Still wedged in the narrow space between the wooden walls, Roka shifts impatiently.
"Why aren't we going?" he demands.
Sam exhales slowly, as if weighing options that Roka has long since decided don't matter.
"We need a plan."
"What plan! The plan is simple, we go. Same route, same destination."
But Sam doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he stares ahead, thoughtful. The silence stretches, unbearable. To Roka, it's not just hesitation, it's doubt.
"We can't use the same path," Sam finally says, his voice measured. "What if we get surrounded by bandits? What if we run into RedMoon?"
Roka doesn't flinch. His answer is immediate, unwavering.
"Then we fight."
"You don't understand the situation." Sam's voice is low, firm. "The city is unstable. It may seem like we can move freely, fight when needed, but that's an illusion."
Roka narrows his eyes, but Sam continues before he can argue.
"If you fight and kill non-guild members, the Guild Regulation Association will investigate. If they find you, the consequences will be severe." Sam lets that thought settle before pressing on. "And if you kill a guild member, that guild won't report you to the authorities, but they'll never forget. They'll hold a grudge, one that can only be settled when they kill you."
Roka exhales sharply, shaking his head.
"Have you seen what's outside? No one can find anything in that mess."
"Just wait!" Sam nearly shouts, frustration leaking into his voice.
Silence follows. Long, drawn-out moments that stretch unbearably, minutes that feel like hours to Roka.
Then, finally, Sam speaks, his tone resolute.
"The goal is clear, reach the entrance of Highcrest District as fast as possible. But speed alone isn't enough. We need no casualties. The perfect outcome is slipping through unnoticed."
He exhales, steadying his thoughts.
"If we're attacked, we run. If we're surrounded with no escape, we fight, but only to wound, never to kill. The route matters. I think the eastern roads are our best option. Most of the houses there are brick, fewer people on the streets, better places to hide."
Sam watches Roka, waiting, hoping for approval, disapproval, something. A final adjustment to the plan, a moment of contemplation.
But Roka is done waiting.
"Can we go now?" His voice is determined.
Sam exhales, nodding. Without another word, they slip out from their cramped hiding place and into the open streets of Timberland.
The city is restless. Shadows twist against broken walls, the wreckage of destroyed houses forming jagged ruins, perfect for cover. They move carefully, weaving through alleys, ducking between shattered structures, avoiding the eyes of those who watch from the darkness.
Every step is measured. Every movement calculated.
As they pass a pile of splintered wood, a corpse catches Sam's eye. An old man lies hidden among the debris, his body covered in straps of wood, blending into the wreckage like a ghost. He is motionless, almost forgotten by the world around him.
Then, as they walk by, his arm stretches out, trembling, reaching for Sam's leg.
"Please…" The word escapes him, fragile and broken. But, immediately after, he freezes.
Sam stops abruptly, his body rigid, his arms hanging unnaturally away from his sides. His head tilts downward, and his piercing gaze locks onto the old man.
The look is devastating. It's not anger, nor fear, it's something far worse, something who can not be described by words. The old man trembles under the force of Sam's bloodlust. Even Roka, standing nearby, feels the oppressive weight of it.
Sam's presence is filling the air with a suffocating heaviness. It's as if the world itself has slowed, the atmosphere thick and crushing, like the depths of the ocean.
Sam exhales slowly, his rigid posture easing, the weight in the air lifting, just enough for the old man to breathe again.
A trembling whisper escapes from the man's lips. "If you have… some food…"
Sam studies him, frail, sunken features etched with suffering, his body curled into the wreckage like something forgotten. His eyes, however, are clear. There is no deception in them, only hunger.
"I have," Sam says.
He reaches into his coat pocket, retrieving two small apples He places them in the old man's open palm.
The man clutches them with frantic fingers, bringing them to his mouth in one swift, clumsy motion.
Sam watches for only a moment before turning away.
They move forward, slipping back into the broken city.
Roka finally speaks "What was that?"
"What?"
"You looked like you wanted to eat his soul."
Sam exhales, his posture still slightly rigid.
"He scared me."
The conversation dies there, but the weight of it lingers. The memory of Sam's bloodlust clings in Roka's mind, vivid and unsettling.
...
The change is subtle at first. The houses, no longer shattered remnants of destruction, stand firm, built of brick instead of aged wood. Even the air is different, less thick with dust and decay, carrying a faint trace of something untouched by ruin.
It's still Timberland, yet, in the same time, it doesn't feel like it.
But is short-lived. The brick houses go by as quickly as they appeared, giving way to familiar signs of rotting wood, broken frames, twisted beams piled haphazardly on the streets.
They are close now. Only a turn, just a few more houses, and they'll reach the entrance to Highcrest. Yet Sam feels no relief.
His senses stretch, his instincts screaming warnings he can't quite place.
Then movement.
A man steps out from behind a corner. He is no ordinary man.
Dressed like a swordsman, his build is broad and powerful. Long hair falls past his shoulders, moving slightly as he shifts his stance. When he turns, the weight of his presence grows heavier, a massive sword scabbard hangs at his side, its size hinting at the force behind his strikes.
Sam and Roka freeze as they make eye contact with the swordsman.
Sam's voice is measured. "Dorian. From RedMoon."
Before they even consider retreat, Dorian lifts an arm, pointing directly at them.
"You will come with us."
'Us' is echoing in Sam's mind. In a matter of seconds another five men cover all directions, all of them have swords.
Sam keeps his tone measured. "We have other place to be wright now."
Dorian steps forward, his expression unwavering. "No, you don't."
The tension sharpens.
Roka shifts instinctively, lowering his stance, knees bent, arms curled, head forward. The poised readiness of a fighter who refuses to be cornered.
Sam, in contrast, stands tall, unshaken. He adjusts his glasses with deliberate care, his posture unyielding even as the circle of swordsmen tightens around them.
This isn't just a fight. It's a test.
Sam's voice is steady, calculated. "Roka, when I scream 'Now,' you run as fast as possible. The Highcrest entrance is left of that corner." His finger points precisely, his tone leaving no room for argument.
A man at Roka's side scoffs. "You just come with us."
Roka turns slightly, his voice carries no hesitation.
"Make me."
The swordsman lunges, his blade sweeping low, aiming to catch Roka's footing.
But Roka reacts in time. His legs lift effortlessly, dodging the strike. Before the swordsman can recover, Roka drives his fist into the man's wrist, quick and precise, meant to knock the weapon loose.
The sword shudders violently in the man's grasp, twisting chaotically, but it doesn't fall.
"I'll hit harder next time." speaks Roka while being not impressed.
Another fighter steps forward. "You can hit me harder."
This one is different from the others.
He is not dressed like a swordsman, instead, his attire is simple, like a man who works the land, someone used to harsh labor rather than warfare. Yet, despite the unassuming clothes, his body tells a different story.
His muscles are thick, defined, layered in a way that speaks of sheer power rather than agility. His bare arms, massive and sculpted, carry the strength of someone accustomed to heavy burdens, lifting, carrying, enduring.
And yet… something is off.
He bears no weapon, yet there is something unmistakably metallic on him.
It's not an object in his grasp, It's his arms itself.
From the back of his hand, up his forearm, past the elbow and into his shoulder, the skin has taken on a silver hue. Not armor. Not plating. But part of him. A seamless blend of flesh and metal, as if his body has been reforged by something beyond nature.
Roka has never seen anything like it.
The man swings his massive palm toward Roka's head, a gust of wind whipping through the air with its sheer weight. Yet, despite its power, the strike lacks speed. Roka moves with ease, slipping under the attack.
Without hesitation, he counters, a sharp punch to the man's wrist. But the impact is hollow, ineffective. The sensation reverberates through Roka's knuckles like he's struck solid metal. He instinctively recoils, his feet shifting back.
His teeth grit, frustration flashing in his eyes. He flexes his fingers, his claws seem bigger now.
With a burst of momentum, he lunges. His claws slice forward, aimed with precision and force.
A deafening creak erupts through the air, the sound splitting through the battlefield like the groan of bending steel.
The big man barely reacts. His forearm, marked now with a few shallow scratches, remains as solid as ever, silver flesh unmarred by the attack.
Roka lands, eyes narrowing.
Sam keeps his eyes locked on Roka's fight. But his focus is forced to shift. Another enemy steps toward him, sword in hand, closing the distance.
Without hesitation, Sam's hand moves to his back and draggs a small satchel to the side of his belt. A subtle twitch of his right hand. A kunai slips effortlessly from his sleeve, dropping straight into his waiting palm.
The metallic creaking is splitting the air, forcing every man to take notice.
Roka moves with unrelenting fury, each dash more reckless. His eyes burn wild now, untamed, hunger coiling beneath his movements.
Yet, the big man does not falter. His arms shift effortlessly, repelling every strike, his silver flesh acting as an impenetrable barrier. Every attempt, every precise claw swipe, is pushed back. The resistance only fuels Roka's frustration, igniting something deeper, something instinctual.
And then, without warning, Roka's mouth is on him.
The shift is sudden, unnatural. His face elongates, jaw stretching beyond its former limits, his teeth sinking past the metallic sheen and into flesh. The silver skin repels most attacks, but Roka has gone further. Past the reinforced surface, past the boundary meant to withstand damage, he bites into the man's normal flesh, into the vulnerable core beyond the steel-like protection.
Blood splatters onto the ground, a stark contrast against the silver sheen of the man's arm.
Roka stumbles back, his breathing uneven, his claws retracting as his body begins to regain control. Confusion clouds his mind, he doesn't remember the bite. To him, it feels as though he was simply there, disconnected from the moment.
The tension shifts.
Seizing the opportunity, the swordsman lunges at Sam. his blade slicing through the air with deadly precision.
But Sam is ready. His kunai flashes upward, meeting the sword with a sharp clang. Sam's stance remains steady, his movements calculated, his focus unwavering.
The swordsman attacks once again.
But Sam doesn't block this time, just before the kunai meets the sword, his entire body shifts, an effortless, almost unnatural movement. There is no clear preparation from his legs, no overt step or adjustment. He simply moves, his frame sliding just enough for the sword to miss him.
Sam's arm is still swinging, the momentum carrying forward.
His fist flashes upward, kunai gripped tight, striking directly against the swordsman's forehead. The impact is precise, carrying enough force to rattle his balance.
His body wavers, then he staggers, knees buckling as the dizziness overtakes him, his form sinking toward the ground.
Dorian's gaze sharpens, he's been watching Sam closely.
'Above level 15' he thinks. 'That move. He isn't ordinary'.
Dorian steps forward, his stance widening slightly, prepared.
With practiced speed, Sam reaches into his satchel, fingers curling around something small.
He pivots, turning fully toward Dorian.
In rapid succession, Sam throws his kunai and the object, both aimed directly at Dorian.
Dorian's sword knocks the kunai aside with ease. His blade then meets the second projectile, a small wooden ball, cleaving it cleanly in half.
The instant the ball is split, the explosive core ignites, bursting apart with a sharp, sudden detonation. A swarm of needle-thin wooden shards erupts from the blast, scattering in every direction. Some embed themselves deep into Dorian's exposed hands, others tear through his clothing, cutting into his skin beneath. The worst damage lands on his face, tiny splinters digging into flesh, tracing thin red lines across his cheeks, forehead, and jaw.
Blood trickles from countless small wounds.
Dorian stumbles slightly, a growl of pain escaping him.
Sam's voice tears through the chaos.
"Now!"
His legs propel him to the side, weaving through the tangled maze of broken wooden piles. The battlefield erupts into confusion, enemies still reeling from the explosion, Dorian barely recovering from the sting of a hundred splintering wounds.
Roka doesn't hesitate. He dashes too.
Sam reaches the entrance first, and just a breath behind him, Roka emerges, his heart still hammering.
Sam steadies his breath, the adrenaline still pulsing through his veins.
"We are safe now," he says.
The guards at the entrance narrowing their eyes in silent judgment. Their expressions speak louder than words, two men sprinting into Highcrest, battered and breathless, is enough to stir suspicion.
'He reaches his full potential when he's driven by instinct.' Sam thinks, a realization that settles uneasily in his chest. 'There is power. But power without control is unpredictable.'