Elrick watched her from a short distance—half in awe, half in unease.
Beatriz stood motionless, her armor is still slick with blood. The once-black plating shimmered in the light, its intricate golden veins pulsing softly, almost alive. The same divine light traced faintly beneath the skin of her exposed neck—holy conduits of power that danced with a quiet, mesmerizing beauty.
Yet the beauty was deceptive.
When blood dared to touch the gold, it evaporated instantly—hissing into steam, as though the very concept of impurity was rejected by her divine nature.
She tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning the horizon beyond the ruined camp.
"It is done," she said at last. Her voice was cold, emotionless—yet every syllable struck with clarity and force, like the toll of an iron bell. "But there are… others. More camps. More captives."
Elrick stepped closer, glancing at the charred wreckage, the mangled corpses, the broken bones that littered the ground like discarded tools.
He exhaled. "And you want to save them. Hunt the rest of the goblins down. Eradicate them."
Beatriz didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Her silence, her stance, the unwavering light behind her mask—it was all the answer he needed.
Elrick looked at her again—this living weapon, this warrior cloaked in sanctified ruin—and then back at the field of death she had left behind.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "I guess you could."
"Should we loot the place? Or at least look for a map or something?"
Beatriz didn't reply.
Instead, she moved.
In an instant, she vanished into motion—her body a blur of divine speed. The wind howled in her wake as she swept through the ruined camp, a whirlwind of motion that tore through debris and collapsed tents with methodical, unrelenting purpose.
Crates burst apart. Shattered wood scattered. Rotten supplies were tossed aside like refuse. Beatriz moved with inhuman precision, overturning scorched barrels, tearing open packs, checking beneath corpses and inside half-collapsed structures—all in under a minute.
At last, she returned, her footsteps silent despite the weight of her armor. In her hands, she held two weathered leather pouches—both heavy with the distinct clink of coin.
"No maps. Just silver and gold."
She handed the pouches to Elrick with reverent care, almost like a priest presenting an offering.
He took them, glancing inside. Dozens—no, hundreds of silver coins, and more than a few gold ones glinted in the light. "Well… at least they were rich."
Beatriz remained silent. Her gaze drifted south, where the forest thickened and shadows stretched like talons across the earth.
Beatriz murmured. "The leader spoke of the southern forest. But lies often follow death."
Her gaze swept the camp once more—calculating, cold.
Then, without warning, she reached behind her and drew her weapon.
The spear.
Once five feet of gleaming divine steel, it now twisted and grew in her grip, expanding with unnatural grace. Its shaft gleamed with radiant inscriptions that pulsed like veins beneath skin. In a single fluid motion, she drove its tip into through the ground.
The earth trembled.
A low hum resonated through the soil, traveling outward like a ripple in a vast pond. Birds scattered. Trees groaned. Elrick flinched as pebbles bounced around his boots.
The spear extended again—far beyond its original size. Twenty feet. Thirty. Fifty. It rose like a sacred pillar into the canopy, pulsing with divine light. Beatriz gripped it tightly, her other hand pressed to the etched surface, eyes narrowed in solemn focus.
Silence.
Then she retracted the spear in a single thought—metal sliding back into itself with a whisper—and turned without hesitation.
Then her voice—low, iron-clad with certainty.
"Smoke. South by southeast. Hidden valley. Two ridgelines over."
Elrick blinked, still reeling from the display.
"Wait," he said, stepping closer, squinting toward the distant treetops. "How far is that? We walking, or—"
Beatriz turned her gaze on him. Silent. Unwavering.
Then, in a movement too fluid to be mechanical yet too precise to be fully human, she stepped forward and knelt before him—one knee pressed to the earth, her back straight, arms at her sides.
Elrick stared. "…You're serious."
Her voice came calm. Absolute.
"We move swiftly. You ride."
"I—uh, ride… on your back?"
Beatriz didn't respond with words. She simply lowered her head a fraction—a quiet, respectful bow. Not submissive.
Elrick hesitated. "I guess I don't a choice"
Elrick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "…Right. Divine war nun, spear that turns into a tower, metal that eats blood. Sure. Let's add 'horse' to the list."
He climbed onto her back with a grunt, awkward at first, but Beatriz didn't so much as flinch. She adjusted the positioning of her arms slightly to support his weight—one under his thighs, the other against his back.
Then she rose.
Despite Elrick's weight, she stood as if lifting nothing more than a cloak.
"Hold tight," she said simply.
Before he could think to ask what that meant, the world lurched.
With a controlled explosion of speed, Beatriz shot forward—her body low, movement fluid yet unnaturally precise. She didn't sprint; she glided. Each step covered dozens of feet, her muscles flowing with divine momentum, yet she kept her pace meticulously steady. Controlled. Balanced. She adjusted her breathing and rhythm mid-motion, accounting for every jolt that might upset Elrick's position.
Trees blurred past in golden streaks. The forest bent around them, wind tearing at Elrick's hair and clothes. Yet he wasn't being tossed or jolted—Beatriz moved with such uncanny precision that the ride felt… smooth. Carried, not dragged. Like flying without wings.
Elrick looked over her shoulder, mouth dry. "…You do realize you're running faster than most horses, right?"
Beatriz said nothing.
"But like, you're also somehow not… breaking my spine or pulling my arms off. That's impressive."
Still no response.
Beatriz adjusted her footing and leapt over a fallen tree without slowing down. The motion barely registered.
They continued in silence, save for the rhythmic thud of her footfalls and the rush of wind through the trees. Minutes passed in this strange serenity—divine purpose made motion—until, at last, the terrain began to shift.
The forest floor sloped downward, narrowing into a hidden valley between two ridgelines. Shadows lengthened. The air grew thicker, tinged with smoke and the unmistakable stench of blood and filth.