The death of the Bloodscale Dogman seemed to unleash some kind of signal.
The Kobolds, which had been steadily advancing on the village entrance, suddenly broke and fled.
They shrieked in a language incomprehensible to humans, retreating step by step until they vanished into the gloomy forest without a trace.
In an instant, the village—once filled with wails and the din of battle—fell into a deathly silence.
All that remained was the crackling of burning flames and the pained groans of the surviving villagers.
"What... What in the world just happened?"
Peyton climbed to his feet, his face pale and his eyes filled with bewilderment.
Though he had dodged the Bloodscale Dogman's final, desperate attack, the wounds from the earlier battle had torn open again. Fresh blood soaked his bandages, and all strength had drained from his arm.
Roland didn't respond to Peyton's question.
After confirming there was no danger, he slowly approached the charred remains of the Bloodscale Dogman, bent down, and picked up a small object embedded in the ashes.
It was a blood-red Crystal Stone, only the size of a thumbnail. Its surface was as smooth as a gemstone, but an amber light swirled within, as if it held liquid flame.
"What... is this thing?"
Just as Roland was frowning and studying the red Crystal Stone in his palm, he heard the sound of staggering footsteps from behind.
He quickly tucked the Crystal Stone into his tunic and turned to look.
It was John, covered in blood and limping toward him, using his Broken Sword as a crutch.
When he got a clear look at the impossibly young face in the firelight, the old soldier was visibly stunned.
"You... Greetings..."
John rasped, his throat raw with the taste of blood.
He never would have imagined that the expert who had crippled the Bloodscale Dogman with a thunderous blow was such a slender-looking boy.
But recalling that fierce Sword Form from moments ago, he ignored the searing pain from his ribs and gave a formal bow.
"I am John, Captain of the Third Patrol under Baron Fosling. And you are, sir...?"
"Captain John."
Roland let out a soft laugh, reaching out to support the man's trembling arm.
"Don't you remember me?"
He leaned in slightly, allowing the flickering firelight to illuminate his face.
"I'm Roland, the apprentice at the manor. Before the festival, I ran an errand for Mr. Hawke. You questioned me yourself at the manor gate."
"It's you!"
John's eyes widened.
The memory of a handsome, rather shy boy gradually merged with the blood-stained, sword-wielding figure before his eyes.
After recognizing Roland, the tension finally drained from John's shoulders.
He braced his hands on his knees, panting for breath as blood dripped steadily from the cracks in his Leather Armor.
"I never would have guessed..."
He managed a weak smile, the corners of his mouth barely twitching upward. His blood-matted beard trembled.
"To think you were this skilled..."
"I owe you my life. If you ever need anything from me in the future, just say the word."
As the two were speaking, Peyton and Gary came stumbling over, supporting Tom.
After they had all hastily bandaged their wounds, John wiped the blood and grime from his face and asked.
"Where are you all headed next?"
"We're planning to seek refuge at the Baron Manor..."
Gary had just begun to speak when John cut him off with a shake of his head.
The old soldier pointed a finger at Roland.
"He's been an apprentice at the manor, so he might be let in. As for you... don't waste your breath."
There was a bitter edge to the old soldier's smile.
"The Lord Baron never allows commoners inside the manor. During the famine last year, even our own families were kept outside the drawbridge..."
A torch sputtered loudly, illuminating their suddenly grim faces.
As the joy of having escaped death began to fade, Gary and Peyton came back to their senses.
They exchanged a look, and each saw the same understanding reflected in the other's eyes.
The high and mighty Baron would never make an exception for commoners like them.
"Head north..."
Seeing the two fall silent, John struggled back to his feet.
"Lord Beckham is recruiting soldiers there to fight the Demons from the Black Pine Forest. With a powerful Knight like him stationed there, it should be quite safe."
With that, he helped Tom up and handed him over to Roland.
"You and Tom head back to the manor. With him to vouch for you and explain what happened, the Guards will definitely let you in."
"And you?"
Roland asked, supporting Tom as he looked at the resolute old soldier.
"I have to report what happened here to the front line."
John struggled to return his Iron Sword to its sheath, his expression dark.
"We originally set out from the manor and rushed to our post on the border with Chenxi Territory. We waited a long time but saw no sign of any Demons. The frontline commander sent a few of us back to report, and we never expected..."
He glanced around at the devastation of the village, and his eyes dimmed as he let out a heavy sigh.
"These Kobolds... just how did they bypass our defensive line and sneak all the way here?"
"I've fought Kobolds before, but they've never been this cunning. And they've certainly never..."
Here, John jutted his chin toward the Bloodscale Dogman's remains on the ground, his voice raspy.
"...had a monster this powerful among them."
John shook his head lightly and waved a hand dismissively.
"Enough talk. You all need to get going. Who knows if those damn mutts will come swarming back."
With that, he turned and left.
Roland and the others exchanged a look, then proceeded north.
As they walked along the dense forest path, Roland remained vigilant.
Fortunately, their journey was uneventful, and they soon arrived at the manor.
Tom went in first to explain the situation, then reappeared atop the high wall, waving Roland over.
Seeing this, Roland exchanged a few words with Peyton and Gary before entering the manor.
With Tom vouching for him, he passed through unopposed and soon reached the area with the dormitories.
Though it was late, the towering glow of fire from the direction of the village made it impossible for the young apprentices to sleep.
They were all gathered in an open area, discussing the distant blaze in agitated tones, completely oblivious to Roland's arrival.
Some were panicked, others were terrified, and still others were crying softly.
Only Marco and a few others stood silently off to the side.
Their families didn't live in the village.
As for Marco...
Roland recalled passing Marco's father's Blacksmith Shop while fleeing.
He had thought about helping himself to some weapons and Armor, but when he went inside, he found the place was already deserted.
'Marco's father must have gotten word and evacuated immediately,' Roland figured.
Roland shook his head, ignored the boys in the clearing, and forced his exhausted body toward the dormitory.
After stowing his few belongings, Roland collapsed heavily onto his bed.
The repeated use of his [Concentration] Trait, on top of the high-intensity battle, had left him physically and mentally exhausted, his mind a complete blank.
He was asleep almost the instant his head hit the pillow.
As night faded, the first light of dawn soon washed over the manor.
The entire estate was as quiet and peaceful as ever, as if the bloody battle with the Kobolds the night before had been nothing but a terrible nightmare.
It wasn't until Roland's hand brushed against the warm, red Crystal in his tunic that his groggy mind fully awoke.
He sat on the edge of his bed, holding the red Crystal Stone up to his eyes for a closer look.
But after studying it for a long time, he still couldn't make heads or tails of it. He finally set his questions aside for the time being, got up, and washed his face.
As the cold water splashed against his face, his thoughts began to clear, and images from the previous night's battle replayed in his mind
'With my current strength, aided by my [Concentration] Trait, dealing with Low-Level Demons like Kobolds shouldn't be a problem, as long as there aren't too many of them. As for...'
Roland shook his head and sighed, thinking of the Bloodscale Dogman that had suddenly burst into flames the night before.
'As for that Mutant Dogman, its Power is simply too great. Even though it was slow, there's no way I could handle one on my own right now.'
'Last night, even with Peyton and John helping, all I could do with all my strength was severely injure it. If I had been fighting it alone, I doubt I would have lasted a single round...'
At this thought, Roland's desire to increase his strength grew even more intense. He quickly opened his pack and began to inspect its contents.
'Good. These items weren't too badly damaged in the fight...'
He breathed a long sigh of relief, then, following the recipe on the parchment, began to grind the necessary medicinal herbs into a fine powder.
The mortar and pestle ground against each other with a soft, sandy sound.
A moment later, Roland frowned as he looked at the grayish-black powder in the mortar.
'Can this stuff... really temper my body?'
Despite his doubts, his hands didn't falter. He precisely added the final ingredient: Silver Dust.
The moment the grayish-black powder made contact with the Silver Dust, it began to silently dissolve and merge, like melting snow.
At first, it was just tiny, shimmering specks of silver light.
But soon, the entire pile of powder began to writhe and contract, as if being pulled by some invisible force.
The once-dry powder gradually grew damp, its surface taking on a silvery sheen as it began to flow slowly, like mercury.
Within a few short breaths, the mixture had completely transformed into a thick, silvery liquid that undulated gently in the mortar, its surface occasionally rippling as if it were alive.
"This is..."
Roland's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed dryly.
He stared, transfixed, at the ever-shifting silver fluid in the mortar, at a loss for what to do.
After a moment, he calmed down and began to carefully check the description written on the parchment.
Confirming that the finished product matched the description perfectly, he stripped off his clothes and quickly smeared the viscous, silver liquid all over his body.
The moment the last of the silver liquid coated his skin, a coolness like a mountain stream in early spring washed over him, causing his tense nerves to relax.
But the soothing sensation lasted only a moment before the muscles beneath his skin contracted violently.
A sharp, piercing pain washed over him like a tidal wave, as if millions of silver needles were simultaneously stabbing into his pores and racing madly through his veins to every inch of his body.