The scream ripped through the still forest air – high, thin, unmistakably human.
It wasn't a cry of surprise. Not even fear. It was something worse. The sound of someone's last moment – the breath leaving the body along with the hope.
Arthur's head snapped toward the noise, eyes blowing wide. Finn's reaction was quieter, more dangerous. His gaze narrowed, honing in on the direction like a blade finding its sheath. Even in the unexpected, his composure didn't crack. It never did.
"Eh… what… was that?" Arthur's voice came out thin, the question hanging uselessly in the air.
Finn closed his eyes. A brief pause. Then he opened them, still fixed on the source. "I will deal with you later," he said flatly. He stepped past Arthur, unhurried, and walked toward the sound.
Arthur's gaze followed him. His wide eyes slowly hardened into a frown. The threat slid off him like water. He let out a small, dismissive scoff. "Pfft."
---
Finn reached the edge of a grass field. The ground dipped ahead into a gentle slope. A brown dirt road cut across the grassland, worn deep by wagon wheels and hooves. He stopped. His eyes traced downward.
Two carriages came into view, each hitched to a single horse. The carriages were ancient – rusted iron fittings, wooden frames cracked and splintered, wheels caked in dry mud that looked years old. They seemed ready to collapse under their own weight. They had halted mid-road, abandoned in haste or purpose.
That wasn't all.
Flanking the carriages stood eight men. Armed. Swords sheathed at hips, axes looped through belts, clubs studded with rusty nails. Weapons kept ready but not yet drawn. Their clothes were rags stitched over rags, stained with dirt and old sweat, hanging loose on gaunt frames or stretched tight over bloated bellies. Bandits. The kind who feasted on the weak.
And in front of them lay a woman.
Naked. Face-down in the dirt. Her pale skin was streaked with dust and blood – thin red lines clawed into flesh, bruises blooming purple across her shoulders and thighs. The blade of an axe was buried deep in her back, driven through with brutal force. The wooden haft stuck up at an ugly angle, splintered at the end. Blood pooled beneath her, soaking into the dry earth, spreading slowly like dark wine spilled on a tablecloth. The sun, high and indifferent, beat down on her cold flesh.
The scene was grotesque. Obscene.
Finn's eyes trembled – just a flicker, there and gone – but he swallowed it. His lips pressed into a thin line. Beneath his jaw, his teeth ground together.
Footsteps approached from behind. Arthur.
"Finn… what do you—" Arthur stepped to Finn's side and looked down. His words died in his throat. His eyes went wide, then tighter, jaw locking so hard his temples pulsed. His voice came out rough, shaking. "Bastards… Bandits…"
Finn side-glanced at him, observing the younger man's face. A short silence stretched between them. "Bandits, huh?"
Arthur's eyes sparked – a raw, burning hatred that seemed to come from somewhere old and personal. He didn't look away from the scene. "Not just bandits. Slavers. They abduct and trade people for cheap profit." His right hand curled into a fist at his side, knuckles whitening to bone.
"I see." Finn's voice was calm. Too calm. He raised one eyebrow. "You look tense. What is it?"
Arthur's gaze snapped to Finn. His tone sharpened, matching the heat in his eyes. "Why do you care? You hoping to take a shot at me like you did my mom?"
Finn pressed a palm to his forehead and closed his eyes. A long, slow exhale. He was tired of this – the accusations, the constant edge in Arthur's voice. He dropped his hand and opened his mouth to reply. "Look…"
"It doesn't matter." Arthur cut him off, already dropping to one knee. He narrowed his eyes at the scene below, studying it. Then, quieter: "Mmh…"
Finn's side-glance lingered on Arthur. His expression stayed stoic, but behind it, a thought stirred. Hm… he's serious? Guess his goofy side is another mask. He turned his attention back to the road below, tilting the brim of his straw hat for a better view.
---
Down on the roadway, one of the eight bandits broke from the group.
He walked toward the woman's body – slow, unhurried, almost casual. He wore only loose undergarments stained yellow at the seams, his bare chest sagging with years of excess and idleness. His skin was pale and blotchy, stretched over a frame gone soft from drink. Bald – not a single hair on his scarred skull. His face was a roadmap of deep furrows, broken veins, and crooked yellow teeth.
He leaned down. Grabbed the axe by its haft. Pulled.
The blade came free with a wet, sucking sound – a foul noise that seemed to hang in the air. Blood dripped from the edge, thick and dark, pattering onto the dirt like rain. He straightened up and stared at the weapon, turning it slowly in his hand as if admiring his own craftsmanship. His lips peeled back into a wide, shameless grin.
"Oh, what a whore…" His voice was gruff, gravelly, like stones grinding together in a landslide. "And after all the hassle it took to get you… you just had to run away."
He kept staring at the bloody axe, fascinated. His grin grew wider.
Then a low chuckle broke from behind him.
One of the bandits stepped forward, a wide smirk plastered across his face – the same smirk shared by the six others standing beside him. "Ho! Ho! Geez, boss, was killing her necessary?" His words were wrapped in intrigue, not concern.
The boss replied without turning. "Haha! Hey, cut me some slack, Josh, will you?" He shifted his weight, the axe dangling at his side. "The only reason this whore wasn't staked back at port for sale like the other slaves was because I needed her to lay off the day's work while we headed back to base." His wide smirk never faded. No remorse. None at all.
"I barely even touched her when she slapped me and tried to escape from the carriage. So I killed her. Hehe…" He concluded by dropping the axe-wielding hand to his side, finally turning to face his men.
"Typical boss! Haha!" Josh's eyes closed and opened in exaggerated approval. Both palms rose and settled on his hips, almost proudly. "Still… I gotta give it to you, boss. Nice throw, haha…"
Josh ended with a chuckle. The men behind him joined in unison, a chorus of low, ugly laughter.
"Awww… I'm almost blushing," the boss said, his tone playful – an emotion utterly undeserving of his bloodstained hands. He continued, swaying the axe by his side in a slow, steady rhythm, savoring his men's praise. "They don't call me Yomako 'The Gut-Splitter' for nothing, do they?"
"Yeah, right, haha… So hey, boss, now this whore's dead, you gonna help with the last one inside?" Josh's smirk widened. He winked at Yomako.
In that moment, the other men let out a sharp, unified sound. "OHHHH!"
Their voices mingled disgust with lust – a sick harmony. Their eyes shifted momentarily toward one of the carriages, then snapped back to their boss.
Yomako saw this. His grin faltered into a frown, then curled back into a smirk. "Absolutely not, you morons. As much as I want to try breaking that one with a delicate body… I'd rather not. Besides, the only reason we couldn't offload her back at port was because no one could afford her."
"Yeah, I guess you're right, boss." Josh scratched the back of his head with one hand, his smile unwavering. "It would really hurt to cut her value at the market before we can get a fortune out of her."
Then one of the other bandits chimed in, his voice dripping with anticipation. "Oh man, I was dyin' to know how she screams, boss."
He laughed.
"Haha! Me too, haha!" Yomako's laugh boomed across the road. "Guess I shouldn't have killed this whore after all, hahaha!" He stared down at the woman's body crumpled in the dirt below him.
And his men laughed along in unison, their shadows long in the afternoon sun.
---
Meanwhile, back up on the grass field, away from the roadway – Arthur and Finn.
Arthur, still on one knee, had his face twisted, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached as he listened to the bandits' conversation drift upward.
Finn stood beside him, arms folded, eyes locked on the scene below. His voice came out flat. "They have one more captive. I guess staring from this angle prevented us from seeing inside those two carriages."
"Yeah, no shit. Stating the obvious." Arthur stood back up to full height, eyes still locked below.
Finn's gaze shifted slightly to glare at Arthur, his brows raised. "…What are you doing?"
"What does it look like? I'm saving whoever's left in that carriage." Arthur's eyes met Finn's, unwavering.
Finn sighed – a soft, weary sound. "Are you crazy, or just delusional? Thinking you can get past those men."
Upon hearing Finn's words, Arthur's face lit up with a forced grin – the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, you could say both, if you like."
"How irresponsible. As much as I find this tiring, jumping out there first will get you killed." Finn's tone stayed nonchalant, as always.
Arthur's grin widened. "You know, Finn, for someone who's supposed to be our savior, you're crazy after seeing all this and deciding to do nothing." He gestured toward the bandits below.
"Quit calling me that, Arthur." Finn's voice stayed flat, though his gaze intensified slightly while he continued glaring at Arthur's widening grin and fiery eyes – eyes that burned with rage barely contained. Finn continued, "And like I said before, I never wanted these powers in the first place. Never wanted any of it. It's a heavy burden. Especially now… now of all times, I need it, and I can't have it. It's being held back by the darkness."
"Again with that crap? I THINK YOU'RE JUST PATTING YOURSELF ON THE BACK!" Arthur's gaze drifted back down as he slammed a fist into his opposite palm in front of his face – determination burning in his wide grin. "YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SOME KIND OF HERO OR SAVIOR TO HELP THOSE IN NEED! WHETHER IT'S A HASSLE OR NOT, THAT'S ALWAYS THE RIGHT THING TO DO! HMPH!"
With that, he ran past Finn – steady, silent, heading toward the bandits and one of their carriages from behind, sliding down the grassy slope in a low crouch.
Finn's eyes followed Arthur's movements. He thought to himself: Stupid kid. Trying to get to me. Still… I'll give him a little credit. He chose stealth to save whoever's in there,better than charging head first.
Arthur finally stopped at the side of the carriage, resting his back against its cracked wooden wall, breathing shallow. His eyes didn't waver as he stared at the bandits' backs – they continued laughing, still oblivious.
"Tch…" Arthur found himself stuck. Out of ideas. How could he get inside the carriage without the men behind him noticing? His brows trembled slightly. Sweat beaded on his face – tension, or the weight of realizing he hadn't thought this through.
Finn watched. His eyes were unwavering. Stoic.
In that moment, he understood Arthur's state without hearing a word. He unfolded his arms and spoke – calm, unhurried.
---
"…Didn't think I would have to intervene. Guess I was wrong."
Finn's words came out totally unmotivated—almost bored, as if the weight of violence had long since stopped impressing him. His right palm rose slowly, deliberately, and settled on top of the handle of his katana, still sheathed at his waist. The leather wrapping creaked faintly under his grip.
The fact that I have to create a diversion so he can get in… what a hassle.
He murmured his conclusion to the still air. "…Here we go."
Then he moved.
No warning. No shift in posture. One moment he stood at the edge of the grass field; the next, he was airborne—a blur of green and shadow launching off the high ground. He descended toward the brown sandy roadway below, his body cutting through the warm afternoon air. His feet hit the dry earth with an echoing thud that sent a small cloud of dust blooming around his ankles.
The sound was sharp. Final. A door slamming shut on whatever the bandits thought their afternoon would be.
The bandits' laughter died instantly.
All eight of them snapped toward the source of the disturbance. Jaws hung open. Eyes went wide. Yomako, their leader, had his back momentarily turned—but he twisted around with surprising speed, his eyes and brows narrowing in suspicion. His grip on the bloody axe tightened.
Finn straightened from his landing crouch. His upper body rose to a vertical base, unhurried, deliberate. His right hand never left his katana's handle. The dust settled around his feet like a curtain parting after a performance.
His eyes were unfazed. Stoic. Cold as river stones.
He stood with confidence—the kind that doesn't need to announce itself. His gaze swept across the bandits, taking in their ragged clothes, their drawn but not yet raised weapons, their sweaty faces. And between him and them, lying in the dirt like a grotesque centerpiece, was the naked dead woman. Her pale flesh looked almost gray in the afternoon sun. The pool of blood beneath her had begun to dry at the edges, turning dark and tacky.
She was a line drawn in the earth. On one side: Finn. On the other: Yomako and his men.
---
"Wha… and who the heck are you?" Yomako's frown carved deep lines into his wrinkled face.
Finn let the question hang in the air. He didn't rush. He didn't fidget. He simply tilted his head down slightly, the brim of his straw hat casting his eyes in shadow, and spoke.
"Why does that matter to you? "He took a pause then continue"… you speak like you have any right to after the horrible things you've done."
His tone was sharp. Unyielding.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Yomako's men exchanged glances—uncertainty flickering between them. But uncertainty quickly curdled into something else. Laughter. It started as a few snickers, then swelled into a chorus of mocking guffaws that echoed across the empty roadway.
Yomako raised his right palm above his shoulder. The laughter cut off instantly, as if his hand had sliced through a rope.
He grinned. Wide. Mad. His yellow teeth were uneven, some missing, others stained brown. "You are a cocky one." He chuckled, low and guttural, while adjusting the loose undergarment at his waist. "Don't worry—I'll spill your guts out, hehehe, for good measure."
---
Meanwhile, at the carriage…
Arthur raised his eyes slightly from where he crouched against the wooden wall. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—proud, almost teasing. He murmured to himself, barely above a breath.
"Guess he decided to help after all… softie."
He moved slowly, keeping his back against the carriage's shadowed side, until he reached the rear entrance. He glanced left, then right. No one was watching. He hopped through the open doorway.
The moment he stepped inside, the world changed.
The stench hit him first—a wall of rot and iron. Sweat. Blood. Old, rusted wood soaked with years of filth. And something else. Something acrid and sweet, like meat left too long in the sun.
Arthur's palms flew to cover his mouth and nose. His eyes watered. His stomach lurched.
Then his gaze dropped to the floor.
Blood stained the wooden planks in wide, dark smears. Chains hung from the walls—rusted iron cuffs dangling from hooks, some still closed, some hanging open like hungry mouths. The walls themselves were scratched and dented, as if something had tried to claw its way out.
Arthur's mouth gave up. He bent forward and vomited—a heave that emptied his stomach onto the filthy floor. "Eh… aghh…"
He wiped his mouth with the back of his palm, breathing hard through his nose. A thought cut through the nausea: What is this strong smell? I can barely breathe in here.
But he forced himself to move. One step. Then another. Deeper into the shadows.
The light from the doorway faded behind him. The chains rattled softly as he passed. And then… something caught his eye.
His breath stopped.
A Girl.
She was about his age—maybe sixteen, maybe seventeen. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the dim light, like porcelain left untouched. Her hair was long, beautiful, golden-blonde—strands of it spilled over her shoulders and across her face, catching the faint light like threads of spun sunlight.
But it was her ears that made Arthur freeze.
Long. Pointed. Tipped with a gentle curve that bent horizontally outward.
SHE WAS AN ELF.
Her gown was white once—now it hung in tatters, stained with dirt and blood that wasn't hers. Chains bound her wrists and one ankle, wrapped so tightly that the skin beneath had reddened and bruised. She sat slumped against the carriage wall, her eyes closed, her face cold and tired—beaten down by despair.
Arthur stood in front of her, words caught in his throat. He forced them out, barely a whisper.
"A… an… elf."
The word came out like a summoning.
Her eyes fluttered open.
They were big. Bright. Ocean-blue—so vivid that they seemed to glow against the gloom of the carriage. Tears still gathered in them, clinging to her lashes. Tear tracks marked her cheeks, dried and fresh layered over each other. She had been crying for a long time.
Her gaze found Arthur.
Her lips parted. A faint sound escaped—so quiet he almost missed it. A murmur. A prayer.
"…Help…"
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