The scars still throbbed as Yeon Woo descended into the valley. The air was thick, heavy, steeped in the scent of damp earth and blood. He allowed himself no rest. He knew: in a world where even the night breathed hatred, stopping meant death. While he was slaughtering the Hunter's hounds, someone had already picked up his trail. Too many signs: scorched grass, bootprints in the soft soil, a fine dust suspended in the air—all spoke of pursuit. And it was close.
Mercenaries.
Yeon Woo had heard of them—those who sold their honor for silver and drunken sleep. Faceless. Nameless. Sent where filth needed doing, the kind of work even the cruelest clans preferred to ignore. And now they were after him.
He quickened his pace, choosing a path through a dense thicket where ancient roots coiled like serpents beneath twisted trees. It was harder to walk here, but harder still to be found. Yeon Woo moved swiftly, without pause, until he reached a forgotten shrine deep in the forest's heart. Crumbling walls, shattered mosaics, faded symbols on blackened stone—everything spoke of the site's age. And its curse. Even birds dared not sing here.
He decided to make it his refuge.
He masked his trail, scattered branches, wiped his scent away with swamp mud. It had to look as if he vanished. Then he hid among the ruins, holding his breath, freezing in the shadows.
They came hours later.
Seven of them.
They moved like wolves—silent, coordinated. Two scouts at the front. Three fighters in the center. Two bringing up the rear, ready to cut off escape. Light armor the color of ash, short swords at their sides, crossbows strapped to their backs. Their faces were covered—not for protection, but so they couldn't be identified if things went wrong.
One of them raised a hand. The rest halted.
He sensed something.
Yeon Woo's heartbeat surged, but he forced himself to stay still. A shadow among shadows.
The mercenary stepped forward.
Another step.
He was nearly at Yeon Woo's hiding spot.
Then a gust of wind swept through the forest, shaking loose the toxic pollen of nearby flowers. The mercenary coughed, stumbling back. His companions spread out instantly, encircling the perimeter.
Yeon Woo knew: he couldn't wait any longer.
He hurled a stone in the opposite direction. Several mercenaries darted toward the noise. In that moment, Yeon Woo slipped from the shadows and struck. Fast. Silent. His knife slid beneath the first scout's ribs, piercing his heart. The man collapsed to his knees without a sound.
The second scout turned, but Yeon Woo was already upon him. The blade slashed his throat, leaving only a gurgle and a burst of hot blood into the night.
But the silence was broken.
The mercenaries shouted, launching into action. A crossbow bolt whistled past Yeon Woo's ear. He dropped behind a fallen slab of stone, using it for cover. His heart pounded with urgency, but his mind stayed cold and clear.
Three fighters circled around. Yeon Woo heard their boots scraping mossy rock. He waited until one of them slipped, cursing aloud. That was enough.
Yeon Woo lunged from cover, flinging a handful of dirt into the nearest man's face. The mercenary instinctively shielded his eyes—a mistake. The knife plunged into his throat. The second fighter charged, sword in both hands. Yeon Woo dodged at the last instant, feeling steel graze his shoulder, carving a bloody line. Pain flared, but he suppressed it.
He dropped to his back, rolled under the next swing, and drove his blade into the man's groin, twisting with brutal force. The scream tore through the forest before the man crumpled.
The third was more cautious. He kept his distance, wielding a crossbow. Yeon Woo saw him reloading—a few precious seconds. Too long. Yeon Woo surged forward, skidding across the ground, and hurled his knife. The blade struck true—right in the throat.
The body fell with a dull thud.
All of it had taken mere moments.
Only the two rearguards remained.
They stood back to back, slowly retreating toward the trees.
"Smart," Yeon Woo thought.
He picked up one of the fallen crossbows, checked the string. Loaded. Ready. He aimed. Fired.
The first rear guard dropped, bolt buried in his temple.
The second didn't fight. He turned and fled into the depths of the forest.
Yeon Woo didn't pursue. He knew: the runner would carry news. Would tell them that the entire squad had died here. That the target wasn't some defenseless boy, but a beast wearing human skin.
Yeon Woo slumped onto a fallen stone, breathing heavily. His body was soaked in blood—his own and others'. His head rang.
He had survived.
Again.
But every victory came with a price. The weariness sank deeper into his bones. The wounds grew harsher. The enemy smarter.
And time was no longer on his side.
He stood, teeth clenched. He had lingered too long. Soon, they would send more hunters. And among them would be the kind who stopped at nothing.
He stripped the corpses of useful items—arrows, daggers, a couple of water flasks. Anything that could help. In this world, survival wasn't about strength.
It was about becoming the monster others feared.
Yeon Woo vanished into the night, swallowed by thick mist.
And behind him, only blood remained.