The endless roads of the Netherworld stretched like veins through a corpse — dark, cracked, and forever shrouded in a gloomy haze. No sun existed here. Only murky clouds drifting over decaying trees and skeletal hills. For several days now, Eryndor and his small party had been traveling this forsaken land toward the scattered cat tribes.
Every eight to ten hours, they stopped to rest, stretch their sore limbs.
Currently, Little Lich Xaren was feeding Gronk, their massive mount alligator. The beast had been dragging their overloaded supply cart tirelessly.
With a flick of his bony hand, countless chunks of monster meat spilled from his spatial ring.
"Eat up, Gronk! There's still… uh… about three hundred kilograms left in storage," Xaren announced proudly.
Gronk chomped down with happy, jaw-crushing gusto.
Meanwhile, Krog was preparing a luxurious barbecue using premium meat and fresh vegetables… all for the party, of course.
"Master Eryndor!" Krog shouted in excitement. "Tonight, we feast like kings!"
Eryndor glanced over… and drooled.
"Where did you even get all that quality stuff?"
Krog puffed his green chest. "Trading, stealing, and occasionally… trading."
Elara helped Eryndor set up tents. She handled the work effortlessly while Eryndor nearly tripped over every rope.
"Careful," she sighed. "We don't want the tent collapsing on us again."
"That only happened twice…" Eryndor muttered under his breath.
But what the group didn't realize was that a short distance away, new eyes stalked them — vicious eyes.
A pack of Hound Tribe warriors crouched behind rotting rocks and dead bushes, observing the delicious supplies and the seemingly weak travelers.
They had been guarding this road for days. Their objective was simple:
Prevent any aid from reaching the cat tribes — and seize any information about their hidden villages.
They had captured countless catfolk before — tortured them — but none had revealed the locations.
This carriage… this support shipment… this was their golden chance.
But also… they were cautious.
"What if there's someone strong among them?" one growled.
"Nah. Look at 'em. Weak as worms. Especially that clumsy human with the sword."
Their leader licked his fangs.
Unaware of the incoming danger, Eryndor wiped sweat from his forehead after setting up the last tent… crookedly.
He finally had time to train.
He drew his life-draining sword — a blade that he bought at the auction.
"Alright… let's improve today!" he told himself, slashing at the air in his best 'heroic' pose.
Unfortunately, his combat skills were noticeably lower than his enthusiasm.
He rummaged through his magic ring — which was filled with treasures looted from Xaren — and found only three sword skillbooks:
---
Charging Lancer Stab
A thrust technique requiring energy buildup to penetrate armor deeply.
Powerful — but leaves him exposed while charging.
Crimson Wound Dance
A series of shallow slashes causing bleeding over time.
Good for 1-on-1… awful when outnumbered.
Reactive Parry Step
A defensive counter technique.
Dodges or deflects then counter-slashes instantly.
---
Eryndor scratched his head.
"Charging Lancer Stab… probably means I get stabbed first."
He flipped the page.
"Crimson Wound Dance… sounds cool… but if I dance too long, I'll die of exhaustion."
Finally, he closed his fist around the third book.
Reactive Parry Step.
"Yes! A skill that stops me from dying instantly? Perfect!"
He leapt to his feet — then immediately stumbled.
Elara watched silently, arms crossed.
In her mind: He is hopeless.
But outwardly, she smiled slightly.
"You're improving," she lied.
"Really?"
"No."
Eryndor inhaled deeply and began practicing the movements: light steps, careful parries, quick counter-slashes. He imagined invisible enemies attacking from all angles — and him responding with speed and style.
He nearly parried a tree at one point. The tree did not fight back.
Krog was busy flipping meat over a sizzling grill.
"Don't cut the air too hard, Master Eryndor! We'll need that for breathing!"
Xaren added, "Please don't accidentally hurt yourself again. We're running out of bandages."
"I'm fine!" Eryndor proclaimed proudly just before tripping over his own sword sheath.
They sighed in unison.
As the party remained busy with their own tasks — cooking, pitching tents, and training — the Hound Tribe scouts were making plans of their own. Stealthily, they crept closer from their previous distance, closing the gap one cautious step at a time.
Their captain, Raxor, crouched behind a twisted, dead tree, his single ear flicking as he observed the camp. His bone-studded leather armor rattled faintly whenever he shifted, and the jagged scar where his other ear once was throbbed with old fury.
With him were his chosen hunters:
Morga — a wiry archer whose pale, predatory eyes were already lining up her first target.
Thren — massive and silent, fingers coiled around his chain-spear, waiting to tear flesh and morale alike.
Vull — dagger-wielding and shadow-quick, licking his lips as though the kill was already done.
Raxor's low growl broke the silence:
"There are only four of them. We wait until they sleep. Kill them swiftly. Take everything they have. And then… we wring the cat-village locations out of their screams."
His squad nodded, eyes gleaming with hunger and cruel expectation.
Yes… tonight would be easy prey.