He didn't move.
He remained standing where he was, the sword hanging loosely from his hand. Drops of blood slid slowly along its edge, falling onto the ground—ground that could no longer distinguish between soil and flesh.
The silence was absolute.
No screams. No ragged breathing. No final twitch.
Only scattered bodies, twisted into unnatural positions, their expressions frozen at a moment that was never allowed to finish.
Nyx finally lowered his arm.
He felt no victory.
And no revulsion.
What remained was closer to… a cold emptiness.
He took a single step forward—and his body shook. Not from fear, but from pain that had been delayed long enough to strike all at once.
His right knee nearly gave out. He clenched his teeth and steadied himself before he could fall.
No… not now.
He looked down at his free hand.
It was trembling.
Not from exhaustion alone—but from what had just ended.
He didn't try to justify it.
He didn't tell himself they deserved it.
He didn't search for a moral escape.
The truth was simpler… and harsher.
I chose this path.
He slowly raised his gaze, surveying the scene. Twelve bodies… perhaps more, if he counted the scattered remains. Their leader lay closest to him, sprawled on his back, his head severed by a strike that hadn't been elegant—but had been sufficient.
Nyx approached with slow steps and knelt, ignoring the pain that flared from his thigh up into his side.
No movement.
No breath.
It was over.
He stood with difficulty and wiped the blade on a tattered piece of cloth taken from one of them. He didn't care if stains remained. This wasn't about cleaning—it was habit.
He looked around one last time.
Finished.
And yet… something inside him still hadn't closed.
---
He moved away from the place.
Not quickly.
Not with exaggerated caution.
But the way someone walks when they know their body could fail at any moment—and walks anyway.
The mana within him was dangerously low. It no longer flowed the way it used to. It felt heavy, broken, as if it resisted his will.
Perfect.
He let out a silent, bitter scoff. As if his body were reminding him that this was the price.
After a short distance, he stopped. Leaned his back against the trunk of a wide tree and slowly lowered himself until he was seated.
His breathing was uneven. Cold sweat covered his brow. And the pain… finally began to take its true shape.
A wound in his shoulder.
A deep gash in his thigh.
Internal bruising he felt with every movement.
But no severe bleeding.
No broken bones.
"Alive… barely."
He pulled out a small water flask and took a single sip—not because the water was scarce, but because his body could no longer handle more.
He closed his eyes.
And then… the moment came.
Not regret.
Not terror.
Realization.
This is what it means to step off the safe path.
No instructors.
No barriers.
No rules to stop you before you cross the line.
Only choices… and consequences.
He opened his eyes slowly.
He didn't see the academy.
Nor classrooms.
Nor a blackboard.
He saw the forest.
The road he had chosen with his own will.
And I'm still alive.
He stood again—slower this time. His body protested, but obeyed.
---
As the sun climbed higher, light began filtering through the dense canopy. Morning had fully arrived.
But Nyx felt no comfort. Light didn't mean safety here.
He moved along the trees, avoiding open paths. He was no longer looking for battle. Nor for training.
Now… survival was the only objective.
Distant sounds reached his ears. Birds. Rustling leaves. Noises that meant nothing—until they meant everything.
He stopped suddenly.
Tilted his head slightly, focusing.
No.
No nearby monsters.
He continued on.
With every step, a new weight settled upon him—not just physical, but internal.
I'm not the same anymore.
It wasn't dramatic.
Just a simple truth.
---
About an hour later, he found a place suitable to stop—a small rocky hollow surrounded by dense trees, difficult to spot from afar.
He sat down, pulled out another strip of cloth, and tightly bound the wound on his thigh. The pain was sharp, but he endured it without a sound.
There was no luxury left for screaming.
He closed his eyes again, letting his mana move… slowly. He didn't try to control it. Only to keep it from collapsing.
Minutes passed. Maybe more.
When he opened his eyes, the exhaustion was still there—but his mind was clearer.
No retreat.
He stood, adjusted the position of his sword, and straightened his partially torn coat.
He looked at the forest stretching before him.
It was no longer an unknown place.
Nor merely a stage for events he already knew.
It had become a trial.
And he wasn't withdrawing now.
---
By noon, he was far from the site of the massacre. He didn't look back. He no longer counted.
The blood staining his clothes had begun to dry. The smell was strong—but he didn't care.
If something comes close… I'll feel it.
He kept walking.
Not because he was strong.
But because he no longer saw another option.
---
At sunset, he finally stopped. Not because he found the perfect spot—but because his body said enough.
He sat on a rock, lowering his head slightly.
The sky shifted in color. The forest gradually grew quiet.
In that stillness… there were no screams. No faces.
Only one feeling remained.
I will continue.
Even if the road is dark.
Even if the price is greater than expected.
He slowly raised his head, eyes steady.
Then he stood.
And walked deeper into Valsmeer.
_______
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