Sheath moved cautiously through the dense undergrowth, the shadows of towering trees stretching like dark fingers across the forest floor. The silence was deceptive—alive with whispers of distant birds and the rustle of unseen creatures. After several minutes of steady walking, a subtle shift in the air made him stop. His eyes scanned the foliage, sharp and alert. That's when he saw it—a tiger, just a few yards ahead, prowling with quiet menace.
Sheath froze, instincts kicking in. Dropping low behind a thick trunk, he steadied his breathing. He knew the creature hadn't seen him yet. Reaching for his shotgun, he paused. A gunshot would echo through the forest like a dinner bell, summoning every predator within range. Not worth the risk. He slid the weapon back and unsheathed his hunting knife instead—silent, precise.
Minutes passed. Unaware of his presence, the tiger eventually lay down beneath a patch of filtered sunlight. Its eyes fluttered, tail flicking lazily as sleep began to claim it. Sheath waited until he was sure it was completely at rest, then crept forward with deliberate steps, every movement controlled, every breath measured.
He struck when he was close enough to feel the beast's warmth. The blade plunged deep into its neck with lethal efficiency. The tiger barely stirred before Sheath finished the job, severing its head cleanly. Blood soaked into the earth, and the once-majestic creature lay still.
As the final tremors faded from the tiger's body, Sheath noticed something strange. The animal had been facing a particular direction, its gaze fixed before death. Something about it felt intentional. Driven by a hunch, Sheath turned and followed the direction the tiger had been watching. The forest began to thin. Light broke through the canopy more freely now, guiding his steps.
He quickened his pace, heart still pounding from the kill, but now pulsing with hope. After several more minutes of brisk walking, the trees opened up fully. Ahead, beyond the last fringe of forest, he saw rooftops—simple structures made of wood and clay—a village.
Sheath exhaled in relief. The quiet hum of human activity drifted toward him—voices, the distant clang of metal, even the comforting smell of cooking fires. Civilization. Safety.
As he stepped out from the shadows of the trees and onto the worn dirt path that led to the village, he cast one last glance over his shoulder at the forest. He had survived its dangers, outwitted one of its fiercest predators, and found a way out—thanks, strangely, to the tiger's final gaze.
He tightened the straps on his pack, adjusted the blade at his hip, and walked toward the village, the first signs of peace easing the tension in his shoulders. But deep inside, he knew this wasn't the end—only the end of one trial. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it with the same resolve.
Sheath stepped into the village, weary but hopeful. After everything he'd endured in the forest—the solitude, the danger, the tiger—he prayed this place could offer a moment of peace. A chance to breathe. A chance to recover from the loss that still weighed heavily on his chest.
The village was a stark contrast to the wilderness he had just escaped. It was alive with warmth and simple joy. Children darted through narrow paths, laughing as they chased one another with sticks and cloth flags. Villagers gathered near the center square, chatting casually, trading goods, sharing stories. It felt safe. Familiar. Almost like home—if home had ever truly existed for him.
But his steps had barely echoed against the cobbled path before a group of guards spotted him. Clad in rough leather armor and armed with spears and sidearms, they moved in quickly. One shoved him back with the butt of his weapon.
"Who are you?" the lead guard barked, narrowing his eyes. "Where are you coming from, boy?"
Before Sheath could answer, another guard grabbed the shotgun slung across his back, while a third pulled the blade from his belt. Sheath didn't resist—he was too tired to fight and too outnumbered to win.
"I was lost in the forest," he said, his voice hoarse. "I found this village nearby and came here. I didn't mean any harm."
The lead guard held up the shotgun. "Lost, huh? Then what's with the gun and blade? Doesn't look like you were just taking a stroll."
Sheath stood his ground, trying to steady his breath. "I found the shotgun in the forest. It was abandoned. The blade… it was given to me by my parents—for protection."
The guard narrowed his eyes, not yet convinced. "What were you even doing in that forest? Don't your parents know how dangerous that place is? Where are they now?"
There was a pause—one that made the air around Sheath feel heavier. He lowered his gaze, the weight of memory pressing against him.
"We came here because of my father," he said quietly. "He's an archaeologist. He had work near these woods. My mother came with him. We were camped with a few soldiers not far from the forest's edge."
He swallowed hard before continuing.
"One day, my father needed to go deeper in—he said there was something important he needed to find. We packed up and went in together, just the three of us and a small escort. But then… we were ambushed. A pack of wolves came out of nowhere. There were too many of them."
His voice broke slightly. He forced himself to continue.
"I ran. I didn't look back. I don't know what happened to them. I don't know if they're still alive."
The guards exchanged uncertain glances. The story sounded wild, but there was a raw honesty in Sheath's eyes that made it hard to dismiss. The lead guard's grip on the shotgun loosened slightly, though he still held onto it.
"You're telling me wolves took out a whole camp?" he asked, less hostile now, more skeptical. "And you just happened to survive?"
Sheath nodded. "I didn't survive because I was brave. I survived because I ran."
For a moment, there was silence. The kind of silence that holds judgment, but also the possibility of empathy.
Finally, the lead guard sighed and lowered his weapon. "You're lucky, boy. Most don't make it out of those woods alive—especially not alone."
He turned to the others. "Take the weapons to storage for now. He's not a threat."
Then, to Sheath: "You'll need to speak with the village head. He'll decide what to do with you. Come on."
Sheath followed, his legs trembling beneath him—not from fear, but exhaustion. He had survived the forest, escaped the jaws of a tiger, and now stood among strangers who could offer help—or cast him out. But for now, he was no longer alone, and that was enough to keep him moving forward.
Armin's Office
Armin stood by the window, his expression tense as he watched the sun dip below the horizon. Without turning, he called out, "Kliner, they got away. The boy—he's probably in the village near the forest. We need to get to him before they do. If we don't move fast, he's as good as dead."
Kliner, already gearing up, nodded sharply. "Understood. But what if he's not there?"
Armin finally turned to face him, eyes sharp with urgency. "Then search the forest. He couldn't have gone far. We don't leave without him."
Without another word, Kliner rushed out of the office. Minutes later, the thumping blades of a helicopter echoed through the compound. Kliner climbed aboard and gave a quick signal to the pilot.
"Head for the village of Kanishi," he ordered. "Full speed."
As the helicopter lifted off into the darkening sky, Kliner's jaw tightened. Time was against them—but he wasn't planning to fail.
A few hours had passed, and the sky had begun to turn a dull gray, casting a somber light over the village of Kanishi. At the center of the village square, Sheath stood bound at the execution platform, his wrists tied tightly behind his back, his ankles shackled to the wooden base. His clothes were tattered from the forest, his body weak, and his face pale with fear. Yet, in his eyes, there lingered a flicker of defiance—one final hope, however small, that this wouldn't be his end.
Villagers crowded around the platform, murmuring among themselves. Some looked on with curiosity, others with unease, and a few with cruel satisfaction. Above them all stood the village head, an older man with a sharp gaze and the cold authority of someone who had ruled in isolation for far too long.
He stepped forward, his voice ringing out over the hushed crowd.
"What are your last words and actions?" he asked, stern and formal.
Sheath said nothing.
He stared ahead, unmoving. Silence, he thought, might buy him a few more moments. Delay the inevitable. Maybe, just maybe, something would happen.
The village head's eyes narrowed in irritation. "Speak, or your execution will be far worse than this one."
Sheath's legs trembled beneath him, but he still refused to speak. Every second that passed felt like an eternity. His heart pounded in his chest. He couldn't die here—not like this.
Then, just as the executioner stepped forward with a raised axe, a deafening roar split through the air.
The sound was like thunder from the sky—unnatural, mechanical, overwhelming.
Heads turned. Eyes widened. The villagers looked up in confusion and fear. For most of them, it was something they'd never seen or heard before. A massive black shape descended from the clouds, kicking up a whirlwind of dust and leaves. It was a helicopter.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Children clung to their parents. Some villagers dropped their tools and backed away in awe. The executioner froze, axe still in hand.
The helicopter landed just beyond the village square with a thud. The blades slowly spun down, and from the side door emerged a tall man dressed in dark tactical gear. His posture was calm, commanding. He walked straight toward the platform, not flinching as the villagers scrambled to make way for him.
Kliner had arrived.
He stopped in front of the village head, looking him in the eye with a mix of firmness and quiet urgency.
"Let me take care of this boy," he said. "We know him."
The village head's face darkened with fury. "Kill them!" he barked, pointing at both Kliner and Sheath.
Guards hesitated. They were confused—unsure whether to obey or to run from the strange machine behind them. Kliner raised his hands slightly in a non-threatening gesture.
"I don't want to harm anyone," he said calmly. "I'm only here for the boy."
The village head scowled. "Why do you want him? How do you even know about this place? No one from the outside should know we exist."
Kliner took a step closer, his voice firm. "That information isn't important right now."
The old man's voice rose, sharp and paranoid. "If you reveal this village's location, if you speak of us to the outside world, you'll be hunted down. We'll kill you."
Kliner didn't flinch. His tone was steady, not angry but piercing.
"Are you really that scared?" he asked. "So terrified of the outside world that you're willing to kill a child for stumbling into your borders?"
The crowd fell into an uneasy silence.
"Whatever happened in your past," Kliner continued, "whatever made you hide away in these woods—it's over. The world has changed. You don't need to cling to fear and shadows anymore. One man's actions can't define the whole world."
The village head glared at him, unmoved. But Kliner didn't stop.
"If you truly believe this place is better than the outside world, then stay. Stay in your cage. Stay hidden forever. But don't act like your fear makes you strong. The world beyond this forest is beautiful. Free. Full of pain, yes—but also full of hope. You'll never understand that if you spend your whole life hiding from it."
A murmur spread through the crowd. Doubt crept into the villagers' eyes. The village head's authority was cracking.
Kliner turned away from him and approached the platform. With a swift motion, he cut Sheath's bindings. The boy nearly collapsed, but Kliner caught him.
"You're safe now," he whispered. "Let's go."
Sheath looked up at him, stunned, barely able to speak. "How… how did you find me?"
"I had help," Kliner said simply. "Now let's get out of here."
They walked back toward the helicopter as the villagers parted to let them through. No one dared stop them—not after what they'd just witnessed.
Kliner helped Sheath into the aircraft, and the pilot fired up the engines once more. The blades began to spin, lifting them into the sky. The village grew smaller beneath them, fading into the trees.
Sheath stared out the window, the wind ruffling his hair. He didn't speak for a long time. Then he finally turned to Kliner and asked, "What happens now?"
Kliner gave a small, reassuring smile. "Now? Now we go home."