A young adventurer with a torn sleeve stumbles forward. His sword is nicked and bent, his face streaked with ash and tears.
"C-Captain Ronan…" he says, voice cracking. "What… what do we do now?"
Ronan opens his mouth.
No words come.
He looks around instead.
At the soldiers sitting with their backs against trees, staring at their hands as if they don't recognize them anymore.
At the adventurers who still grip their weapons even now, knuckles white, eyes darting at every sound.
At the bloodied armor, the empty stares, the quiet sobs that no one bothers to hide.
These are people who hunt monsters for a living.
People who boast about kill counts.
People who laugh around campfires after clearing a village of monsters.
And now—
Now they look like prey.
A middle-aged soldier suddenly laughs, short and broken.
His laughter turns into choking silence.
Another adventurer whispers, voice hollow, "I begged one of them to stop. It looked at me… like I was livestock."
