It was a very dark night, with a dense shadow that seemed to seep into the skin.
The forest, where the crescent moon had set, carried the refreshing scent of air that had settled before the rain poured down.
In the forest, thick with moisture and darkness, a noise echoed.
Sssss, sssss.
The sound of a well-sharpened whetstone rubbing against a blade. With each friction, the sound grew clearer.
At the center of this noise was a campfire.
Smoke rose above the flickering campfire, and in front of it, a person sitting on a fallen tree moved their hands busily.
He sharpened the sword, then picked up a leather pouch filled with water and poured it over the blade to clean it.
Metal shavings and the like were swept away from the cleaned blade and spilled onto the ground.
The man sharpening and cleaning the blade had a subtle thought flowing across his face.
He had been hired by a mercenary group for a battle that took place in a plain called Netchagni.
The pay was decent, and he had managed to secure some spoils, but he wasn’t particularly happy.
After all, he had to kill people. The vague understanding that it was a sensation he could never get used to, no matter how long, seemed to linger in his mind.
But it was something he had to do to survive.
So, he picked up the well-cleaned sword and looked at it. It was his spoils from this battle.
The blade, reflecting the dim moonlight, glinted in his turquoise eyes.
Aslan looked at the eerily shining blade and then pulled the sword down.
Thud.
At that moment, a sound echoed.
It was the sound of a dry branch being stepped on and breaking.
Aslan stiffened his expression and turned his head to look in the direction of the sound.
Beyond the light that reached under the shadows of the trees, something was approaching.
From within that darkness, the sound of something heavy being drawn, the sound of a bowstring being pulled, and the sound of a crossbow being aimed could be heard.
As these ominous sounds sporadically echoed through the forest, Aslan tightly gripped the longsword he was about to set down.
He could guess who they were and why they had come.
Of course, those things didn’t matter, but Aslan had to ask.
He picked up one of the tightly filled leather pouches leaning against the log and stood up.
As he did so, he casually picked up the crude round shield at his feet and quickly tied the shield’s strap to his arm.
Then, from beyond the shadows of the trees, more than twenty presences moved simultaneously.
The sound of hurried footsteps, the rustling of fabric, the clashing of leather, and the metallic sound of weapons echoed.
The sound of crossbows being aimed, the sound of spear shafts being adjusted, and the sound of longswords being drawn. Various sounds came from multiple directions.
The reason they were making noise and preparing to attack without hiding was clear: they were confident they could handle it even if they were discovered.
Aslan scanned the darkness where the sounds were coming from and spoke.
“…What are you here for?”
Aslan’s tired and hoarse voice echoed through the forest.
Due to his weary voice and shabby armor, the response came with a sneer.
Four low laughs, one answer. The direction was almost directly in front. Aslan memorized that direction and loosely gripped the leather pouch.
“You already know, don’t you? The Supreme Divinity has placed a bounty on your head. A hefty one at that. They say if we bring you in, the leader will be made a priest.”
As the expected reason was heard, Aslan let out a sigh.
“There are more than twenty of us here. We have a mage too. It’s not like we’re going to eat you, so if you come quietly…”
Instead of answering, Aslan swung his left hand.
As the leather pouch left his hand and flew in an arc, the mercenary, surprised by the fact that the pouch was thrown accurately into the darkness, swung his axe.
Thud!
A sound like flesh tearing echoed, and the leather pouch burst open, spilling liquid from within.
It was unnecessary to confirm that the person who had struck it with the axe was drenched in that liquid.
The pungent smell immediately stabbed at his nose. The mercenary, holding the axe, cursed at the nauseating stench and texture.
“What the hell…”
Before the mercenary could realize that the liquid was oil mixed with resin, Aslan pointed his finger at him.
“Ignite.”
A popping sound was heard, and something shot from the tip of his finger, flying towards the oil-soaked mercenary and embedding itself.
It was a spark.
A minor trick that could at most cause a localized burn, incapable of inflicting any significant injury.
But it was enough to ignite the oil.
The spark turned into a flame, and the mercenary burst into flames. The sudden pillar of fire pushed the air aside, and the leaves, blown by the gust, rustled.
At the sight of their comrade suddenly burning, the mercenaries aiming their crossbows were thrown into confusion, and their aim faltered.
Before they could adjust their aim, Aslan moved his foot and kicked the pot hanging over the campfire, muttering something.
Clang! The pot tipped over, and the campfire went out, plunging the surroundings into darkness.
“Shoot, shoot!”
Thud thud thud!
They fired their crossbows belatedly, but no screams followed. They had missed.
While the crossbowmen were swallowing their breaths and reloading, the mercenaries assessed their situation.
A crescent moon night where not a single beam of light could be sent into the forest.
The mercenaries, whose positions were clearly revealed by their burning comrade, and Aslan, who had hidden himself.
And the nickname that followed Aslan.
A veteran of battle.
Feeling their morale wavering, one of the mercenaries barely composed himself and shouted.
“Shields up—”
The mercenary’s head soared into the air. A moment later, his head and body rolled on the ground simultaneously.
Standing next to the corpse was Aslan. He stood beside the corpse, looking at the mercenaries with cold, sunken eyes.
At that moment, the burning mercenary finally fell silent as the flames subsided, and complete darkness returned to the forest.
The mercenaries looked at the darkness with bewildered expressions.
A group.
A group inevitably needs to open their mouths to communicate.
As they opened their mouths to communicate, to command, Aslan moved.
The moment the next-ranking mercenary was about to give an order, Aslan lunged and thrust his sword. The sharp blade of the longsword pierced the back of the neck and tore it apart. It was a precise, flawless attack, like a lion pouncing and biting.
With a squelch, blood spurted, and Aslan pulled out the sword and stepped back.
As he retreated, he swung the sword, and another fell as the blade cut through the chest. Despite the clear intent to kill among them, the mercenaries couldn’t move easily.
They hadn’t worn armor for the ambush. As a result, their defense was weak.
The padded armor was insufficient to withstand the strikes of a veteran.
But to counterattack, if they missed or swung wildly, they would injure their comrades.
If that happened, they would quickly become terrified and attack indiscriminately, cutting into each other’s flesh. The mercenaries, experienced in guerrilla warfare, realized this and swallowed their breaths.
On the other hand, Aslan, that man, could swing wildly and still surely finish someone off. Yet, he was attacking precisely with his well-sharpened and cleaned sword.
That fact caused hesitation, and hesitation became a gap. A momentary gap, but it was enough.
Aslan lunged again and thrust the tip of his sword, piercing the heart of a mercenary who let out a gurgling sound and collapsed to the ground.
As lives were extinguished and the more than twenty mercenaries gradually dwindled, the mage among them bit his lip.
When the first comrade had burned, he thought he could use it as illumination, but that wasn’t the case.
Aslan had instead killed with a single stroke in the light, sapping their morale, and the fire had quickly gone out.
There was no choice. He would lose the advantage of surprise and the benefit of not being the target, but if he did nothing, it was clear they would all be slaughtered.
The mage stretched his hand upward, gathering mana from within and shooting it upward.
A glowing sphere appeared in the air. Then, the forest, hidden in shadow, was revealed.
As the darkness lifted, the number of visible mercenaries had significantly decreased. Only five remained, including the mage. Fifteen out of twenty had been slaughtered and lay scattered on the ground.
Aslan charged towards the remaining five.
“Ignite.”
Aslan, while charging, pointed his finger at the mage and chanted.
Then, light shot from his forearm, and a spark flew towards the mage’s eyes, which were wide open due to the darkness.
The mage’s scream and the mercenaries’ enraged cries erupted simultaneously.
“Fuck! Kill him! Kill him!”
“You bastard!”
While the mage clutched his eyes and bent over, Aslan and the four mercenaries charged at each other.
Aslan, seeing the mercenaries charging at him, threw his shield.
Clang!
“Ugh.”
The mercenary hastily pulled down his axe to block the shield flying towards him, but before the deflected shield hit the ground, Aslan approached and swung his sword.
Slash!
The blade, precisely slicing through the back of the neck, withdrew with a handful of blood, and the mercenary clutched his neck and staggered.
Aslan stepped on the mercenary’s foot and pushed him with his shoulder.
The mercenary, following his comrade, let out a sound as the dying comrade was pushed towards him.
As he caught the comrade with his body, Aslan’s sword came down from above, splitting his head.
Thud!
Before he could even exhale, two had become corpses, and the mercenary behind them, holding a spear, hesitated as he looked at the corpse that had become an obstacle.
But the sword pierced through his eye socket, and he died without even resisting.
As warm blood splattered on the ground, the last mercenary realized that if he ignored the corpse and didn’t attack, he would die.
But Aslan was a step faster. Aslan kicked the corpse, toppling it onto the mercenary who was about to charge.
As the trembling corpse collapsed on top of him, the mercenary dropped his sword and fell to the ground.
“Ah, fuck!”
Thud!
As the sword pierced the fallen mercenary’s head, there were suddenly four corpses.
Amidst the finely severed lives, the mage, clutching his eyes, barely raised his head.
He was bleeding profusely from his eyes, gasping for breath.
There had been twenty of them. Although they hadn’t worn armor for the night raid, they had brought plenty of weapons. Many had crossbows.
Yet, all of them were dead, lying scattered. The mage, bewildered by this fact, grabbed the mace hanging at his waist.
Aslan, despite having killed twenty, had not a single wound on his body.
There were scratches on his armor and shield, but nothing that could be called an injury.
He was simply catching his breath, with no sign of exhaustion.
That fact seemed utterly despairing to the mage.
He trembled, holding the mace.
Being a novice mage who had only grasped the basics of the Manifestation school, facing a veteran warrior without any armor was not a promising prospect.
But there was no other way. The mage immediately charged forward with the mace.
The mage was from the Manifestation school, which realized magic by scattering various attributes and unknowns into the world.
Though not highly skilled, it had been sufficient in situations where swords were exchanged.
This time would be no different. The mage clung to his last hope and stretched out his hand.
The hand, stretched out from a low stance, glowed as if gathering the surrounding light.
A simple minor magic that required no hand signs or incantations. ‘Flash’ erupted from his hand.
Flash!
As the flash burst from his palm, cutting through the night, the mage, envisioning victory in his heart, firmly gripped the mace and twisted his body.
The flash was light that erupted immediately upon the will to manifest.
If properly gazed upon, it could blind the eyes, so there was no way to respond to a flash bursting in front of one’s face.
If blinded, the mace would be unavoidable. The mage swung the firmly gripped mace with all his might. The angular steel, filled with killing intent, cut through the light and shot forward.
Whoosh!
But it didn’t connect. Aslan stepped back lightly, dodging it.
The smile on the mage’s face cracked, and he looked forward with his one remaining eye.
There stood Aslan. In shabby armor, a cloak draped over him, holding a chipped longsword.
The man, with his eyes closed, raised the sword high.
The magical energy subtly flowing from his closed eyes was a clear sign, even to a novice mage.
‘Olfactory vision magic…?!’
The mercenaries and the mage had crossed the forest to Aslan’s campsite, wearing only light armor for the night raid.
Since the distance wasn’t that close, they inevitably got sweaty. There was no way to hide their scent.
‘But since when?’
When they had surrounded him for the ambush, Aslan’s eyes were open.
If he had used magic, they would have noticed through incantations or hand signs.
Unless he had anticipated the mercenaries’ arrival at this location and used that magic beforehand.
‘He anticipated it from the beginning…’
The mage’s thoughts didn’t continue. The raised blade fell.
Thud!
A downward slash aimed at the head. The slash split the mage’s head in half.
The mage’s body trembled and then slumped, and Aslan pushed the slumping mage to the ground with his sword.
Thud.
As the mage died, the light he had created gradually faded.
As the darkness crept in like a tide, Aslan, with a troubled expression, picked up the mage’s mace and tucked it into his waist.
He had planned to stay in the forest for a day and then leave, but now that seemed impossible.
“—There’s a sound over there—”
From a distance, the sound of the main force of the mercenaries moving could be heard. Aslan looked in the direction of the sound, picked up a few weapons from the corpses, and left.
To survive.
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