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Logan briefly busied himself gathering the essential proof needed to validate their quest. Once the task was done, he straightened and turned toward Aria. She stood there, unmoving, her eyes locked on him from the moment he had stepped away. Not for a single second had she looked away, as if trying to engrave each of his movements into her memory. In her watchful gaze there was an intensityba mixture of curiosity, admiration, and perhaps… something else, which no words could have expressed at that moment.
"Your head… are you alright?" he asked, kneeling beside her, his voice warm.
"Yes, thank you… I would have died without you."
Logan gave her an intense, almost pained look.
"I told you I wouldn't abandon you."
"But… you killed those men to protect me."
"It's true that today alone I've killed several men. It's different from killing mere monsters. I can still feel their blood on my hands, the weight of their lives. Yet I'll have to learn to live with that sensation. And besides hadn't they deserved it?"
"No, I mean, won't that cause you trouble?"
Logan allowed himself a faint smile, tinged with amusement.
"Don't worry about that. For now, hold on to me."
Without waiting for a response, he lifted her into his arms again, holding her as though she were a treasure he refused to let fall. He then drank some recovery potions he had taken from Alfred's group's belongings.
Once Aria was securely settled in his arms, Logan darted forward without delay, his steps pounding firmly against the uneven path. The wind whistled in their ears, carried by his speed, while the scenery sped by around them. He had carefully calculated the time needed to reach the guild, and despite the fatigue beginning to weigh on his muscles, he knew that by accelerating, he could make it without difficulty.
Against his chest, Aria nestled close, her arms wrapped timidly around his neck. Her gaze, though fixed ahead, betrayed inner turmoil. She longed to ask him a thousand questions: What exactly were his skills? How did they work? Was he really as strong as he seemed, or was there something deeper still he was hiding?
But despite her burning curiosity, she remained silent. Instead, she listened to the steady beat of Logan's heart, letting herself be carried by the warmth of his arms and the strange sense of safety he inspired.
After nearly four hours of sustained running, they finally reached the massive city gates. Logan slowed and carefully set Aria down on the paved ground. Without a word, they resumed their walk, side by side, toward the guild.
When the massive wooden door of the establishment opened with a creak, Aria hung back slightly, letting Logan enter first. The lively, noisy atmosphere of the guild seemed to freeze at his entrance. He advanced calmly, almost with a form of solemnity, until he reached the counter where Marie, the receptionist, stood.
"Where are Alfred and his group?" she asked in a neutral tone.
Logan fixed her with a steady look before replying, his voice calm but firm:
"Unfortunately, they're dead. I was forced to kill them… They ambushed me."
A chilling silence fell over the room. Conversations ceased instantly. All eyes turned toward him surprised, suspicious, some already ready to judge.
Marie slightly raised her brows, but without any sign of judgment.
"I see… Do you have a witness who can confirm this version of events?"
Logan tilted his head slightly and stepped aside.
"Yes. She's right behind me."
He moved just enough to reveal Aria, who timidly stepped forward. Her gaze met Marie's, filled with nervousness. That's when a man sitting nearby suddenly stood, slamming his fist on the table.
"How could we give any credit to the testimony of this… inferior creature?!" he spat with contempt.
Logan didn't move. He reached into the canvas bag slung across his shoulder, pulled out three bloodied objects, and tossed them precisely onto the guild floor. Three heads—unmistakable—rolled to the feet of the man who had spoken.
"Then in that case… ask the ones most directly concerned," Logan said coldly, his eyes hard.
A murmur of dread swept through the hall. No one dared speak again.
The man staggered back, tripping and falling on his backside. The severed heads rolled to his feet, leaving behind a thin trail of blood staining the stone tiles.
Instinctively, several men in the hall suddenly stood, drawing their weapons. A suffocating silence fell, nearly oppressive.
Logan remained still, his scarlet eyes sweeping the room with an icy gaze. There was no fear or hesitation in his features, only sharp lucidity, a quiet strength that commanded both respect and fear.
"Of course they're reacting like this, but I am within my rights."
He stepped forward, his voice rising, clear and firm:
"I only acted in self-defense, I repeat. And besides, plenty of adventurers went out with Alfred's group. Yet strangely… they never came back."
Everyone knew the rumors about Alfred's group—teammates disappearing without explanation, missions without witnesses. As a result, they all began to think, slowly calming down.
"And if I were lying, why would I have come back here of my own free will?" he added calmly, his tone almost casual as his gaze swept the room.
The once-angry looks became hesitant. Murmurs resumed, less aggressive, more thoughtful. Gradually, the heavy atmosphere began to dissipate, until an adventurer asked the very question Logan had been waiting for, making him flash a faint smile.
"But then… why were Alfred and his group killing other adventurers?"
"He had an ability to steal other people's skills, didn't he?" Logan said, looking at Marie.
A heavy silence fell again. The question wasn't trivial: it implied revealing normally confidential information. But in this case, given the gravity of the facts and the death of the adventurer concerned, silence could no longer be an option.
"I can confirm it. Alfred did indeed possess a rare skill that allowed him to steal other adventurers' abilities… provided he killed them with his own hands."
The last shred of doubt shattered. This wasn't just the testimony of a survivor; it was an established truth, irrefutable, and validated by the guild's authority.
One by one, the adventurers sheathed their weapons. The clinking of blades sliding back into scabbards echoed through the hall, almost like a collective sigh. The stares changed: no longer accusatory, but filled with a mixture of respect, unease, and embarrassment.
"Nevertheless, if anyone tries to harm me, they'll meet the same fate," Logan said loudly as he stepped closer to the man still cowering on the floor.
At head height now, Logan leaned down and whispered exclusively into the terrified man's ear:
"The next time you call my friend an inferior being, I'll rip your head off the same way."
The man's pants darkened to a deeper color; he had wet himself. Logan finally straightened and walked back toward Marie.
"Now that things have calmed down, do I still need to give a testimony?"
"It's not rare for adventurers to kill each other, but some have a code of honor, and killing another adventurer is forbidden."
"In their code of honor, is it allowed to rape and kill demi-humans and other races?"
Marie laughed heartily, understanding what Logan was getting at.
"You're absolutely right, a code that only applies when it suits them. But not all adventurers are like that. It's fine, I'll handle the rest; you can go," she said warmly.
"Wait, I also completed the quest," he replied, pulling the proof from the bags.
Once the matter was officially settled and the quest reward collected, Logan turned on his heel and left the guild alongside Aria. The weight of all those stares remained inside; outside, the wind blew gently through the stone streets, sweeping away the tension like a sigh of relief.
They walked side by side while Logan carefully observed Aria.
"We've spent the last two days together. Alone, she won't make it; she'll probably end up a slave again or live a reclusive life."
Logan then glanced at her status.
Name: Aria | Race: Beastkin | Age: 18 | Profession: Acquisition | Level: 9
Vitality: 10 | Magic Power: 11 | Attack: 3 | Defense: 7 | Speed: 2 | Endurance: 5 | Agility: 7 | Intelligence: 9 | Physique: 6 | Willpower: 18
Skills: (None)
Unique Skills: Will to Grow, Will to Survive, Ice Claw
Legendary Skills: Bestial Fury
Elements: Ice, Water
Acquired Titles:
• (None)
"If I remember right, 'Acquisition' is when a class hasn't been defined yet. She'll get her class once she levels up enough."
Logan then stopped, turned to Aria, and asked her a question.
"Aria, do you want to find your mother?"
She looked him straight in the eyes before deciding to answer firmly.
"Of course I want to find her, and my whole village!" she replied with determination.
"Very well, I told you I want to change some of this world's rules to my liking. As a result, I'm giving you a choice now between two options. You can live hidden away, or you can accompany me on my journey."
Without the slightest hesitation, she replied: "I'll go with you!"
Finally, Logan and Aria entered the inn, the innkeeper staring at them. But when his eyes met Logan's cold gaze, he instinctively looked away.
"If I leave the situation as it is, it will cause problems," Logan thought, deciding to lie.
"She's a slave I bought, is it a problem to have her stay at the inn?"
"No, if she's your slave, it's not a problem. As long as she doesn't dirty the beds with her filth and smell," the innkeeper said timidly.
"Very well, thank you," Logan said with a forced smile.
Logan climbed the inn's stairs in silence, Aria following close behind. Once in his room, he gently closed the door behind them, then set his bag down in a corner, relieved to finally end the day. He then examined Aria—she was filthy, her beautiful white fur stained and accompanied by a bad odor. So he escorted her to the bath, making sure there was no one else there.
"I need to apologize; I had to lie and say you were my slave because it could cause us problems for now. Are you okay with that?"
"I know that siding with other races is risky, so I don't mind."
"Very well, then go take a bath; I'll keep watch," he said, handing her a towel.
"Okay."
Aria's POV
I entered the bathhouse, the soothing silence contrasting sharply with the day's turmoil. My fingers trembled slightly as I undid my soiled clothes, heavy with sweat, filth, blood, and memories I'd rather forget.
I stepped slowly into the warm water, letting the heat envelop me like an embrace I hadn't known in a long time. I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring this simple, almost unreal sensation.
"Ah… I haven't had a real bath in weeks… They only washed me to… prepare my body for their pleasures," I murmured to myself, voice barely audible, heavy with bitterness.
My hands slid over my skin, tracing the outlines of old scars, marks left by pain and humiliation. I no longer counted them; each wound told a story. A story that had been forced upon me, one I had never chosen.
But that night, in that gentle water, in that silence broken only by the soft lapping of water, I felt… a little lighter. A little cleaner. A little more alive.
I stepped out of the bathroom slowly, wrapped in the warm towel he had given me. My still-damp hair clung to my skin, but I felt clean. Lighter. As if a part of me had finally been able to breathe again.
Logan was there, just in front of the door, but this time he was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. The sight reminded me of a recent memory: the night he had improvised hammocks so we could sleep. When he lifted his eyes toward me, I saw that he held neatly folded clothes in his hands.
"These are for you. They're night clothes. Later, I'll make you some for going out and for combat."
He wasn't staring at me insistently, nor with curiosity. Just with that quiet, respectful gentleness that made him so different from everyone I had ever known. I took the clothes carefully, my fingers brushing his. The fabric was soft, warm, new… Just for me.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt something strange. A warmth in my chest. A sensation I thought I had forgotten: being treated like a person… and not like a possession.
I quietly closed the door behind me, my heart still a little shaken by that simple gesture: clothes, made for me. I sat on the edge of the bed and unfolded the fabric, curious.
They were beautiful.
Pure silver, elegant without being ostentatious, supple and soft to the touch. There was no doubt: it was wolf hide. But not just any wolf… Silver wolves, a rare species. I slowly ran my fingers along the seams, the delicate finishing, the finesse of the whole piece.
He had taken the time. He had thought about me. He had chosen something noble, strong, beautiful like he saw in me something I was still struggling to find again. When I finally came out, dressed in the outfit he had given me, I joined him back in the room. Logan rose calmly.
"Well, I'm going to take a bath too, you can sleep if you want," he said as he left quietly.
He left the room without another word, and the silence that followed felt strange. Heavy, almost empty. I stood for a moment, uncertain, then sat on the chair by the bed. The silver fabric of the clothes caressed my skin, and despite their softness, I couldn't fully relax. My mind kept replaying the events over and over.
A few minutes passed. Maybe more. Time stretched on in the gentle light of the lamp by the bed.
Then the door opened again.
He came in, his head covered with a still-damp towel, his hair a tousled mess. But that wasn't what caught my eye. It was his arm. His left arm, completely blackened, as if burned down to the muscle. The skin looked charred, cracked in places. I felt my heart tighten.
And immediately, images came rushing back—his fight against that horde of orcs and the hostile adventurers, his calm gaze, his steady movements, even with an already weakened arm. He had stood against them all… and he had won. What I had seen that day… yes, "incredible" was the right word.
I couldn't stop myself from breaking the silence.
"Aren't you going to get treated?"
"I'll go tomorrow, I can still manage, don't worry."
I didn't insist. After all, I barely knew him… even if he had saved my life. But something inside me clenched at the thought of him suffering, of letting that injury worsen. I looked away, unsettled.
"Well, I'm exhausted from today. I'm going to sleep."
After such a battle, it was obvious he must be exhausted. Me too, for that matter. So, without a word, I lay down on the cold floor, curling up into a ball as I always had. The hard contact against my cheek didn't bother me… on the contrary, it was familiar. Almost comforting.
But his voice broke that semblance of silence, gentle yet direct:
"What are you doing?"
"I'm sleeping on the floor; slaves aren't allowed to sleep anywhere else."
"You're not a slave. Come sleep on the bed with me."
His words were simple, peaceful, but my body reacted differently.
A cold wave rushed through me; my limbs began to tremble. Memories came flooding back unbidden: the hands, the ragged breaths, the endless nights. I had heard those same words so many times… right before plunging into horror.
I almost fell off the chair I was sitting on, my heart racing. I couldn't… I couldn't relive that, even though I knew he wouldn't hurt me.
He didn't move, and in the heavy silence of the room, his voice came again. This time softer, filled with understanding and great gentleness.
"I see," he said calmly, before standing up.
He went to sit on another chair without another word.
"You can take the bed if you want," he added, in a soft, almost casual tone.
I lowered my eyes, caught between guilt and embarrassment.
"No, I…" I began.
But he interrupted me with that same tranquility that seemed to break down every wall.
"Go ahead, rest."
I didn't have the strength to argue. Not this time. My legs could barely carry me, and my mind floated between tension and exhaustion. So slowly, almost reluctantly, I climbed onto the bed. It was soft, warm, too comfortable for a former slave like me. Yet, I wasn't pushed away, nor punished, nor looked at with contempt.
I turned slightly to look at him. He was there, sitting silently, his head resting against the chair's back, arms crossed, as if ready to keep watch all night if he had to. No reproach in his eyes. No desire either. Just a strange, sincere peace.
I couldn't understand how men like him could exist.
Men, until now, had been synonymous with pain, fear, submission. Cruel, selfish, merciless. I had believed it was their nature, a universal truth.
But him… he didn't look at me with disgust. He didn't shy away from my scars, visible or invisible. He didn't judge me. He didn't want to take anything from me.
He was just there.
"Maybe not all men are the same…" I thought, watching him as his eyes slowly closed, claimed by fatigue.
And in the silence of the room, as my eyelids grew heavy, a whisper escaped my lips, sincere, barely audible, but filled with everything I didn't yet dare to say.
"Thank you, Logan."
Then, gently, sleep took me in its arms.
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for her power stones.