The jungle finally ended.
The dense canopy gave way to an open field, where the sky stretched wide, the early morning light casting a dull glow over the sea of grass.
All around me, the aftermath of battle was still unfolding.
Some soldiers walked in silence, their eyes hollow, their bodies carrying the weight of what they had just survived. Others moved in pairs or small groups, dragging the wounded, carrying the dead. Friends, partners—some alive, some not.
I kept walking.
Past the medics tending to the wounded, murmuring words of reassurance to those who could be saved—or quiet prayers to those who couldn't.
Past the scattered remains of the battlefield, the smell of blood and burning flesh still thick in the air.
Until, finally, when the crowds had thinned, I saw them.
Three men.
Standing a little too casually, waiting a little too deliberately.
They approached as soon as I stepped into open space.
The first was broad-shouldered, a brute of a man with a crooked nose that had clearly been broken more than once. His heavy arms were wrapped in old leather bracers, and a chipped longsword hung from his hip.
The second was thinner, wiry, with a jagged scar running across his chin. His eyes were quick, darting from me to the severed head in my grip. A short dagger sat in his belt, but the way he held himself told me he was used to fighting dirty—someone who preferred to kill fast and unseen.
The third looked older, rougher, his beard patchy and unkempt. He was the only one not armed—but the way his knuckles bulged and cracked told me that he didn't need a weapon. He was a brawler. Someone who relied on raw strength over finesse.
The first one stepped forward, cracking his neck.
"We know you have The Mother's head."
His voice was low, matter-of-fact, as if this wasn't the first time he had done something like this.
"Hand it over." He lifted a hand, palm open. "Do that, and we'll let you walk."
I stared at him.
Then I let out a short, dry chuckle.
"You do know that I killed The Mother, yet you still dare to approach me?"
The thin one hesitated.
His eyes flickered, doubt settling in for just a second.
I smirked, shifting my stance just slightly. "Our numbers aren't so different, either. You're three. I'm two." I nodded toward Rikard, who stood beside me, silent and unmoving.
"You sure you wanna do this?"
The older one cracked his knuckles.
And the first one?
He just grinned.
I saw it before he moved.
Literally.
My vision distorted—just for a second.
The world split, layering itself, and I watched it happen before it actually did.
The brute lunged toward me, his hand reaching for my throat—
But I was already ready.
I moved first.
His real body followed the exact same motion I had already seen, predictable, inevitable.
I caught his wrist mid-strike, yanked him sideways, using his own momentum against him, and—
Slammed him into the ground.
Hard.
Dust kicked up around us, his armor clanking against the earth with a heavy, satisfying thud.
The first move Rikard ever taught me.
I still remembered the feeling—being the one on the ground, staring up at the sky, wind knocked out of my lungs, my back aching from the impact.
Painful.
But worse than that?
Embarrassing.
Just like this.
I didn't let go.
My grip on his wrist remained firm, pressing him into the dirt.
Instead, I lifted my gaze toward the other two.
I didn't say a word.
Just looked at them.
A silent question.
Still dare?
The wiry one hesitated, his fingers twitching near the dagger at his belt.
Then, the older one—the brawler—sighed, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Without a word, the two turned and walked away.
Leaving their so-called friend behind.
Still groaning on the ground.
I scoffed, watching them disappear into the field.
"So much for friendship."
Then, I turned my gaze downward, looking at the man still trapped beneath my grip.
"What's your name?"
He let out a low, pained grunt, coughing once before forcing out, "Darin."
I nodded. "Well, Darin."
I leaned in slightly, letting my voice drop.
"I want you to leave and don't come back. Understood?"
He swallowed hard, then nodded.
Satisfied, I finally released his wrist.
He wasted no time.
Scrambling to his feet, he turned and ran—toward the other end of the field, toward whatever hole he had crawled out of.
I watched him go, then exhaled.
I looked at Rikard.
Still silent. Still unmoving.
His expression was blank—lifeless, obedient.
But that didn't stop me from talking to him.
"You hid this ability from me for years, huh?" I muttered, adjusting my grip on The Mother's severed head.
I let out a small, humorless chuckle.
"You, sir, are a damn good secret keeper."
Rikard didn't react.
Of course, he didn't.
I exhaled and turned back toward the path ahead.
The journey to Drakenburg—the capital of Valkenheim, where the palace stood—would take about half a day on foot.
So we walked.
Through the endless grasslands, where the wind whispered between the tall stalks. The smell of blood and war began to fade, replaced by the damp, earthy scent of the wilderness.
And as we walked, I kept talking.
"Even if I have this ability, it's not enough, you know?" I glanced at him, watching his perfect, unchanging stride.
"One second isn't that big of a window." I lifted my hand, staring at my fingers. "I still have to be able to react. To move. To do something with that time."
I smirked to myself.
"And you? You never even needed the extra second."
I looked at him again.
"I was always proud of your reflexes, you know that?"
Still, no response.
No nod. No grunt.