The sun had dipped low by the time they stopped.
The forest ahead was a black wall of twisted trunks and whispering wind, its edge glowing faintly orange from the campfire the group had built.
The smell of stew drifted through the clearing, thick with herbs and whatever meat the twins had hunted earlier.
Kyle sat a little apart from the others, back against a wagon wheel, coat half undone, blade leaning beside him. The light flickered against his face — enough to show the tired amusement in his eyes, but not the weight behind it.
Across the fire, the mercs laughed and traded stories.
"…I'm telling you," one of them said, "the kid actually waved to the crowd! Like he's some prince outta fairy tales. You think this 'Hero' stuff ever works?"
The mage poked at the fire with a stick. "The last one died fighting the Demon King, right? Least, that's what they say."
"Yeah," another replied, "but the bards twist it into some glorious end. Can't sell songs about getting torn in half."
Laughter rolled softly.
Kyle smirked, eyes half-lidded. "They always do that."
The others looked over. The fire cracked between them.
"What do you mean?" one of the twins asked.
He shrugged. "Turn tragedy into something pretty. Gives people hope. Helps 'em forget the screams."
The group went quiet for a second.
Then the mage chuckled awkwardly. "You talk like you've seen it happen."
Kyle smiled faintly, swirling the bit of stew left in his bowl. "Maybe I have. Maybe I just read too much."
The tension broke. The chatter picked up again — talk of coin, monsters, and taverns they'd hit once this job was done.
But not everyone relaxed.
The horses — tethered a few meters away — kept shifting restlessly, hooves scraping, ears flicking. Every time Kyle moved, they pulled a little tighter at their reins.
The big merc, the scarred one, noticed first. "Horses don't like you much, huh?"
Kyle looked over his shoulder, voice light. "Animals never did. Maybe they smell the sarcasm."
That got a few laughs, but the big man didn't join in. He just stared a little longer, eyes narrowing before he turned back to his food.
Kyle stretched, lying back on the grass, hands behind his head. The sky above was an ocean of stars, silver and infinite.
He listened to the camp's small noises — crackling wood, soft conversation, restless horses. It was all so alive.
And yet, beneath it, he could feel that faint, constant hum — the same one he'd carried for eight hundred years. The quiet pull of the inevitable.
He closed his eyes, smiling faintly.
"Guess it's starting again," he murmured to himself.
And somewhere in the dark, the wind carried a sound — not quite words, but something like a whisper, brushing over the firelight.
It faded as quickly as it came, leaving only the crackle of flame and the distant sigh of the forest.
Kyle didn't move. Just lay there under the stars, the shadow of Death blending with the warmth of the living.
After some hours of rest and laughter
The night had gone too still.
Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.
Kyle sat by the dying campfire, half-awake, hand resting lazily near his sword.
He heard it first — the faint crunch of boots where no one should be walking. Too many of them.
Then the horses went wild.
"—Shit, we're under attack!"
The shout snapped everyone awake. The fire flared as torches burst from the treeline — twenty, maybe twenty-five figures spilling into the clearing. Steel gleamed, rough voices barked, and arrows hissed through the dark.
Bandits.
The kind that didn't care about coin if they could spill blood first.
Kyle stood up slowly, brushing dirt from his coat as the others scrambled.
The scarred merc roared orders, steel clashing as the first wave hit.
Sparks burst. Screams followed.
Kyle's eyes flicked across the chaos —
two of the twins fighting back-to-back, the mage barely keeping a barrier up, Merrin hiding behind a cart clutching a dagger he didn't know how to use.
A sword whistled past Kyle's head, burying itself in the wagon beside him.
He sighed. "Tch. Figures."
Then he moved.
The first bandit to reach him didn't even see it happen.
One step — the world blurred — and Kyle was already behind him.
A dull click of his blade sliding home,
a wet thud of a body hitting the ground.
Someone screamed, "The hell is he—"
Kyle turned, eyes faintly reflecting the firelight, calm and unblinking.
When he exhaled, the air grew cold.
The laughter, the shouting, even the crackle of flames — all of it dimmed for a heartbeat, replaced by that crawling sensation that something ancient had just looked back at them.
The horses went berserk again, eyes rolling white. The mage stumbled, staring at Kyle like he wasn't human.
"W-what the hell is that…?"
Kyle ignored it. His boots barely whispered against the dirt as he closed the gap between himself and another pair of attackers.
The sword flashed once, twice — clean arcs, efficient. No wasted motion.
Not a soldier's swing. Not a merc's.
A predator's.
The blade bit through armor like wet cloth.
Blood sprayed, hissed in the fire.
One of the bandits tried to back away, voice shaking. "He's not—he's not normal!"
Kyle smiled slightly. "You're damn right."
The leader finally stepped into the light — a big man, iron pauldrons, twin axes crackling faintly with some low-tier enchantment.
His grin was wide, teeth gold-plated. "So this is the 'escort'? You're no knight, bastard, but you'll bleed like one."
Kyle tilted his head. "Maybe. But I wouldn't bet on it."
The leader lunged. Axes came down with a roar —
Kyle sidestepped, blade sliding up like liquid silver. Steel met steel, sparks exploded.
The man's strength was real — enough to crush stone — but Kyle barely looked fazed.
The next exchange was faster.
A step forward, shoulder twist, a blur of motion.
The leader managed to parry once — barely — before Kyle pivoted and drove a knee into his ribs, snapping bone.
The man stumbled back, gasping, and Kyle's blade was already moving again.
This time, no defense came.
The sword sank through the man's chest with a soft, final sound.
The bandit's eyes went wide, then dim.
Kyle leaned close, whispering as he pulled the blade free.
"Should've stayed in the forest."
The body dropped, and the silence that followed was suffocating.
The surviving bandits broke.
Some ran into the dark, others froze like they couldn't believe what they'd seen.
Kyle flicked blood off his sword, sliding it back into its sheath.
The air around him still carried that quiet hum — cold, heavy, ancient —
and for a few seconds, it felt like Death itself had walked through the camp.
Then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Damn. So much for a peaceful trip."
The mercs just stared, catching their breath, too shaken to speak.
Even Merrin, pale and trembling, looked at him like he was staring at something that shouldn't exist.
Kyle crouched by the fire, grabbed a piece of wood, and tossed it back in.
Flames flared up again, soft orange washing the blood away into shadows.
He looked over his shoulder and smiled, calm as ever.
"Relax. They're gone."
No one said a word.
The forest wind swept through the clearing,
and for a moment, it almost sounded like it whispered thank you.