Dust was still settling inside the crater.
It drifted downward in slow spirals, turning the air gray and thick. The clearing no longer looked like a forest. It looked excavated. Torn open.
The smell of blood hung heavy.
Metallic. Warm. Fresh.
It mixed with splintered wood and churned soil, forming something raw and suffocating.
Half-buried near the edge of the crater lay a broken scythe.
Its curved edge was cracked down the middle. One half embedded in dirt. The other snapped clean, a jagged ruin of chitin that no longer looked threatening.
Just debris.
At the center—
Zen stood.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Blood ran down his side in a steady line, dripping from his fingertips. His sleeve was dark. His thigh soaked. His breathing controlled, but deeper than before.
Then he stepped forward.
The corpse beneath him shifted slightly as he pulled his blade free.
A wet sound followed.
Green blood slid off the steel and soaked into the fractured earth.
He flicked the sword once.
The droplets scattered into dust.
Silence returned.
Zen looked down at himself.
His clothes were torn. Deep cuts marked his thigh, ribs, and shoulder. Blood slid down in thin trails, dripping onto the broken earth.
He watched it.
Measured the damage.
Then he reached into his storage.
A small vial formed in his hand.
He pulled the cork and drank it in one gulp.
Bitter.
Heat spread through his chest.
The bleeding slowed.
Not instantly.
Gradually.
The wounds didn't close.
They tightened.
The flow reduced to a faint seep.
The pain remained.
The flesh would heal.
But not today.
Zen's veins bulged, turning a faint shade of blue beneath his skin.
He looked down at them. "Thank God I already took the antidote."
The scythe blades had been coated with poison.
It was because of the books he had read over the past year—studying different beasts, their habits, their weapons, their toxins. What once seemed like quiet hours wasted in pages had just saved his life.
If he hadn't learned… he would already be dead.
Raw strength could cut something down.
But it couldn't tell you what was hidden on the blade.
It couldn't warn you what would seep into your blood after the fight was over.
Power won battles.
Understanding kept you alive long enough to fight the next one.
That was the difference.
Zen heard someone crying.
The girl was weeping beside the bodies of the men who had just died.
Their skin had turned blue.
The effect of the poison.
He let them be for a minute. They needed time to process everything that had just happened.
Who would have thought it would end like that?
One encounter.
One moment.
That was all it took.
Yes, he felt a little sad for them. Who wouldn't? He was still a normal human being, not some cold-hearted bastard.
Not yet.
Maybe time would decide whether he became one or not.
But the feeling was fleeting. He wouldn't cry. He didn't even know them.
Just pity.
Nothing more.
Still… this was all new to him. It wasn't like he saw people die every day. Not like this. Maybe on the news, maybe as distant headlines—but never right in front of him. Never this brutal.
Hell, he had just been living his quiet, solitary life at the hospital. Clean corridors. Sterile air. Monitors beeping in controlled rhythms. Death there was different—clinical, explained, wrapped in paperwork and silence.
This?
This was raw. Sudden.
No preparation. No warning.
Just one moment—
and everything changed.
Zen just looked at them—the girl and the old man.
He didn't know why he had helped them.
Was it for his Battle Essence?
Did he just want to test it?
Or did he genuinely want to save them?
Was using his Battle Essence only an excuse—an excuse to help them so he wouldn't have to admit he was soft-hearted?
He couldn't tell.
Maybe he had acted out of calculation.
Maybe out of instinct.
Maybe out of something he didn't want to name.
The line between survival and kindness was thinner than he liked.
He just wanted to slip away quietly.
He didn't need the drama of gratitude for the help they had received.
And he didn't want any extra burden on himself. They would surely ask to travel with him. It was already too much that he had helped them—he didn't need anything more.
He slowly turned and took a step.
A voice came from behind him. Weak. Rough.
"Hey… young man. Thank you for saving us. Thank you… thank you. Because of you, my miss is alive. Thank you, young man."
The old man sobbed between his words.
Zen's heart tightened.
It was new to him—someone thanking him for saving a life.
He had never done anything like this before.
And he had never, not once, received gratitude from anyone.
He spoke quickly, almost cutting the old man off, as if afraid the gratitude might continue.
"It's not a big deal, old man. I was hunting beasts anyway. You don't need to thank me. I only did it for my own benefit."
The old man didn't argue.
He simply looked at Zen and smiled.
It wasn't a loud smile. Not exaggerated. Just quiet… knowing.
That smile carried more understanding than gratitude.
He could see through the excuse.
He knew Zen was downplaying it.
The girl slowly stepped closer to the old man. She looked exhausted, swaying slightly before steadying herself. Her eyes lifted toward Zen, then dropped, then lifted again.
"Th… thank you," she muttered softly.
Zen looked at her.
And froze.
She was beautiful.
No—scratch that.
She was ridiculously beautiful.
For a full second, his brain stopped working.
What the hell…? Is she even real?
Soft eyes. Delicate features. The kind of face that would make poets quit their jobs out of intimidation.
An angel, his mind supplied helpfully.
Shut up, he told himself immediately.
Why the hell am I acting like a nervous teenager? Damn it… my aura. It's gone.
His eyes drifted downward.
Then paused.
Flat.
Too flat.
His brain, already malfunctioning, short-circuited completely.
…Wait.
He stared for a second too long.
The girl, noticing the silence, looked up—only to catch exactly where his eyes were focused.
She blinked.
Then slowly looked down at herself.
Then back at him.
And very calmly brought a hand up to cover her chest.
Zen's soul left his body.
Heat shot straight to his face.
Why was he like this?
Why.
Before his brain could reinstall basic manners, his mouth betrayed him.
"Are you… a boy?" he blurted out.
Silence.
The forest itself seemed offended.
Zen immediately wished a poisonous scythe beast would respawn and finish the job.
The girl's face turned red.
No—red wasn't enough.
She went full tomato.
It looked like steam might start shooting out of her ears at any second.
Her eyes widened. Her hand tightened over her chest as if that would somehow fix the situation.
Zen knew.
He had absolutely, undeniably, catastrophically messed up.
How do you even ask something like that?
His brain replayed the sentence.
"Are you… a boy?"
Why.
Why would he say it like that?
He had fought poisonous beasts without blinking, yet this—this—was what might actually get him killed.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, suddenly very interested in a random tree to his left.
"I—That's not what I meant," he muttered, digging the hole deeper with every syllable.
This was worse than poison.
Much worse.
There was no saving Zen now.
Not from this.
He straightened awkwardly, trying to salvage at least a fragment of dignity.
"My name is Zen," he said, forcing his voice back into something steady.
The old man nodded. "I am Dhaka."
Zen glanced at the girl.
She wasn't looking at him.
In fact, she seemed very committed to studying the ground.
Of course she wasn't introducing herself.
How could she even look at him after what he had just said?
Good job, he mocked himself internally.
Sensing the thick awkwardness hanging in the air, the old man cleared his throat.
"And this is my miss," he said gently. "Her name is Zaki."
Zen gave a small nod.
But now wasn't the time.
They had just survived. The air still smelled like death. And he had already embarrassed himself enough for one evening.
So instead of interrogating them, he decided to make up for his earlier… disaster.
"If you want," he said, keeping his tone neutral, "you can join me. My camp is nearby. There's enough space for you."
He paused for half a second, then added more clearly,
"For the night."
It wasn't charity.
It wasn't attachment.
Just practicality.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Zen had too many questions.
How did they end up surrounded by beasts?
Why were they this deep in the forest?
The old man agreed.
He knew they were asking for more than they should. But what choice did they have? Their cart was damaged, and they were stranded in the middle of the forest.
So he accepted the invitation.
They burned the corpses of the soldiers.
It wasn't much, but it was all they could do for now.
At the very least, it was a way to honor them—something close to a proper burial.
The flames rose slowly.
Orange light flickered against their faces, against the crater, against the broken earth.
Smoke climbed into the darkening sky.
Zen couldn't put a name to what he was feeling.
Was it sadness?
Regret?
Or just exhaustion?
The flames crackled in front of him, rising and falling with the night wind.
He watched them quietly.
Was he mourning?
Or was he simply admiring how fire looked in the dark?
It disturbed him that he couldn't tell the difference.
The heat touched his face.
The light flickered in his eyes.