Two soldiers drag one of the captured outcasts toward a waiting boat.
Zuwena's mind spins.
Even bound, she keeps staring at Hano.
But how…
How did he kill them…?
The pointing…
The tree falling…
The answer stands far away.
Hidden among the canopies.
Aldo watches the scene from a distance.
He exhales slowly.
Beside him stands Lei Delun.
Lei lowers a small blowpipe.
The thin needle inside it glints faintly in the moonlight.
He smiles.
"Clean shot."
He glances toward the captured druids.
"Your trick worked beautifully. But it is exhausting to fake the tree."
Aldo rubs his temple tiredly.
"The most dangerous moment was the ambush."
Lei raises an eyebrow.
"Really? You think so ?"
Aldo nods.
"If even one of them had grabbed a wand before the soldiers arrived… the plan could have collapsed."
Lei chuckles softly.
"But it didn't."
"Everything was controlled."
Aldo nods slowly.
Then pushes the boat forward again.
"Let's move on."
Lei follows.
As they travel through the swamp channel, Lei glances ahead.
Hano now escorts one of the captured outcasts—still clutching a confiscated wand.
Lei tilts his head thoughtfully.
"You plan to use that mage ?"
Aldo does not answer immediately.
Lei continues.
"To create an anti-magic zone inside the enclave ?"
Aldo finally nods.
"It will make the attack smoother."
Lei whistles quietly.
"Efficient."
They glide between the shadowed trees.
Behind them, soldiers transport the captured team.
Ahead of them lies the enclave.
Still unaware.
Still mostly intact.
Aldo's expression remains cautious.
"Eighty percent of them are still there."
Lei walks beside him along the shallow bank once they land.
"Which means the real risk comes later."
Aldo nods.
"Much later."
He gestures toward the guards escorting the prisoners.
"I've assigned soldiers to watch them."
"If the tribe discovers anything… alarms will be raised immediately."
Lei laughs softly.
"You're paranoid."
Aldo waves the comment away.
"Maybe."
He continues walking through the dim jungle path.
Leaves crunch quietly under their boots.
Then he adds calmly—
"But who knows what happens next."
A short pause.
His eyes scan the darkness ahead.
"Plans fail."
"Trails change."
"And enemies adapt."
Lei smiles slightly.
Then follows him deeper into the trees.
Mud clings thickly to the boots of the soldiers as they move through the narrow paths of the enclave, each step leaving deep impressions in the damp earth. The Witch Enclave lies unnaturally quiet beneath the dim gray light of early dawn, the pale sky filtering weakly through a canopy of twisted branches and hanging moss. Mist drifts slowly through the marsh grasses and along the shallow water channels, curling between the crooked huts that rise from the ground like growths of the swamp itself—structures woven from bark, bone, and bundled reeds hardened by years of damp air. A few lanterns still flicker weakly inside open doorways, their yellow light struggling against the slow arrival of morning.
Yet something is wrong.
No birds call from the branches above. No insects buzz across the water. Even the swamp wind seems to move more slowly, as if the world itself hesitates.
Because the magic is gone.
At the center of the village clearing, a young Outcast Mage stands trembling on unsteady legs. His hands are bound tightly behind his back with thick rope, the fibers already darkened where they cut into his wrists. Three slave-soldiers stand close around him with blades drawn, their posture rigid and disciplined. One of them grips the mage firmly by the shoulder, fingers pressing down with just enough force to prevent him from turning away or collapsing.
Before him, the wand still glows faintly.
The last fragments of the spell shimmer along its length like fading embers.
Moments earlier, the mage had spoken the final line, his voice barely steady as the magic unfolded outward in widening waves. The spell moved through the village like an invisible tide—seeping into the soil beneath the huts, passing through wooden walls and woven roofs, spreading into the air itself where countless quiet enchantments had once lingered.
Now the shimmer fades.
And with it, something deeper vanishes.
The village does not merely become quiet. It becomes empty of a presence that had once filled every corner. The silence settles like a sudden void, like the moment after a great bell has been struck and its ringing is abruptly cut away.
The spell has taken effect.
The enclave is now non-magical.
The Outcast Mage lowers his head slowly, his shoulders sagging as if a weight has settled across them. His breathing comes unevenly, shallow and controlled, as he struggles to steady himself while the soldiers watch.
Inside his mind, the thoughts move heavily.
They're capturing them… one by one…
He can hear it happening across the village even without magic—the distant sounds of boots against wood, the low orders spoken by unfamiliar voices, the muffled resistance of those who only moments ago had believed themselves protected.
The druids cannot call the roots.
The hags cannot weave their wards.
The wards that protected this place for generations are gone.
He clenches his bound hands slightly, feeling the rope bite deeper into his skin.
I did this.
The soldier gripping his shoulder tightens his hold when the mage shifts.
Stay still, the man mutters coldly.
The mage obeys without lifting his head.
He cannot look up.
Around the clearing, the 204th Company begins to move.
Aldo stands at the edge of a narrow swamp channel where the black water laps quietly against the muddy bank. His boots have already sunk halfway into the wet ground, dark mud clinging to the leather and creeping up around the seams. He does not seem to notice. His attention remains fixed on the village spread before him.
The dawn light is still dim, turning the mist above the swamp into pale drifting curtains. The crooked huts of the enclave stand silent beneath it, their walls of bark and woven reeds damp with morning dew. A few lanterns flicker weakly in doorways where their flames have not yet been extinguished.
Aldo studies the settlement carefully.
Every path.
Every doorway.
Every line of approach.
His expression remains calm. Focused. As if this were merely another exercise rather than the dismantling of a hidden magical community.
He lifts one hand slightly.
Thirty slave-soldiers step forward at once.
The signal is understood immediately. Without hesitation the group divides into five smaller detachments, each consisting of six men. They fan outward through the clearing with quiet efficiency, spreading along the narrow village paths that twist between huts and root-covered ground.
Their movements are controlled and deliberate. Boots press softly into damp earth. Leather armor creaks only faintly as they shift their weight. Steel blades remain low and ready, held close to the body.
Aldo watches them disperse before speaking.
"Guard him carefully."
The soldiers standing around the bound Outcast Mage tighten their formation slightly. One adjusts his grip on the prisoner's shoulder while another glances down to check the rope binding the mage's wrists.
"Yes, sir."
Aldo turns his head only slightly, following the progress of the advancing teams.
"Proceed."
The raid begins.
—
At the far side of the clearing, the first detachment reaches a low hut half-hidden beneath drooping branches. One soldier grips the doorframe while another kicks the wooden door inward with a sharp crack.
Inside, two druids spin around in shock.
Their antlers brush the low roof as they rise abruptly from the floor mats where they had been sitting. One of them instinctively reaches for a carved wooden staff leaning against the wall.
Too late.
A soldier lunges forward and grabs the druid's arm before his fingers can close around the staff. Another sweeps the weapon aside with the flat of his blade, sending it clattering across the floor. The third soldier steps in immediately, twisting the druid's arm behind his back while rough rope is pulled tight around his wrists.
The second druid tries to shout.
A strip of cloth is forced into his mouth before the sound can form.
Within seconds both are bound.
Outside, another detachment drags a hag from the doorway of a neighboring hut. Her tangled robes catch against the wooden frame as she struggles violently, thin hands clawing at the soldiers holding her arms.
Under normal circumstances her fury would have been dangerous.
But without magic—
Her resistance is only physical.
Three soldiers pin her arms firmly behind her back while a fourth loops rope tightly around her wrists. Another pulls a thick cloth across her mouth and knots it behind her head.
The hag's furious muffled cries disappear into the gag as they lift her off the ground and carry her away.
Across the village the pattern repeats with relentless consistency.
Doors forced open.
Huts searched.
Sleeping figures dragged from beds.
Every corner examined. Every storage pit checked. Every hidden compartment beneath the huts inspected.
The slave-soldiers move quickly and methodically, like workers dismantling a structure piece by piece. One team secures prisoners while another searches interiors. A third checks roof spaces and floor panels for concealed exits.
There is no shouting.
No wild chaos.
Only the quiet rhythm of disciplined motion.
And above it all, Aldo Patriot stands at the edge of the swamp channel, watching the operation unfold with steady, unblinking attention.
—
Aldo watches from the outer perimeter of the enclave, standing where the packed earth of the village fades into the wet roots and shallow water of the swamp. His arms rest loosely folded behind his back, the posture relaxed enough to appear almost casual. Yet his attention never drifts. His eyes move constantly across the village, tracking the quiet motion of soldiers as they pass between huts and narrow paths.
Beside him stands Ryong Min Ki.
A thin notebook rests in Ryong's hands, its pages already darkened with quick charcoal sketches. The tip of the charcoal moves steadily across the paper with a dry scratching sound, capturing shapes and details with practiced speed.
He works quickly.
Each captured staff.
Each wand.
Each strange magical instrument recovered from the huts.
Nothing is ignored. Nothing is left unrecorded.
Occasionally Ryong lifts his head, glancing toward the soldiers returning from their searches with bundles of confiscated objects. His sharp eyes study the items briefly—measuring the length of a wand, the carved runes along a druid's staff, the unusual curves of a bone talisman—before he lowers his gaze again and continues sketching.
The charcoal moves in short, precise strokes.
"Interesting…"
His voice is quiet, thoughtful, almost conversational despite the operation unfolding around them.
"I honestly didn't think our 204th team could defeat the Witch Enclave this quickly."
Another wand takes shape on the page. Ryong tilts his head slightly as he adjusts a line, then shades the grip where silver thread has been woven into the wood.
"But here we are."
Aldo does not respond.
His gaze remains fixed on the village clearing where soldiers move between the huts like a slow, organized current. Prisoners are being escorted out one by one, their hands bound, cloth gags tied firmly across their mouths. Some resist weakly. Most simply stare in stunned silence as they are led away.
From somewhere deeper within the settlement, another voice carries faintly through the trees.
Hano Kichiro.
He moves among the detachments directing the final stages of the sweep. His commands rise occasionally above the quiet activity.
"Bind them tighter."
A pause as soldiers shift position.
"Check the roof beams."
Moments later—
"Search under the floors."
The operation continues without interruption.
Teams move from hut to hut, inspecting every hidden space and storage pit. Prisoners are counted, secured, and moved toward the guarded clearing.
Everything unfolds with calm precision.
Smooth.
Efficient.
—
Further behind them, across the swamp channel, Onaga Kei manages the remaining seventy soldiers.
He sits in a small command boat, issuing instructions to runners who move back and forth through the reeds.
The reserve force waits.
Alert.
Ready.
But so far—
They are not needed.
—
Back in the village center, the Outcast Mage continues maintaining the anti-magic enchantment.
His wand glows faintly.
His eyes remain fixed on the ground.
He watches as his own companions are dragged past him.
Bound.
Gagged.
Helpless.
One of them meets his gaze briefly.
Pain flashes in their eyes.
The mage looks away.
[I did this.]
His jaw tightens.
His breathing grows heavier.
—
Ryong glances toward him.
Something about the mage's posture catches his attention.
He studies the man carefully.
The trembling hands.
The rigid shoulders.
The slow tightening of his jaw.
Ryong tilts his head.
Anger.
He's suppressing it.
For a moment, Ryong feels a faint stir of sympathy.
He's watching his own people being taken.
Anyone would feel something.
But the thought fades quickly.
Ryong closes his notebook.
Too much empathy can cloud judgment.
He steps closer to Aldo.
"The mage maintaining the enchantment…"
He lowers his voice.
"He's angry."
Aldo finally turns his head.
"Angry?"
Ryong nods.
"Suppressing it."
"But it's there."
Aldo studies the Outcast Mage quietly.
The boy stands rigid.
Eyes downward.
Muscles tight.
Yes.
Ryong is right.
Aldo exhales slowly.
[That could become a problem.]
He raises his voice slightly.
"Inside the zone."
Several soldiers look toward him.
"Proceed faster."
"Finish the mission quickly."
The soldiers nod.
Their pace increases.
Huts are searched more aggressively.
More prisoners are dragged outside.
—
Aldo gestures to four nearby soldiers.
"You four."
They step forward immediately.
"Support the interior teams."
"Speed it up."
"Yes, sir."
The soldiers hurry into the village.
The operation accelerates.
More prisoners.
More confiscated wands.
More ropes tightening.
Ryong continues documenting everything.
Each magical tool is catalogued carefully.
The pile of captured artifacts grows steadily.
—
Then—
A shout breaks the rhythm.
From inside one of the huts.
"Resistance!"
A soldier's voice.
"Four inside!"
Aldo's eyes sharpen instantly.
The Outcast Mage's head snaps up.
For the first time since the spell began.
His eyes widen.
His chest rises sharply.
"Four…?"