Osric forced his breathing to slow.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
The ringing in his ears faded gradually, replaced by the dull ache spreading through his hip and leg. His arms felt heavy, his grip loosening around the sword now that the danger had passed.
For a moment, the grass beside him looked inviting.
Too inviting.
He resisted the urge to collapse where he stood.
Not yet.
Osric turned slowly, scanning the area. The bodies of the feral dogs lay scattered across the ground—some still, some twitching faintly as life finished draining from them. No movement beyond that. No sound except the wind brushing through broken fencing.
Still, he didn't trust it.
He needed to be sure.
The fight had carried him several dozen steps away from the farm buildings, dragged outward by momentum and pressure. As he started walking back toward the farmhouse and pens, he kept his sword in hand and his pace measured, eyes checking every blind angle.
Only then did he allow himself to acknowledge the System.
He didn't stop walking as he opened the messages.
A challenge notification sat at the top.
Challenge: Survive and eliminate the remaining feral dogs.
Status: Completed
Below it, the rewards followed—simple, factual, without embellishment.
Pain Resistance (E): slight progress.
Combat Instinct (D): slight progress.
Endurance +1
Osric slowed despite himself.
That was… more than he'd expected.
No new skills. No dramatic leap. But tangible improvement—across exactly the areas that had kept him alive.
His jaw tightened.
If even one more dog had landed a clean bite…
If his footing had slipped at the wrong moment…
This hadn't been an easy E-rank mission. It had only looked like one.
Osric closed the System without lingering on it and pushed the thought aside as he reached the edge of the farm.
The smell hit him all over again.
Blood soaked into the earth. Torn bodies—human and animal alike—lay where they'd fallen, dragged, or been left half-eaten. The farmhouse door hung open, its interior dark and silent.
Destruction.
No order.
No mercy.
Osric stepped forward, eyes sharp, preparing himself to search every building.
For survivors.
For certainty.
And for whatever came next.
From what Osric knew, the small farm belonged to the Brafton family.
Seven family members.
Four hired workers.
Eleven people.
He moved through the yard slowly, counting bodies with a grim, methodical focus. The hired hands were easy to identify—rough clothing, work-worn builds. All four were there.
The family took longer.
The head of the household lay near the barn, torn open where he'd tried to run. His wife was closer to the house. The younger sister lay near the pen, her body partially dragged. The two eldest sons were found farther apart, weapons still clutched uselessly in their hands.
Osric stopped counting.
He already knew.
There were no bodies small enough.
The mission parchment had listed them clearly:
An eleven-year-old boy.
A seven-year-old girl.
Osric felt it settle in his chest—not certainty, but instinct.
They weren't here.
And that meant they might still be alive.
He didn't care much for strangers. He never had. But he wasn't heartless—and children, especially, didn't deserve this kind of end.
Osric turned toward the farmhouse.
Inside, the damage was worse. Furniture overturned. Blood smeared across the floorboards. Drag marks leading nowhere, stopping abruptly as if something had been interrupted.
He searched carefully. Not fast. Thorough.
He checked under beds, inside storage chests, behind broken cabinets. Nothing.
Then he noticed it.
A seam in the wall near the ceiling. Too straight. Too deliberate.
Osric reached up and pulled.
A narrow, hidden door opened inward, revealing a cramped ladder leading into the attic.
The attack came immediately.
A wooden staff swung down toward his head.
Osric shifted aside without effort, the motion almost lazy compared to moments earlier. He caught the stick mid-swing and twisted, pulling it free.
A boy stood in the attic opening.
Thin. Shaking. Eyes sharp with fear and fury both.
"Who are you?!" the boy demanded, gripping empty air where the weapon had been.
Osric stepped back half a pace and lowered his sword deliberately.
"I'm an adventurer," he said evenly. "I came to kill the monsters."
The boy didn't relax immediately. He stared at Osric's bloodstained coat, at the sword, at the way he stood without tension.
"Are they… gone?" the boy asked.
"Yes," Osric answered. "All of them."
Silence stretched.
Then a small figure peeked out from behind the boy.
The girl.
After a few more quiet words, the boy finally nodded and turned back into the attic.
"Sera," he whispered. "We can come down."
They emerged cautiously.
As they reached the doorway, Osric stopped.
He crouched to their level.
"I'm going to carry your sister," he said to the boy. "You'll hold my hand. I need both of you to trust me—and close your eyes until I say you can open them."
The girl nodded immediately, clinging to him without hesitation, looking up at him with wide eyes—too trusting, too young.
The boy hesitated.
But he understood.
Slowly, he nodded.
Osric lifted the girl with his left arm and took the boy's hand in his right.
"Close your eyes," he said.
They did.
And then they stepped out of the house.