"Third: living quarters."
"Center: the leader."
He gave a slow, thin smile.
"Simple, but not bad."
Zaber glanced around.
The spacing between trees. The fall of the shadows. The direction of the wind.
"Right now…" he thought. "…I've already passed the first ring."
At that thought the soul chain stirred once more.
This time the pain was lighter.
"You're adapting," Zaber thought. "Or I'm adapting."
He lifted his sword.
He chose a direction.
This was not the path shown in the memory.
"I'll enter from the unexpected side," he said coldly.
Zaber stepped forward.
Into the forest.
Toward the bandits' territory as the sun set.
Night thickened.
Clouds hung low over the forest, choking the moonlight and starlight until only dim darkness remained. Small torches lit among the trees looked, from afar, like scattered fragments of stars.
Zaber stood motionless on a high branch.
Breathing even. Heart calm.
He closed his eyes.
The memory opened again.
This time—not in fragments. This time—systematic.
He felt as though he stood on a high cliff. Below, the entire camp lay exposed.
Three rings.
Outer ring—sentinels. Hidden among the trees, armed with signal whistles and rope traps.
Second ring—fighters. Perhaps fifteen. Wooden shields, bows, spears.
Center—the leader's tent. Surrounded by four chosen guards. One with an axe. One with a long sword. Two bare-handed fighters.
Zaber opened his eyes.
"So that's how it is…" he thought.
He dropped from the branch. When he landed, not even a whisper of sound escaped. The bite wound from the wolf still throbbed, but it was no longer distracting.
Zaber slowly raised his hand.
The soul chain began to coil between his fingers like black smoke.
"First…" he thought. "…the outer ring."
He crouched and uncovered one of the small clay pots the bandits had buried in the ground—intended as fire barriers in case of a large-scale battle. He opened it. Inside was a thick, black, sticky liquid.
Zaber began to pour it in the direction of the wind.
Onto tree bark. Onto dry leaves. Onto wooden ropes.
Then he retreated.
One moment. Two moments.
He took two flint teeth and struck them together.
SHRRRAK!
Flame erupted instantly.
Carried by the wind, the fire raced outward.
"FIRE!" a scream tore through the forest.
The sentinels sprang into motion. But it was too late.
The blaze cut off their paths. Smoke rose. Visibility vanished.
Zaber attacked in that moment.
He emerged from the smoke.
Sword extended forward.
The first bandit did not even lift his head. The blade passed cleanly through his neck.
The second tried to thrust his spear.
Zaber ducked. His hand seized the man's wrist. He yanked him forward
and drove his knee into the stomach. The bandit's breath exploded out.
The sword rose from below. It sliced upward through the throat.
The blood was hot.
"Too slow…" Zaber said coldly.
He did not pause.
The soul chain shot out behind him. It pierced two bandits at once—from left to right—through their throats.
"G… ga…" No sound came.
Zaber pulled the chain.
Their souls were torn free.
But this time he did not consume them.
"Later…" he thought. "…not now."
The second ring was already alert.
Archers loosed arrows. Zaber activated his mana sense, sharpening his perception—but the arrows were fast and he was a fraction late.
He twisted his body. One arrow grazed his shoulder. The second buried itself in his thigh.
He did not flinch.
"Pain…" he thought. "…does not hinder."
He pulled the arrow free. Wiped the blood with his hand.
Then he charged.
A shield-bearing fighter stepped forward.
Zaber did not strike with the sword.
He slipped around the shield. Slammed his shoulder into the man's shoulder. The bandit lost balance.
Zaber kicked the inside of his knee. The joint buckled inward.
The man fell.
Zaber drove his elbow into the throat.
CRACK.