"Yellow and… red?"
Santos, now perched atop a tree, looked visibly confused as he watched the flare signals.
Red for danger, yellow for enemy reinforcements. If they mix the two, does that mean they found the horde?
To Santos, mixing two flares was unusual. There were seven different flares, each with a specific meaning: red for danger or SOS at sea, blue for allied reinforcements or a rendezvous point, yellow for enemy reinforcements or a base, black for extreme danger or restricted zones, green for distress calls, and the rarest—purple—to indicate mission success. The last two had never been used, as far as he could remember.
No… actually, they have been used before.
As he lost himself in thought again, two more flares with the same pattern shot up into the sky.
Santos decided to ask—there was no point in making assumptions.
The group ahead of him didn't seem to be fighting or in any immediate danger, making the use of the flares even more perplexing.
As he climbed down the tree, he saw a large part of the group running back toward the city, while two of them ventured toward the nearest flare.
With only five meters left to the ground, Santos jumped, landing in the forest. This part of the woods was relatively flat, as if someone had leveled the land long ago before planting these trees.
Without hesitation, Santos launched himself forward, chasing after the two who had entered the forest.
Elsewhere, a newly arrived group.
Everyone stood frozen in horror at the scene before them.
A horde of walkers lay dead, while another group of adventurers had been dismembered.
Arms, legs, and heads were scattered far from their original bodies. Their faces were still twisted in terror.
"It's Cuar's group. They're the oldest and most experienced. What the hell happened to them?" asked a young man whose only visible features were his eyes through his mask.
"Cuar and the archer aren't here. There are sword marks on the ground… and whoever wielded it dragged it. Look."
Another man, wearing slightly rusted armor and standing with a disciplined posture, pointed at the ground.
A fine fissure ran through the area, vanishing in some places only to reappear elsewhere. Among the fallen adventurers, there were also walkers—victims of the same discriminating blade.
"Follow the sword's trail—"
His command was interrupted by the sound of flares. A stern-looking older man in leather armor halted his order to observe.
"A Pillar Killer? Fredar, we need to regroup with them. Maybe when we arrive, we can come up with a plan to deal with this guy," said another, a man towering over the rest by nearly three heads.
Fredar, the older man, paused for a moment. His group specialized in tracking enemies and identifying potential risks. They had only five members, each more skilled than the last.
Fredar didn't take long to decide. With a swift motion, he tossed what looked like a tube to the masked man in the trees.
"Three of you, regroup with them. I'll take one and search for Cuar and the archer. Don't forget to launch the flare when three groups are together."
Fredar and the towering man then followed the sword's trail.
Moments later, two more flares were seen in the distance.
Despite the relatively flat terrain of the forest, Santos had a problem.
He was lost.
He could still track the adventurers' trail, but he had zero sense of direction and had already lost his way back to the church.
But there was no rush to run.
I just hope I don't lose the trail.
The forest wasn't too dense; light still penetrated easily, making visibility good even at night. But nighttime was the real problem—when the insects became most active.
Following the hurried tracks, he suddenly had a strange feeling and paused to look up at the sky. Moments later, he saw what he was looking for.
Boom.
A green flare exploded in the opposite direction of the adventurers—where the farthest previous flare had been launched.
"Damn it. I hope they're not dead by the time I get there."
This time, he didn't hold back.
Santos dashed toward the flare's location, putting every ounce of effort into his legs, leaning his body forward, and accelerating as fast as he could.
He looked like a tiger chasing its prey.
Even at that speed, not a drop of sweat appeared on his face.
The sound of clashing swords was now audible.
"Are they already fighting?"
As trees blurred past him, the scene drew closer. His perception shifted—he could see the leaves falling slowly, hear the clarity of his own footsteps, feel his breath and heartbeat.
Just as he rounded a tree to the right, he took in the entire battlefield.
He analyzed everything from left to right.
A walker wielding a heavy axe.
A shield-bearer struggling to block its attacks.
No archers.
No healers.
Someone carrying two wounded.
One missing an arm.
The other… won't survive with that neck wound.
One dead.
Time slowed.
The walker's axe swung down, ready to cut everything apart.
Tensing his leg muscles, Santos shot forward like a battering ram, slamming into the walker's waist.
The force of the impact disrupted the axe's trajectory, causing it to lose momentum.
Boom!
Santos crashed into a massive tree, damaging its bark and kicking up a cloud of dirt.
"Shit! What—what was that?!"
Confused, the shield-bearer turned toward the rising dust cloud.
A second later, a backpack flew through the air and landed in front of the one carrying the wounded.
"There are healing vials inside! Give two to the girl, quickly!"
The shield-bearer dropped his mace and ran to aid his comrades.
Meanwhile, Santos observed his opponent—split clean in half.
"Good Heavens… I think I overdid it."