Orin Alpheratz (15 years old) Location: Solaris Date: Year 873 / Crow Cycle (3) / Archer's Day (13)

  Orin managed to stand, though it took every bit of will he had left.

  Pain tore through his left arm the moment he put weight on it, and his legs barely responded. Cuts and scrapes burned across his face and body, each movement reminding him just how close he was to collapsing again.

  His eyes remained fixed on the small cabin ahead.

  Nina’s cabin.

  He stared at it in disbelief.

  “How…?” he murmured.

  After jumping from the tree, after facing that monster, he was here again. Back in the orchard. Back at the same place he had sworn he was far from.

  “What’s happening…?” Orin whispered, turning slowly, scanning his surroundings. “How is it possible that I’m back here?”

  Before encountering the giant snake, he had been far from the cabin. Even accounting for the disorientation caused by the rattle, he was certain of it. From the top of the tree, he hadn’t seen the orchard, nor the clearing—nothing that suggested he was anywhere nearby.

  Just like his fall from the cliff.

  There was no explanation.

  No logic.

  A blast from a war horn shattered his thoughts.

  Orin flinched as the sound echoed through the forest. The horn of the Church of Luminia.

  This one was closer.

  “I’m in no condition to fight…” he muttered, clutching his injured arm. “I need to get out of here… but where?”

  Heading back toward the mountains meant risking another encounter with the giant serpent. Resting inside the cabin would have been the obvious choice—but with the Church so close, it was too dangerous.

  Then a thought struck him cold.

  “If the Church reaches this place, they’ll find the cabin.” he whispered. “And Nina will be in danger.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Nina… wait. Don’t tell me she hasn’t come back yet…”

  Limping badly, Orin forced himself to the door and pushed it open.

  Silence greeted him.

  The cabin was empty.

  “Nina?” he called, raising his voice despite himself. “Are you here?”

  No answer.

  Exhausted and lightheaded, he sank onto the sofa, his breath coming unevenly.

  “Don’t tell me… she was already captured by the Church,” he said under his breath. “If that’s the case…”

  His gaze drifted to the small hearth. The pot was still there, exactly where she had left it, untouched.

  His jaw tightened.

  “…I can’t abandon her,” he said quietly. “Not after everything she’s done for me.”

  Forcing himself up once more, Orin searched the cabin for anything usable. After several minutes, all he found was a machete used for chopping wood and a kitchen knife.

  Neither inspired much confidence—but they were better than bare hands.

  He cleaned his wounds as best he could and wrapped his arm in a rough bandage, fumbling awkwardly with only one functional hand. It wasn’t pretty, but it would have to do.

  Outside, the war horn sounded again.

  When there was nothing more he could do, Orin stepped out of the cabin. He looked back one last time, uncertain whether he would ever see the place again—or if it would appear once more, just as inexplicably.

  Another horn echoed.

  This time, he moved toward it.

  The sound came from the opposite direction of the mountains, which brought a small measure of relief. He had no desire to face the giant serpent again, though he knew any magical beast could prove just as deadly.

  “…Magical beasts,” Orin muttered, pushing through low branches as he entered a denser part of the forest. “If I can lure the soldiers toward one… it might deal with them while I escape.”

  It was risky—but far better than fighting trained soldiers with a kitchen knife.

  The problem was distance. He’d have to draw them far enough, or find another beast closer by.

  More horns.

  Not just one—but several, scattered at different distances. Whenever one sounded, the others answered in quick succession.

  “They’re coordinating…” he muttered.

  He glanced around, wishing for a vantage point.

  “If only I could get a better view,” he muttered, glancing at the trees around him. Most were small, their foliage too dense. His eyes drifted to his crudely bandaged arm. “…Not that I could climb right now anyway.”

  Earlier, adrenaline had carried him through the pain. Now that his body had caught up, every injury made itself known.

  Still, he pressed on carefully.

  Then he heard it.

  The clink of armor. The dull sound of steel.

  They were close.

  Orin slipped into a cluster of bushes and held his breath. Moments later, four figures emerged from between the trees.

  Just as he expected.

  Soldiers of the Church of Luminia.

  There were four of them.

  Orin watched from the undergrowth as the soldiers advanced cautiously, swords drawn and shields raised. Their movements were tense, eyes constantly scanning their surroundings—not merely on guard, but searching, as if expecting to find something specific.

  “Do you really think we’ll find him here?” one of them muttered. “If he came this way, he was probably devoured by a magical beast already.”

  “And we’ll be next,” the soldier at the rear replied nervously, gripping his shield tighter. “We shouldn’t even be here. We should just assume he’s dead.”

  “We can’t,” the one leading them said sharply. “Lord Morlem wants the body. So stop whining and keep searching.”

  Orin listened closely, barely daring to breathe, shifting carefully behind the bushes whenever one of them glanced his way.

  They’re looking for someone…

  The whispered exchange between the two soldiers at the back answered that question soon enough.

  “As if it’s our fault Lord Morlem threw the boy off the cliff instead of finishing him on the spot,” one muttered under his breath.

  “I can hear you,” the leader snapped without turning. “Lord Morlem’s plan is flawless. There’s no way the boy survived. We just need to find the corpse.”

  “They’ve been searching the river for two days,” the rear soldier complained again. “If they haven’t found him by now, maybe he escaped. We should report back before a magical beast shows up.”

  “He’s right,” the one beside him added. “There are only four of us. A single beast could wipe us out. We should regroup.”

  “No,” the leader said coldly. “This is how we cover more ground. I’d rather be eaten by a beast than return to Lord Morlem empty-handed.”

  As they drew closer, Orin slowly wrapped his fingers around the kitchen knife.

  This is insane, he thought. But I don’t have a choice.

  He wasn’t even sure his hunting skills would work with something like this—but it was all he had.

  The group halted.

  “It’s been a while,” the leader said. “Blow the horn again.”

  The man with the horn obeyed, lifting it to his lips and sounding a clear blast that echoed through the forest.

  “Aren’t we just calling beasts to us?” the rear soldier whispered anxiously.

  “It’s the only way to confirm the other teams are still alive,” the horn-bearer replied, lowering it as distant horns answered. “One blast if we’re safe. Two if we’re in danger. Three if we find the boy.”

  “Better get ready to blow it twice,” the soldier at the back muttered dryly.

  Before anyone could respond, the leader raised his arm sharply.

  “Quiet,” he said. “I hear something.”

  Orin heard it too.

  Rustling—close.

  His pulse quickened. Please… let it be a beast.

  He leaned forward slightly, peering through the foliage.

  A small boar burst from the bushes, squealing as it dashed past the soldiers.

  Laughter followed.

  “It’s just a pig,” the horn-bearer scoffed.

  For a brief moment, the tension loosened.

  Orin felt it immediately.

  Their guards dropped—just a little.

  Now, he thought.

  Even injured, even outnumbered, he was confident of one thing: if it came down to it, he could still run.

  “But first… the horn,” he told himself.

  If that man sounded it, more soldiers would come.

  Moving silently through brush and shadow, Orin circled closer. The soldiers’ attention remained scattered, focused outward rather than behind them.

  Then he saw him.

  The horn-bearer.

  This is it.

  “ACTIVATE HUNTER SKILL: Piercing Knife!”

  A faint bluish glow wrapped around the kitchen knife.

  It worked.

  For an instant, exhilaration surged through Orin—so strong it drowned out the pain, the fear, everything else. He locked onto his target and leapt from the bushes like a flash of lightning.

  The blade shot straight for the weak point at the neck guard—where the armor looked thinnest.

  Clang.

  The knife shattered on impact.

  Metal fragments scattered through the air.

  The armor was barely scratched.

  “No—!”

  The glow vanished.

  Orin landed in front of them, empty-handed, his breath catching in his throat as realization hit him all at once.

  For a brief moment—perhaps out of sheer shock—the soldiers froze.

  Then the man at the front snapped back to himself.

  “White hair… red eyes,” he said sharply. “No doubt about it. That’s the boy.”

  The others stiffened, hands tightening on their weapons.

  Orin let the broken handle of the kitchen knife fall from his fingers. His mind raced, searching desperately for a way out.

  In front of him, the soldier carrying the battle horn moved.

  Orin saw it.

  No.

  The man lifted the horn toward his mouth.

  Orin reacted instantly.

  He drew the machete and lunged, the blade flashing in a desperate arc. The strike split the horn clean in two, sending the pieces clattering to the ground.

  The soldier staggered back—but remained unharmed. His helmet, fully enclosed, bore a narrow opening that allowed him to play the horn without removing it.

  Still—

  Orin exhaled sharply.

  Without the horn, reinforcements couldn’t be summoned.

  “Tch… the kid’s sharper than we thought,” the horn-bearer muttered, lowering his gaze to the shattered remains at his feet.

  “No surprise,” the leader replied coolly. “He was a student of Solaris Academy.”

  “Yeah,” one of the soldiers behind them added. “That uniform—barely recognizable under all that dirt and blood, but it’s Solaris-issued.”

  Orin took a step back, machete raised.

  He could try another skill—but if it exceeded the weapon’s limits, it would shatter just like the knife.

  “Kid,” the leader said calmly as he advanced, “you’re completely cornered. That weapon won’t save you. And with those wounds… we don’t need reinforcements to deal with you.”

  “And even if they don’t hear the horn,” the former horn-bearer added, “the other teams will come check sooner or later.”

  Orin didn’t lower his blade.

  The odds were terrible—but retreating now would only make things worse. If he could injure the leader, even slightly, it might shake the others.

  Then—

  “Let’s make this interesting,” the leader said, stopping a few steps away. “A one-on-one.”

  The forest went still.

  “If you manage to defeat me in your current state,” he continued, “we’ll let you go.”

  The soldiers behind him stared in disbelief.

  “He’s serious…?” one whispered.

  The leader nodded once, confidence absolute.

  “Do you really think I’d lose like this?”

  Orin understood perfectly.

  He was wounded. Exhausted.

  And they were fully armored—every inch covered. Even imagining how to break through that defense with a machete felt absurd.

  Still…

  “…Alright,” Orin said quietly, tightening his grip.

  “Then—” the leader turned slightly toward the man who had carried the horn. “You know what to do.”

  Orin didn’t understand those words right away.

  His focus was locked on the leader, searching for a weakness, a gap—anything.

  That was the mistake.

  Behind him, glass shattered.

  Something wet and cold splashed across his body.

  “What—?!”

  A bottle had burst on impact, drenching him in a greenish liquid.

  “You should never drop your guard,” the leader said with a thin smile, “not even for a duel.”

  Realization hit Orin an instant before the pain did.

  Agony exploded through his body.

  It felt as if boiling liquid were coursing through his veins, scorching him from the inside out. His machete slipped from his numb fingers and hit the ground with a dull clang.

  He screamed—silent, breathless—clutching his chest as his legs buckled beneath him.

  “Just so you know,” the leader said calmly, watching him writhe, “that’s a special poison. You won’t be able to run. And you’ll feel unbearable pain for the next hour.”

  His smile widened.

  “It’s the same poison we use on sorcerers… before we execute them.”

  Orin couldn’t respond.

  He could barely stand.

  His vision blurred, his body trembling as if it were dissolving.

  “What do we do with him?” one soldier asked. “He’s finished—but shouldn’t we end it now? Just to be safe.”

  The leader nodded.

  “Lord Morlem wants the body. And the body is what we’ll bring him.”

  He stepped forward, sword raised.

  “You’re lucky, boy,” he said coldly. “Normally, we let sorcerers suffer longer. But considering you’ve cheated death once already… I won’t take chances.”

  The blade descended.

  Orin saw it coming.

  At the same time, something inside him broke.

  Not shattered—

  Unraveled.

  His body reached its limit, and the world seemed to tear apart around him. Pain vanished, replaced by an overwhelming sensation of being pulled apart—into countless fragments.

  Then—

  Darkness.

  A heartbeat later, the fragments surged back together.

  Orin gasped.

  The sword hadn’t touched him.

  He was meters away.

  The soldiers stared in disbelief.

  “H—he disappeared…!” one shouted.

  “He just vanished!”

  “Not only that—!” another cried, pointing. “He’s over there! He… he transported himself!”

  Orin stood trembling, breath ragged, his body still burning—but alive.

  And whatever had just happened to him…

  It terrified everyone present.