"Grim Lancaster!"
The thunderous roar of a fat man shook the crumbling house nestled deep within Greendread Forest. Dust tumbled from the rotting ceiling, as if even the rafters had surrendered to the fury in his voice. His fists were clenched as he pounded them over and over onto an old chair, one that groaned under his weight and looked moments away from splitting in two. His reddened face was a mask of rage, veins bulging from his thick neck.
"That little brat escaped me again! Once I catch him—I'll skin him alive!" he bellowed, his eyes ablaze with fury.
Barthel, master of the slaves hidden away in that vast woodland, was the very embodiment of greed. He is clothed in a fine green coat, expensive and richly embroidered—though its buttons looked about ready to burst thanks to his mountainous gut. His golden chair, once a symbol of his cruel authority, was already buckling beneath him, but he continued cursing and ranting as if he were the law itself in that dark corner of the world.
Before him, four trembling slaves stood frozen in fear. Each held onto stolen trinkets of jewelries and food—loot forced from them through coerced thievery. Pale, thin, and bruised, they were living portraits of what it meant to be broken by bondage.
"Bellor!" Barthel roared, a vein on his forehead seeming fit to burst as he jabbed a thick finger toward the tallest of the boys. "Step forward and show me what you brought!"
Bellor swallowed hard. His hands shook as he slowly held out a small pouch filled with jewelries. "M-Master Barthel… this is all I have," he said, barely more than a whisper.
Barthel snatched the pouch from his hands and sifted through the contents. As he weighed the jewels between his palms, his expression darkened. Suddenly, he threw the contents back at Bellor, some striking the boy in the face.
"Useless trash!" he roared. "Is this what I asked of you?! Fifty grams a day, Bellor! FIFTY! Was that not clear enough?!"
Bellor flinched, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought back tears, bending down to collect the scattered jeweleries. "I'm sorry, Master… I didn't mean to fail you. It's just… security's gotten tighter in Swanton Village…"
But before he could finish, Barthel surged to his feet and slammed his boot into the boy's stomach. Bellor cried out and collapsed, curling into himself as pain shot through him.
"Two days. Locked in your room. No food, no water!" Barthel snarled. "And if you even think about running away like that Grim boy, I swear I'll make your lives ten times more miserable!"
Behind Barthel's rage, there lingered a deeper hatred—one reserved for Grim alone. Of all his slaves, Grim was the only one who dared defy his control… the only one who kept running.
Watching Bellor writhe in pain on the ground, the youngest of the group turned his gaze away, his face tightening in frustration as he muttered under his breath. "Tch. This is Grim's fault again… We're always the ones paying the price for his escapes."
"Why can't he just leave that Jedan boy alone? Grim's gone completely mad," whispered another, pale and shaken.
Meanwhile, in the dark corner of the ruined house, a skinny boy with bright blond hair and blue eyes pressed his ear gently against a termite-eaten wall. The shouting outside echoed into his little space, and the book in his hands slipped quietly from his fingers. His heart thumped against his ribs, and worry clouded his eyes.
"Grim… I told you I could still bear the hunger..."
---
Zerarin Kingdom, Greendread Forest
Four hours had passed since the slaves delivered their stolen treasures to Barthel. And now, on the far side of the Greendread Forest—some distance from the slaves' den—the silence was broken not only by the buzzing of insects and the low growls of unseen creatures, but by the steady patter of sweat falling like rain. Following that sound came the soft rustle of fallen leaves, disturbed by hurried footsteps.
The Greendread Forest was but one of the vast woodlands surrounding the Zerarin Kingdom. Even with the sun glaring fiercely overhead, only faint rays managed to pierce through the thick canopy of twisted branches. Still, Grim could feel the dim warmth pressing weakly against his skin.
His legs were beginning to seize up, his chest tightening with every breath, yet he ran on. The ache in his arms, the burning in his calves—none of it mattered. Only one thing did: escaping death.
The boy was cloaked in a dark mantle, drawn up to obscure his entire face. Only his vivid blue eyes could be seen, wide with fear. He clutched tightly at his handful of stolen jewelries and bread, his trembling fingers whitening with the strain.
If anything in the world mattered to Grim in that moment, it was those jewelries and that loaf of bread wedged against his chest. He couldn't afford to drop a single piece—for him, those things came second only to to his life.
A glance over his shoulder turned his face white.
"Just my luck! Out of all the Magus Beasts in this cursed forest, that had to be the one chasing me?!" he gasped between breaths. His brow furrowed in frustration as he nearly tripped over a gnarled root jutting out of the earth. "Tch!"
The boy was Grim Lancaster, sixteen years of age. And chasing on him from behind was the Blade Boar—the creature known as the slowest Magus Beast in the entire Zerarin Kingdom. But even the slowest beast could end him with ease. The Blade Boar was twice the size of a normal wild hog, its flaming red eyes glowing like embers in the gloom. Its legs, thick and powerful, could shatter boulders, and the single long horn protruding from its forehead looked sharp enough to split stone.
Grim kept running.
Above him, the blinding sun had begun to mellow into a rich, molten orange. His legs were growing sluggish, and his filthy clothes clung to him with sweat. Still, he tightened his grip on his load—jewels in his right hand, a book and a large loaf of bread in his left.
As he pushed himself forward, Grim's thoughts drifted back to the day before. It had only been a day since Barthel sentenced both him and Jedan to two days of confinement on their filthy rooms, without water and food. As he often did during punishments, Barthel had taken their food. Grim couldn't bear to watch his friend go hungry—not again. And so he had fled, risking everything to steal food from the nearest village.
Grim bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. His strength was failing, and his breaths came short and shallow, but he refused to stop. His vision blurred, the forest spinning with every step, yet he kept moving. Every stride felt like a fight to stay upright. His mind clung to one image: his starving friend. He couldn't stop. Not yet.
As Grim ran, a figure watched him—a stranger, eyes sharp and locked in his direction. The man's long, black hair was tied back, rippling slightly in the breeze. A fearsome scar slashed across his left eye, giving him the appearance of a beast in human skin, ready to devour its prey.
And for a moment, it seemed as though the fading sun had cast its last, mournful light on Grim alone.
Suddenly, the hairs on Grim's arms stood on end, and he froze where he stood. It was as if his feet had sunk into a swamp, heavy and unyielding. His lips quivered. He couldn't possibly be mistaken—the presence he now felt was akin to that of a warrior poised to kill.
Grim tightened his grip around the items he carried. He was certain that if he took even a single wrong step forward, it would be the end of him.
"Is it me he's after? I don't recognise him—but that scar… I've seen one like that before. People like him would tear someone like me to shreds," Grim whispered to himself, sweating profusely.
He had no idea what to do. His eyes darted back and forth—from the man to the Blade Boar—but it brought him no clarity. If he moved forward, he'd have to face the man. But if he turned back, the Blade Boar would finish him off.
He had to choose—and fast.