The smell of scorched wyvern scales still lingered on Erry Tobock's cloak.
It was faint, just a trace of smoke and ash mixed with the metallic scent of blood. Not the most pleasant fragrance to carry on a summer afternoon, but Erry had gotten used to far worse smells during his years of wandering beyond the borders of human territory.
Still, as he wiped his blade clean with the edge of his worn sleeve, he couldn't help but sigh.
Another week, another wyvern nest. Another solitary mission that could have been avoided if the guild assigned more competent parties.
But he didn't complain aloud. He rarely complained at all. Erry was not a man who wasted breath on things that were already done.
The wyvern had fallen, the nest destroyed, the bounty secured. His business outside the borders was finished—at least for today.
Now he was simply walking.
Not because he needed to; he could've rented a horse or even used the return teleportation sigil provided by the capital's Adventurer's Guild.
But sometimes—just sometimes—Erry liked to indulge in something childish.
Exploration.
Wandering without direction, without the burden of a mission, without the weight of responsibility. Just boots on dirt, cloak brushing the tall grass, and his thoughts drifting like the clouds overhead.
Today, he decided, was a good day to walk.
The road stretched ahead between swaying trees. Cicadas buzzed lazily in the late afternoon heat. Somewhere in the distance, a river murmured against smooth stones. The journey was peaceful. Too peaceful, perhaps.
Erry didn't trust peacefulness. Life rarely handed him serenity without demanding chaos as payment.
And right on cue—
He heard shouting.
Not far. To the east. Past the trees where the sunlight thinned into streaks of gold.
Then came the metallic ringing of steel against steel.
Erry slowed.
His first thought:
Not my business.
His second thought:
Definitely not my business.
And his third thought:
…Damn it.
His feet were already turning toward the noise.
He didn't run. Running implied urgency. He simply walked—quickly, quietly—through the trees until the forest opened into a clearing.
What he saw made him blink once.
Just once.
Because it was enough.
A caravan, its wooden frame partially collapsed, surrounded by beastman soldiers wearing the insignia of the Felinte Dominion. They were cat-like humanoids with ears flattened from exhaustion and tails dragging limply behind them. Most had three tails—the mark of a full-blooded Felinir warrior. But nearly all of them were badly wounded.
Several lay unconscious. A few bled heavily. A handful still stood, panting, clutching their weapons as they struggled to fend off—
Bandits.
At least ten of them, judging by the ones still standing—and who knew how many more hid in the shadows.
Some were human, some were beastmen of other tribes. Their armor was mismatched, scavenged, rusted. Their blades stained.
Erry assessed the situation in a blink.
Caravan. Beastman insignia. Felinte Dominion soldiers.
Bandits attacking.
Outcome: messy. Definitely not my business.
He exhaled and turned away.
And that was when fate decided to grab him by the collar.
A whisper of air shifted above him.
Instinct screamed.
His hand moved before thought.
Steel flashed.
And something—someone—fell from the tree branches overhead, sliced cleanly across the torso by Erry's reflexive swing.
The body hit the ground with a dull thud.
A bandit. An assassin-type, judging from the curved dagger still clutched in his hand.
Erry froze.
"…Oh."
That was all he managed.
Because in that instant, every surviving member of the caravan turned toward him.
Praise? Relief?
No.
What he saw in their eyes was something much more problematic.
Recognition.
And then—rage.
One of the beastman soldiers pointed straight at him.
"You—! You killed our scout!"
Erry blinked.
Scout?
The corpse at his feet definitely looked like a bandit, not a Felinte scout. But misunderstandings were already brewing like a storm cloud.
Another beastman yelled:
"Is he with the bandits?!"
"He came from the forest!"
"He must be part of the ambush!"
Erry stared at them.
Slowly.
Deeply.
With the kind of tired, silent disappointment usually reserved for children doing something catastrophically stupid.
"…I literally just walked here," he muttered.
But of course, nobody heard him.
Because in the next heartbeat—
"GET HIM!!"
And just like that, Erry Tobock found himself caught in a battle he had absolutely no intention of joining.
He sighed again.
Harder this time.
"Of course," he murmured as the beastman warriors and bandits both charged toward him.
"Things just had to escalate today."
Erry did not enjoy unnecessary fighting.
Despite what many thought of him—despite the reputation that clung to his name like a stubborn stain—Erry was not someone who sought violence for fun. Fighting took effort. It took precision. It took energy that he would rather spend on something relaxing.
Like walking.
Or sleeping.
Or eating the honey bread he bought from the guild's bakery before leaving the city.
But now?
Now he had to deal with two groups of idiots simultaneously.
"Wonderful," Erry muttered as he raised his sword.
"Just wonderful."
The First Clash
A bandit lunged at him first, swinging a chipped axe.
Erry sidestepped easily, almost lazily, and tapped the man's wrist with his hilt. The bandit's fingers snapped open from the jolt, dropping his weapon.
Erry knocked him out with the flat of the blade.
"Next."
A beastman soldier leapt toward him, claws bared, eyes blazing.
Erry groaned inwardly.
"I'm not your enemy," he began.
Too late.
The soldier swung.
Erry parried the attack and swept the soldier's feet from under him.
"Stay down," he warned.
The soldier did not stay down.
He jumped up again with the stubbornness unique to beastmen.
Erry knocked him unconscious.
"Okay. Now stay down."
The Chaos Grows
More bandits charged.
Erry fought.
More beastmen charged.
Erry fought them too.
Within minutes, the clearing became a blur of dust, shouting, and clashing steel. Erry moved like a shadow between them, disarming without killing, knocking out without maiming. His reflexes were a blur, his sword an extension of muscle and instinct.
But even as he fought, he couldn't stop thinking:
Why is this happening to me? I was just trying to walk home.
One bandit tried to grab him from behind.
Erry elbowed him in the ribs without looking.
One beastman swung at him again.
Erry ducked and slapped him across the face with the flat of his blade.
"This is getting ridiculous."
The Standstill
After what felt like twenty exhausting minutes—but was probably no more than five—Erry finally cleared enough space to breathe.
Bodies littered the clearing.
Most were unconscious.
A few groaned.
The rest crawled away in fear and confusion.
Erry lowered his sword.
Silence settled.
Broken only by the rustling leaves overhead and the labored breathing of the surviving beastman soldiers who had not yet attacked Erry directly.
They stared at him.
Erry stared back.
No one moved.
Then, one soldier spoke cautiously, voice trembling.
"…Who are you?"
Erry opened his mouth to answer—
—but was cut off by a new voice.
Soft.
Weak.
But unmistakably authoritative.
"W-wait… stop. Don't attack… him."
Everyone turned.
Erry followed their gazes.
And his breath caught.
A girl—not a soldier—stood near the broken caravan.
She wore a thin cloak torn at the hem, revealing elegant garments underneath now stained with dust and blood. Her long hair—silvery white with a faint glow—fell loosely over her shoulders. Two feline ears peaked through her disheveled strands.
And behind her—
A single tail.
Just one.
Unlike the others.
Her legs trembled as she clutched the wooden frame of the caravan. Yet she held herself with a fragile grace that commanded attention.
She looked directly at Erry.
Her eyes were soft, luminous—almost otherworldly.
And confused.
"You're… not with them, are you?"
Erry sheathed his sword.
"No," he said simply.
"I'm just passing through."
The girl exhaled shakily, relief flooding her expression.
But the soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.
One whispered:
"That's… Princess Lyra. She shouldn't be speaking with outsiders—"
Erry blinked.
Princess?
Lyra's gaze lingered on Erry, studying him quietly as though trying to understand him beyond the chaos that had just unfolded.
Erry didn't like being stared at.
But he didn't look away either.
Because something in her eyes—something fragile, something weary—struck him in a place he didn't normally feel anything.
A place he kept locked.
Hidden.
Buried.
Before he could form a single thought, Lyra swayed.
Her knees buckled.
And she collapsed forward.
Erry moved before thinking.
He caught her.
Her small frame landed gently against his chest, her long hair brushing his chin, her single tail curling weakly near his arm as consciousness slipped from her.
The soldiers gasped.
"The princess—!"
"She fainted—!"
Erry stared down at the girl in his arms.
Lyra.
Princess Lyra.
A beastman girl with only one tail.
A rarity.
A supposed cursed child in beastman culture.
A burden to her kingdom… at least according to the whispers he'd heard before.
But in that moment—
She was simply a fragile girl who had pushed herself past her limits.
Erry sighed for the third time that day.
Longer.
Deeper.
More resigned.
"Great," he murmured.
"Now what?"