By the edge of the forest, the carriage wheels ground along the narrow, rutted path, jolting over roots and stones with rhythmic thumps that echoed through the trees.
Seated on the bench, Ninya stared at Helant in a quiet daze. Her staff rested loosely in her lap, knuckles pale from gripping it too tightly. Her mouth hung slightly open before she caught herself and closed it slowly, cheeks warming under the scrutiny.
Helant turned his head, catching her gaze. "What's wrong? You've been staring at me since we left this morning."
"E-Ehm.. cough cough.."
The moment the words left his lips, every head in the carriage swiveled toward Ninya—curious, amused, expectant.
Peter Mauk, leader of the Swords of Darkness, chuckled. "Yeah, Ninya. From the crack of dawn until now, your eyes haven't left Mr. Helant once. Got something on your mind?"
The sudden attention prickled across Ninya's skin like nettles. She fidgeted, voice small. "Ah, I… well…"
Mino leaned in, nudging Helant with her elbow and whispering just loud enough for the others to hear, "Does this little girl have a crush on you or what?"
"Little girl?" Helant blinked in genuine surprise. Even Momonga—sharp as he was—hadn't immediately clocked Ninya as female beneath her boyish attire and mannerisms. Yet Mino had picked it up effortlessly. "You noticed?"
"A girl's intuition, obviously." Mino rolled her eyes dramatically. "She's been glued to you the whole ride. How could I miss it?"
Helant considered for a moment, then offered a gentle smile. "It's probably not romantic. Something else, I'd wager."
Ninya, unused to being the center of so many gazes, finally found her voice—hesitant but earnest. "Um… I actually wanted to ask… Mr. Helant, Mr. Momon, Mino, Miss Nabe… you don't really seem like typical adventurers. More like pampered nobles, honestly. The way you carry yourselves, the gear… Why choose this life at all?"
The question hung in the air like a thrown gauntlet. It instantly sharpened the curiosity of the Swords of Darkness and Nfirea alike.
After all, most adventurers risked their lives for coin, scraping by meal to meal in a world that offered no guarantees. Given the choice between noble comforts and the adventurer's uncertain grind, nearly anyone would pick luxury without a second thought.
Yet Helant and his companions radiated none of the desperation, none of the rough edges of survival.
While the others stared openly, Nfirea used the moment to study Helant more closely. The platinum-colored priest robes were unmistakably high-grade magical items—alchemical weave, subtle enchantments shimmering at the seams.
His skin was fair and flawless, untouched by sun or hardship; every detail screamed meticulous care. And when Nfirea's eyes lingered on Helant's strikingly handsome features, a flicker of jealousy twisted in his chest before he could suppress it.
In terms of looks alone, Helant outshone anyone Nfirea had ever met.
Yesterday's casual production of that blood-red recovery potion still nagged at him too. A noble from the Empire? Or maybe even the Slane Theocracy? The speculation churned quietly behind his polite expression.
Helant laughed softly, adopting a playful tone. "All right, I'll reveal a little—nothing too deep. Some time ago, I was badly injured by a Demon God. Had to recuperate nearby, out of the public eye."
He deliberately glanced at Momonga as he spoke the words "Demon God," a faint spark of shared amusement passing between them.
"As luck would have it, I ran into my good friend Momon here—he was tracking down another one of those Demon Gods at the time. We talked it over and decided: why not become adventurers while we continue the hunt? Keeps us sharp, lets us blend in."
"Haha, Mr. Helant, you're quite the storyteller," Ninya replied politely, though her tone carried gentle skepticism. "A Demon God? That's… a stretch. Demon Gods haven't walked the land since the era of the Thirteen Heroes."
Peter nodded along, taking it as a light deflection. Mr. Helant clearly didn't want to share his true origins and had spun a tall tale instead.
As the carriage neared the forest's shadowy fringe, Peter shifted to practical matters. "Speaking of which, Mr. Helant, Mr. Momon—there are goblin packs in these woods. If you don't have at least Mithril-rank strength, stay sharp. They're more dangerous than they look."
At the words, Narberal's hand snapped to her sword hilt. She took half a step forward, posture rigid as a drawn bowstring, eyes flashing with icy fury. "Damned maggot—how dare you question the Supreme—!"
"Nabe!"
"Apologies, Lord Momon..."
A sudden chill raced down Peter's spine. He caught the edge of Momon quietly reprimanding Nabe, their voices too low to make out, but the tension was palpable.
Ehm.. Momonga cleared his throat. "Uh… thank you for your warning."
Helant suppressed his laugh and turned back to Ninya with an easy smile. "About the Thirteen Heroes—could you tell me more? The Kingdom's records are spotty at best."
Ninya brightened slightly, grateful for the change of subject. "Well… since so much has been lost or exaggerated over the centuries, I only know the broad strokes. Their leader was incredibly strong—started weak, supposedly, but grew to dominate the group. There was a Black Knight famous for wielding multiple legendary blades, the four Swords of Darkness. That's actually where our team name comes from."
She smiled shyly. "We dream of finding even one someday."
Helant chuckled. "Don't you need our help with the goblins ahead?"
"It's just a dozen or so," Ninya said, cheeks tinting pink. "The leader probably spotted they weren't too numerous and wants to show off a bit—prove to you newcomers how we handle them."
Dyne nodded sagely from his seat. "Don't let their ugly, stupid looks fool you. Goblins are clever—ambushes, traps, numbers. New adventurers fall to them all the time."
Helant and Momonga watched with quiet interest as Peter and Lukrut moved to confront the initial goblin scouts, blades drawn and stances confident.
A few goblins, however, slipped past the frontline unnoticed, creeping through the underbrush to circle behind—poised for a classic pincer.
"Momon," Helant murmured, voice low, "this world really doesn't let us underestimate anything. Even goblins know how to set up proper ambushes."
"Precisely," Momonga replied, armored form still as stone. "If creatures this low have tactical cunning, we must remain vigilant at all times."
"Gugu gaga!!!"
As the words faded, the goblins encircling Peter and Lukrut erupted in guttural cries. The ground trembled faintly under pounding feet; chaotic rustling exploded from the forest depths.
Hundreds of goblins poured out—snarling, claws bared, saliva dripping from jagged fangs—far more than the scouts had suggested.
"Momon," Helant said calmly, eyes narrowing, "he really wasn't exaggerating. Their intelligence isn't low at all. They've mastered baiting and flanking."