Night had settled by the river.
Not the city's night of neon hues, where the smog blurred the night sky.
This was clean. Pure even.
The sky stretched wide like an ocean of stars burning overhead while the moon spilled silver across the river, making it seem like a strip of glass.
The treeline loomed a few meters back like a black wall where the light died.
And here on the bank, firelight flickered low, fed by the fire-starter I'd stashed in my kit.
The crackle filled the quiet, and every so often, the forest whispered back—a rustle here, a snap there.
I sat cross-legged, chin propped up with a hand and rifle close.
My clothes were clean now, dried by the cloak's AC after rinsing in the river.
But no scrubbing could chase the stink of blood from my nose.
And across the flames, she lay still.
Breathing steady and whole. Sleeping like she'd never been torn apart.
The potion—the only one I had—was gone.
And a selfish part of me couldn't help wonder if she was worth it.
I stared into the fire.
Flashes of gore replaying in my mind ever so often and making my gut clench. \
But, there was nothing left to puke.
I dragged my hand down my face as I leaned back and stared at the sky.
The twinkling stars and the bright full moon painted a sight too beautiful to behold.
Yet none of it lightened the weight pressing down.
"…Well," I muttered to the flames, "Welcome to the new world, Vincent. Or Odin. Or whatever the hell I am now."
And the next moment, my stomach rumbled loud in the stillness.
I snorted at the hunger and nausea clawing at each other. "Make up your damn mind."
Across the fire, she groaned as her eyelids fluttered.
And my hand instantly reached for the rifle.
Her eyes blinked open, dazed at first before widening with a jolt.
Her hands flew over her body—leg, chest, shoulder—searching for wounds that weren't there.
And then her gaze locked on me, eyes wide and trembling.
I lifted my hands, palms open, before forcing a laugh, "Hey… hey there."
Her breaths came sharp and quick, panic taking shape.
And then her voice cracked through the night, hoarse but urgent:
"The city!" she nearly shouted, panic cutting through the last shreds of confusion in her voice, "It's under attack…by a monster horde!"
While I—
"Okay… cool?"
.
.
.
(3rd Person POV)
Her breath caught as though she'd swallowed a fly.
She stared at him, panic frozen into a twitch.
For a moment, her brain refused to process the words.
Then a beat later, color flushed through the patches of dried blood caked across her face, blotching her pale cheeks.
"What do you mean cool?" she snapped, voice pitching high with fury, "Cardella is under attack! A city of half a million and you think it's cool? They've surely reached the gates by now!"
Vincent nodded slowly, almost sagely, as though she'd just explained the weather, "Okay… got it. You're in a hurry. I won't hold you."
Her glare sharpened, lips trembling, chest rising and falling too fast.
For a heartbeat, she looked ready to hurl the fire itself at him.
But the absurdity of her own panic finally struck her as she dragged a breath through clenched teeth.
With shoulders still trembling, she forced herself down opposite him with firelight reflecting in her blue eyes.
Meanwhile, Vincent had turned his gaze downward, eyes darting across the dirt as if he had misplaced something precious.
Her brow furrowed, "…What are you doing?"
"Looking for something," he murmured, cloak shifting as he patted half-heartedly at the ground.
Suspicion flickered in her eyes, but curiosity won, "Looking for what?"
He glanced up at her with eyes like dying embers, "Oh, nothing, just a… shred of gratitude."
Those words hit sharper than steel.
And for a heartbeat, silence ruled between them as the fire popped, sending sparks curling skyward, while the river whispered over rocks just beyond the bank.
Her lips parted, but pride tangled in her throat.
The pride of an A-rank adventurer, a battle mage who'd faced horrors most mortals never dared name — clashed against the memory of being broken, bleeding, and utterly helpless in a gryphon's beak.
And then the searing golden light of a potion she had never seen before, knitting her back together.
Her jaw clenched as she looked away, into the fire.
A few beats passed, shadows dancing across her blood-streaked face until at last she sighed, the sound slipping past clenched teeth, and lifted her eyes.
"…Thank you. For saving my life. And I'm… sorry for how I acted. I was still reeling from the shock."
Vincent's chuckle was soft, but smug enough to cut, "See? Wasn't so hard."
Her brows knit, "I—I'm not ungrateful! I just—"
"It's fine." He waved a hand, leaning back. Then his voice sharpened, the casual mask slipping, "Now tell me about the attack on the city. And assume I know nothing."
Her lips pressed thin.,"You really don't, don't you?"
"Not a clue."
She exhaled, steadying herself, "I'm an adventurer. A-rank… The guild sent me to investigate the eastern stretch of the Great Forest, the part most infected since the Cataclysm. For weeks, reports came in of fewer monster encounters, fewer sightings." Her jaw tightened, "We knew what that meant: consolidation."
Vincent tilted his head, "Like… they're unionising?"
Her glare could've melted stone, "Like a horde," she snapped. "And I found it. Thousands, maybe more, gathering in one place. Orcs, trolls, goblins, even manananggals, all twisted by mutations. And in the kind of order you only see when something higher is pulling strings. It was an Orc Shaman."
[Not your circus, Vincent… Doesn't have to be either.]
Her eyes flickered with the memory, nearing fear, "I got too close and they detected me. I fought my way out, but…" She then gestured at herself, at the dried blood still clinging to her clothes, "…I was bleeding out before that gryphon ever got its claws on me."
The fire cracked, filling the silence that followed.
Then her eyes hardened, "Please! I need your help."
Vincent laughed in a dry rasp, waving a hand across his chest, "Who, me? I can't fight off an army."
And he really couldn't.
His eyes slid to the rifle by his knee. Thirty-six rounds for the SR-25. Three mags for the pistol—sixty shots. Ninety-six total, give or take.
Add the Shorty-40 with its two HEAPs. Maybe more than hundred monsters dropped, assuming they all lined up politely.
And that was before he factored in fireballs, rocks, poison, or the swarm closing faster than he could cycle a mag.
[High-value targets, maybe. Like back in Endlessness. Snipe the shaman, topple the chain of command, let chaos chew itself apart. But one stray fireball and I'm cooked.]
This wasn't Endlessness.
He glanced at her gear — white tunic beneath light leather plates, black skintight trousers, a knife on her thigh.
The image of a fantasy adventurer made flesh.
Marching around with firearms here would be like walking naked into a temple.
[Better not dive headfirst into waters I don't understand. But still… half a million people.]
"But you can," she snapped back, voice sharp, "You downed a gryphon with one hit from your soul armament."
Vincent froze.
[Soul… armament?]