The forest was quiet.
Not peaceful—just… silent. The kind of silence that comes after violence, thick and heavy, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.
Darius lay on his back, eyes open, staring up through the branches. His vision blurred and doubled, pulsing with each heartbeat. Every breath was a blade against his ribs. He didn't know how long he'd been there.
Red was still beside him. Alive. Breathing shallow, but alive.
The lion didn't move.
The knife was still buried in its chest, and Darius didn't have the strength to pull it free. Not yet.
He rolled onto his side with a groan, coughing once, tasting blood. His fingers trembled as he reached for Red, brushing the matted fur around the wolf's flank. The wound was bad—deep, but not fatal. Still bleeding.
He had to move.
He had to treat the wounds.
Both of them.
Slowly—agonizingly—Darius pushed himself up. His whole body protested. Muscles screamed. Bones ached. The cold sweat clinging to his skin made the air feel colder than it was.
He tore a strip of fabric from the bottom of his tunic and pressed it to Red's wound.
"Hold on," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Just hold on."
There was no answer, only a flick of an ear.
Darius scanned the trees. No sign of Arkantos. No wolves. No safety.
He was alone.
But he knew the forest now.
He knew where the water ran clean. Where the moss grew thick. Where the old pine bled sap that could seal a wound.
If I can stand… I can survive.
He rose, legs shaking, and limped toward the river.
He would return.
He would skin the lion.He would treat Red.He would live.
Because he wasn't done yet.
His legs carried him farther than he expected.
Barely.
Each step was a question of balance, of pain management. He didn't limp—he staggered. His hand never left the trees, leaning on bark for support like a dying man trying to fake strength.
But he knew where he was going.
The forest around Limnai wasn't just wild anymore.
It was mapped in his head.
He reached a slope where water pooled at the base of a gnarled rock formation. Clean stream. Cold. Good for cleaning wounds and drinking.
He dropped to his knees.
Let his hands soak.
First priority: infection control.
He splashed his face, breathing through the pain. Then he unwrapped the cloth from Red's wound and began washing away the blood. The wolf didn't resist—just trembled slightly, tail still.
He trusts me.
Darius whispered, "Good boy," though his throat was dry.
Then he started thinking. Like a soldier. Cold. Calculative.
What do I have?
Water – Clean, cold. Stops bleeding. Prevents dirt from infecting the wound. Helps reduce swelling.
Resin from pine trees – Sticky, amber-colored. Natural antiseptic. Can seal shallow cuts or slow deeper bleeding. He'd seen it ooze before.
Moss – thick, green, spongy – Not all types are safe, but sphagnum moss could be used as a makeshift bandage. Absorbent. Some have mild antibacterial properties.
Willow bark – Looks unremarkable, but he remembered the briefing: contains a precursor to aspirin. Can help with pain and inflammation if boiled into tea.
Clay soil – Not ideal, but if dried and heated, could be used as a compress. Last resort.
He didn't have fire. He didn't have time for tea. Use what's immediate.
He set Red beside a flat stone and went to work.
It took him twenty minutes to find pine resin oozing from a broken trunk. He pressed cloth into it, let it soak, then returned.
He cleaned the wound again, whispered apologies, and applied the resin-coated cloth, tying it in place with a strip from his tunic.
Red whimpered but didn't resist.
Then he found moss. Fresh, clean. He squeezed the water from it, folded it into a pad, and used it for his own side where the ribs screamed the loudest. He held it there as he sat back, chest heaving.
He looked toward the east.
The lion still lay in the clearing, a mountain of fur and death.
Even if he wanted to move it, he couldn't. Not now. Not alone.
Two hundred kilograms, easy. That's half a horse. No way I'm dragging that.
He'd have to return later.
When he could walk without falling.When Red could stand.When the forest stopped spinning every time he blinked.
But the idea of leaving the lion unguarded made his stomach twist.
Still, he had no choice.
"You'll keep, old king," he muttered. "You'll keep."
He closed his eyes, back against the stone, one hand resting on Red's side.
He wouldn't sleep.
Not yet.
But for now... he could rest.
Arkantos – POV
He watched the boy limp back into the trees, slow and stubborn.
Still alive.
Still standing.
Arkantos exhaled quietly. He had kept his distance long enough.
Darius had passed the test. Not a test Arkantos had spoken aloud—not even to himself—but a test all the same.
To kill a lion, even with wolves at your side, was nearly impossible.To survive it, while wounded.To tend to another before tending to yourself.
He had seen grown men crack under less.
And yet… the boy did not.
That alone wasn't what disturbed him.
It was how he had done it.
No panic. No hesitation. Just decisions, one after another. Measured. Efficient.
He had watched the way Darius moved, the way he scanned the forest, the way he selected moss, resin, and water. Not randomly. Not by instinct. With knowledge.
Too much knowledge.
Arkantos crouched near the clearing where the lion still lay. He pressed a hand to the beast's side, now cold, and glanced at the blood-soaked earth.
"A child should not know how to treat wounds like that," he murmured. "Not unless he's been trained. And not by shepherds or priests."
He looked toward the direction Darius had taken, eyes sharp under the morning light.
There were questions buried in that boy.Unanswered ones.Dark ones.
But Arkantos had lived long enough to know when to dig, and when to wait.
If the gods want to send a mystery into my forest… so be it.
He stood and slung the lion's body over a makeshift harness he had prepared earlier. The weight nearly buckled his knees. Two hundred kilograms, maybe more.
He bore it anyway.
Step by step.
Toward the boy's shelter.
Not to intimidate. Not to test him further.
To show him.
To offer him something.
A future.
He heard the footsteps first.
Heavy. Deliberate.
Then the crack of branches.
Darius sat up, hand already reaching for the knife beside him. His body protested, ribs stabbing with each movement, but he was ready.
Or tried to be.
Then he saw the silhouette—broad shoulders, wild hair, steady steps—and the body dragging behind.
His jaw slackened.
The lion.
Arkantos had carried the damn lion.
On foot.
Darius blinked, struggling to stand as the older man stopped just meters from the shelter and let the beast slump to the ground with a deep, final thud.
"You carried that... all the way here?" Darius asked, stunned.
Arkantos rolled his shoulders with a grunt, not even pretending to act humble. "Of course."
A beat passed.
Darius narrowed his eyes. "You saw the whole thing, didn't you?"
"I did."
"And you didn't help."
"I didn't need to."
Darius stared.
Arkantos scratched his beard. "Looked like you had it under control. Besides..." —he gave a half-smile, sharp and tired— "I was enjoying the show."
Darius huffed, annoyed but too tired to argue. He glanced down at Red, still sleeping fitfully beside him, then back to Arkantos.
The older man gestured toward the small pile of dried meat at Darius's side.
"Bringing that thing nearly killed me. I'm starving."
Darius stared at him.
Then rolled his eyes.
He grabbed the meat and tossed a strip toward Arkantos without saying a word.
Arkantos caught it midair and tore into it like a wolf.
They sat in silence—one chewing, the other watching, ribs aching.
Somehow, it wasn't awkward.
They ate in silence for a while, each focused on the taste of salt and smoke and the quiet that followed battle.
Then, without looking at him, Arkantos spoke.
"I want to take you as my disciple."
Darius blinked.
He turned to him slowly, chewing the last bit of meat. "Seriously?"
The old man nodded.
"I've seen enough. You've got more than instinct. You've got judgment. Balance. But you're still raw. I can teach you something beyond what you already know."
Darius almost laughed.
Sure, the man was strong—absurdly strong—but Darius had been a trained soldier before his second chance at life. He'd fought with modern tactics, martial systems honed over centuries. Once his body caught up with his mind, he was sure he could overpower Arkantos if it came down to it.
What could this forest hermit possibly teach me?
Of course, he couldn't say that aloud.
So instead, he offered a polite excuse.
"I appreciate it," he said, "but I still have a few weeks left before I'm due back at the Spartan camp. Maybe after that."
Arkantos grunted.
"You've survived. That's good. But surviving is only the beginning. I'm offering to show you more than that. More than what's normal. More than what you think you know."
Darius smirked, unconvinced. He leaned back, folding his arms.
"Oh yeah? Show me."
His tone was half-joking. Almost arrogant. The kind of arrogance that came from knowing he had lived more than one lifetime.
Arkantos narrowed his eyes slightly. Then he smiled.
He stood, cracked his neck, and began walking toward the treeline. Toward a massive oak, thick and ancient, its bark darkened with age.
He stopped just in front of it.
Then turned his head back toward Darius.
"What would happen if you punched this tree with everything you had?"
Darius squinted. "I'd break my hand. Obviously. So would anyone. Why would someone even try that?"
Arkantos turned fully, faced the tree.
His stance changed. His body lowered slightly, spine aligned, weight balanced. And then—
CRACK—BOOOM.
The sound hit before the shockwave did. It was like thunder trapped in flesh.
Arkantos's fist connected with the base of the trunk, and in an instant, the massive oak split open, bark exploding outward. The core splintered. The entire tree tilted.
With one calm touch of his palm, Arkantos guided its fall—away from the shelter, clean, controlled, as if gravity obeyed him.
It crashed down in the distance, echoing through the forest.
Silence.
Arkantos turned, hand relaxed, that same calm smile on his lips.
"Well?" he asked. "What do you think?"