The man raised a brow at the boy's sudden halt. The monstrous boar was but a breath away from reaching him. Truth be told, he had half a mind to catch the boy himself and teach him a lesson—but letting a child die right before his eyes was not something he could bring himself to stomach.
Without a moment's hesitation, the man reached for the hilt of the sword at his side. His grip tightened as the Blade Boar closed the final meter between them.
And then it came—a violent gust, as though an invisible force had erupted from the man's body, whipping through the trees with a howl. Grim instinctively clutched the hood of his cloak, shielding his face from the sudden blast, desperate not to let it fall—making sure he won't be recogmized.
In the blink of an eye, the man vanished from where he stood. A heartbeat later, he was behind the beast. The massive creature that had been charging with unrelenting fury now stood frozen, unmoving.
And in that moment—oddly at odds with the speed that had just unfolded—suddenly, time itself seemed to slow. A strange silence blanketed the forest. Not a leaf stirred, not a sound echoed. The only thing Grim could see was the soft, otherworldly glow of the man's sword, gleaming faintly in the dim light as he slid it back into its sheath. The blade shimmered with a rosy hue, glowing like that moonlight cast in a dusky sky at night.
As the sword clicked back on its sheathe, the Blade Boar split cleanly in two and collapsed in opposite directions. The moment the body hit the ground, the sounds of the forest rushed back in—as if someone had unpaused the world.
Thick, dark blood pooled at Grim's feet. He stared at the mysterious man, sweat now beading on his brow.
"Impossible… A Practitioner-Rank Blade Boar—with armour that tough?! How… how did it die in a single stroke? And when… when did he even swing his sword?!" Grim's thoughts raced, nearly tripping over one another in astonishment. "Could he be… an Expert Rank warrior?"
He had seen his share of powerful fighters in his life, but none like this man. Not once had he witnessed an attack so fast, so clean, so invisible that it seemed as if it hadn't happened at all. He hadn't even seen the blade move—just a glimmer, then silence, then death.
Now that Grim could see the man more clearly, a sick feeling twisted in his stomach. The large scar across the man's left eye, visible up close, only deepened the dread rising in him. It was the same kind of fear he felt when Barthel was angry—that suffocating, bone-deep pressure that made his instincts scream. This was no ordinary passer-by.
Grim's eyes drifted to the man's side. Aside from the sword, he noticed a black bottle of liquor hanging from his belt and a golden medallion that clinked softly with every movement. The medallion bore six stars etched into its flat surface, each one seeming to hum with an eerie aura whenever sunlight touched its surface. Grim could tell, without a doubt, these were expensive—possibly priceless—things.
"Thank you… sir," Grim muttered at last, bowing slightly, his voice trembling despite himself. The fear hadn't fully left him, but it had dulled to something bearable—more awe than panic. However terrifying the man seemed, there was no mistaking it: he had saved Grim's life.
Yet the man paid him no mind. He reached for the liquor, uncorked it, and took a long drink. Only after several swallows did he finally glance down at the boy.
"You must be the boy the shopkeepers in Swanton Village are all looking for," the man said coldly, his gaze settling on the bundle of items slung over the boy's shoulders. "I've no doubt you stole all of that as well. Sorry, lad, but you'll have to come with me—willing or not."
Sweat gathered across Grim's brow, trickling down his face like cold rain on stone. A sensation like being pricked with thorns coursed through him.
"Bloody hell," he cursed inwardly, stepping back in alarm.
The man's expression sharpened the moment he caught the boy's reaction. His fingers brushed the golden medallion hanging from his side. "I saw the way your eyes lingered on my medallion. Planning to steal this as well, were you?"
The very air seemed to grow heavy, thick with pressure, and Grim panicked. Saved by this man? Nonsense! He meant to turn him in!
Grim clutched his stolen goods tighter, and without wasting another second, he bolted—sprinting blindly into the forest's embrace.
"I can't let them catch me... If they do, no one will look after Jedan!" he thought, fury blazing in his eyes even as fear twisted his gut.
But his desperate escape was laughable to the mysterious man. He smirked, wide and mocking, watching the boy's figure shrink into the distance.
"He saw how easily I brought down that Blade-boar, and still he tries to run? Where does he find the nerve?"
Then, without warning, the man vanished from where he stood, reappearing in the blink of an eye right in front of the fleeing boy. His grin stretched wider as he caught Grim's startled expression.
"The king and the good people of this kingdom pay me to hunt down thieves like you," the man said. "You've caused enough trouble—time to pay for your crimes."
He reached forward, arm outstretched, ready to grab the boy—yet Grim stumbled at the last second, falling forward. The man only managed to catch the back of his shirt, ripping it—and that was when he saw it.
A circular mark, red as fresh blood, etched into the boy's back beneath the torn cloth. A reversed star inside a ring. The moment he saw it, something snapped.
His grip loosened.
His face, once lined with amusement, now twisted into quiet rage. Veins bulged on his temple, and his fist clenched tight enough for the knuckles to pale.
"So there are still those who practice this... vile craft," he whispered, voice low and full of loathing. His fist tightened further, white-knuckled with fury. He could have caught the boy easily, but now, he let him go. He had a new plan—something else he needed to do.
"Whoever's behind this… I'll never forgive them."
Moments later, Grim realised no one was chasing him.
Breathing heavily, he finally slowed, supporting himself against the rough bark of a tree. He'd drained too much energy during the escape. For now, he rested his back and let himself breathe.
But then—a sharp sting flared from the mark on his back, as though it were pulsing with heat. Grim winced, brows furrowed in pain. That cursed mark... he would never forget the day Barthel branded it onto him.
The day everything in his life changed.
The day he became a slave in all but name.
His stomach growled again, louder this time. But not once did Grim consider touching the bread he carried. From the very beginning—even before the theft—he had meant it for someone else.
"For Jedan."
"I wonder what that pig'll say when I hand him only this few Jewelries..." Grim muttered bitterly, scowling at the gleam of the necklace in his palm. To him, it was no prize—it felt more like a curse searing into his skin. He had stolen so many times in Swanton Village that people were beginning to recognise him, even with his face hidden. The townsfolk had grown cleverer in fending off thieves like him. Some had even begun reporting him to men like the one from earlier.
That was why today, he'd only managed to snatch a few jewelries.
His stomach gave another agonising rumble, but Grim forced down the hunger with a bitter smile and kept walking, step by weary step.