Blake, flanked by Sir Pabel and his loyal band of fourteen, began the tense ride back toward the Dunzel estate. Their caravan wound through the sprawling woods, where the trees grew denser with each passing mile, branches knotting overhead to choke out what little light remained. The shadows stretched unnaturally long, bending across the forest floor as though alive. As they ventured deeper, a preternatural silence settled—no bird song, no insect hum. The forest, usually teeming with noise, seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Every hoofbeat, every creak of wagon wood echoed too sharply, like warnings etched into the air itself.
Blake's borrowed nerves frayed quickly. The silence was oppressive, magnifying every stray thought into imagined danger. His mind conjured ambushes behind every bush and specter between every crooked tree. Inside the swaying carriage, Blake couldn't sit still, his knee bouncing, his hands tugging at his sleeves. The armored men exchanged uneasy glances, muttering under their breath that their young master was acting stranger than usual, almost possessed.
Blake cursed inwardly, glaring at the glowing, translucent system window hovering in front of him. "You drag me into this cursed world, slap me with an assassination flag, and now these so-called 'instructions'? 'Safe house?' Where? How? What does that even mean? Are you seriously planning to just let me die out here?" He pressed his palms to his temples, sinking lower into his seat, the very image of unraveling despair.
Unable to contain his panic, Blake shoved his head out the carriage window, intending to ask Pabel how much farther to safety. But before he could speak, something thudded into the wood inches from his ear—an arrow, quivering violently. Blake shrieked and collapsed backward, heart hammering. They're here—they're already shooting at me! Will these guards really protect me? Should I run? Hide? His thoughts spiraled into pure terror.
The answer came in chaos. A masked figure landed with a heavy thud atop the carriage roof, and in the next instant, a spear tore through the ceiling, stabbing down only a hand's breadth from Blake's head. Outside, the air split with the clang of steel on steel. The guards surged to meet a band of masked assassins, blades flashing with lethal speed under the suffocating canopy.
Sir Pabel fought like a stormed like a flash—his sword carving arcs of silver as he dispatched an attacker atop the carriage before cutting his way to Blake's door. Breathless and bloodied, he tore it open and barked, "Young master! Their numbers are too many. You must run—ride west to the nearest town, Redfront. Help has already been summoned from Baron Mathiel—they'll send reinforcements. Remember this: find the tavern Littlewater. Show them my crest. They'll grant you shelter!"
Blake, pale and trembling, grabbed at him desperately. "Pabel—please, you take me! You can't leave me like this!" His voice cracked, the words spilling like a frightened child's plea.
Pabel's face hardened with regret. His voice was steady but heavy with sorrow. "Forgive me, young master. I'm not worthy of such Praise—Defeating these many is not something I can achieve While Protecting you, I can only buy you time. I'll draw them east, you escape west!" With practiced speed, he hauled Blake bodily from the carriage, thrust him onto a waiting horse, and slapped the beast hard across its flank.
The stallion lunged forward, nearly throwing Blake as it bolted. System prompts flooded his vision—glowing arrows, flashing routes, urgent messages—but riding a horse was nothing like playing a game. The animal's muscles bunched and snapped like coiled springs, each stride a violent jolt. Blake's legs slipped from the saddle, leaving him dangling by the reins, flailing helplessly as the horse thundered through the underbrush.
Branches lashed his face, stones smashed against his shins, and tears blurred his eyes. He wailed in fury and fear: "What kind of hell is this? To hell with being the protagonist—everyone here just wants me dead! I'd trade all the gold and noble titles in the world for a one-way bus ticket home!"
But fate had no intention of making it simple. Instead of west, the panicked horse veered wildly northwest, ignoring all system prompts. It charged deeper into stranger, darker territory where even the trees seemed twisted in unfamiliar shapes. Still Blake clung on, half-riding, half-dragged, uncertain how much farther his luck—or his body—could endure before breaking completely.