The next morning, their camp rang with the rhythm of work. Qen, Hert, Keir, and Freon spent hours clearing and straightening the grounds. Dust and shavings from their carpentry were swept away, while dead leaves and broken branches were gathered into neat piles. The heavier logs they hauled to the storage shed for cooking and firewood. Rocks, tall grass, and even pale fungi were cleared from the borders of the camp, leaving the ground flat and ready.
When they began cutting down a few trees to open space for a future garden plot, Hert wiped his brow and said with a grin, "One day we'll be planting here instead of chopping."
But the forest was never silent for long.
A faint voice echoed between the trees—strained, desperate. They stopped, tools in hand, and listened. The voice grew clearer, and instinctively, they followed the sound.
From the shadows emerged a figure: a tall man with long black hair, leather armor scuffed from travel, and a slender light-forged sword hanging at his side. Beside him stumbled a teenage girl, her red dress torn and dirtied. Both looked exhausted, their breaths ragged.
"Help us," the girl gasped, clutching at her side. "They're hunting us."
The man only nodded, his eyes grim, as if to affirm her plea.
Hert quickly offered them water, and they drank gratefully. The man finally spoke, his voice heavy.
"We're from Touran City, Baron Fin's territory in the southeast lands. We've been running ever since… someone ordered our deaths."
Qen narrowed his eyes. "Do you know who's behind this assassination attempt?"
The man hesitated, glancing at the girl, but both remained silent.
Keir, ever curious, offered, "Has the Baron made enemies lately? Perhaps a dispute in the city?"
The girl gave a weary nod. "There were… conflicts these past days. That must be why."
Silence fell. Qen read their expressions—fear, confusion, and something they weren't yet ready to say. Finally, he spoke firmly, "Rest in our hut tonight. If anyone comes looking, we'll say nothing. You are safe here."
Relief washed over them. The girl whispered her thanks, and Hert and Keir guided the two inside to rest. Qen remained outside, carrying on with his daily routine—stretching, practicing his footwork, and running through a hundred slashes against the training trunk until sweat dripped down his jaw.
---
By sundown, the forest air grew tense. While preparing dinner, Qen heard rustling—low, deliberate. Freon's ears pricked up, his growl deep and steady. From the darkness stepped ten masked men, their blades glinting faintly in the twilight.
"Have you seen two fugitives?" one demanded, scanning the camp with cold eyes.
Qen's face remained unreadable. "No. No one came this way. If you're chasing them, perhaps they ran in another direction."
But doubt lingered in their stares. Three of them drew their swords, pointing straight at him.
Hert and Keir burst from the hut at the noise, steel flashing as Hert drew his dagger and Keir hefted his axe. Freon crouched low, ready to spring, until Qen raised a hand to restrain him.
"You lie," one masked man spat. "We tracked their footprints to here." Without warning, he lunged.
Qen sidestepped the strike, his own blade flashing free in a single motion. The long-haired man stepped from the hut, sword in hand, standing beside Qen now. His gaze was steady, voice calm.
"What crime have we committed against you?"
The leader sneered. "No crime. Just an order. The girl dies—and you with her!"
They charged.
Steel clashed. Hert and Keir fought back-to-back at the hut's entrance. Freon launched forward, sinking his jaws into the arm of one attacker, dragging him to the dirt with a scream. Qen's sword sang in the air, parrying strike after strike. But these masked men were no ordinary bandits—they moved with the precision of trained killers.
"Retreat!" Qen shouted, forcing back two attackers. "Hert, Keir—take the girl to your cave. Freon, guard them!"
Freon hesitated, but at Qen's sharp whistle, the beast bounded to the girl's side and herded them into the forest.
The long-haired swordsman grimaced, his blade dripping with enemy blood. "I won't leave you. My name is Chren Gomez. Let me fight beside you."
Qen gave only a curt nod.
---
The battle raged. Chren fought fiercely but a blade slipped past, cutting deep into his side. He staggered, yet did not fall.
"Back away!" Qen barked, covering him. "Or you'll die here."
But the assassins only laughed. "What can you do alone? Play the hero?"
Steel cut across Qen's arm, blood flowing, yet his eyes burned with resolve. Chren cried out, "You'll die if you keep this up!"
And then—something stirred.
A strange warmth welled deep inside Qen's chest, flooding his veins with raw power. His wounds seemed lighter, his muscles surged with strength, and his breath came sharp and steady. A faint glow, subtle but undeniable, shimmered around him.
The assassins froze, their bravado faltering. "An… energy bearer?" one stammered.
Qen's grip tightened. His blade no longer felt heavy but light, almost weightless. He moved—faster, harder, three times quicker than before. In two sweeping strikes, he cut down two masked men as if they were nothing.
Panic rippled through the enemy ranks.
"We weren't told—he's awakened!"
The leader's face paled. "Fall back! Forget the girl—we'll report this!"
In moments, they vanished into the trees, shadows swallowed by the night.
Qen's glow dimmed as quickly as it had come. His body trembled, knees giving way. Chren caught him before he collapsed fully.
"You protected us… even her," Chren whispered, his voice shaking with gratitude. "Touran owes you a debt."
Qen only managed a tired whistle. Moments later, Freon padded back through the brush, unharmed. The beast nuzzled Qen's arm, sensing his master's fatigue.
"There's no more threat," Qen muttered, voice weak. "Guard them… take me inside."
Chren and Freon helped him back into the hut. As exhaustion overcame him, Qen's eyes slipped shut, his last sight Chren's quiet, grateful smile.