“Boss, these two slipped in and tried to lay hands on the green sprites. One tore a sprite’s dress for something vile. I chopped their hands—what now?” The man with a five-centimeter brow scar clenched two shriveled men like dead leaves.

A rough man in plain cloth kept chewing greasy roast rabbit. His face held a rugged hint of handsome, about twenty-eight, twenty-nine. Stubble bristled like thorny grass on his jaw.

His hair was cropped short, his eyes keen like a hunting leopard, bright and menacing.

“Tch.” He glanced at the two who still bled like opened wineskins, disdain snapping in his tone. “These Mountain Bandits can’t change. All day, filth in their heads. Red Wolf’s lot too—so long, still the same rotten hide.

One day you’ll get wiped and not even know why.

Wipe them.” He flicked the stripped rabbit leg bone. It cracked against a skull with a dull thunk.

“Don’t… we…”

“Shii—”

“Guh… guh…”

The scarred man didn’t blink. He sliced both throats like cutting vines, then snapped his wrist and flung them into the bushes. The undergrowth swallowed them whole.

“Hey, Fire Dog, we—”

“Ah—!”

“Boss, that’s Red Wolf’s scream!” Fire Dog’s face tightened.

The man dropped the rabbit. He snatched bow and greatsword, rolled into a makeshift cloth camp, and slammed a small brass gong with the hilt.

“Clang—wong—wong—” The gong’s hum rippled, not too loud, not too soft, reaching every tent in the thicket.

“Enemy attack—!” Tents burst open. Men in armor surged out with voices like crashing surf, a tide of steel.

They needed barely ten minutes. Gear latched, lines formed. Heavy black shield-men for the front. Silver greatsword chargers for the break. Silver crossbowmen for the rain.

They all wore black plate. Each limb bore three raised ridge-scales. On their chests, an emblem—lion-like, yet not lion. A lion face roared with jaws wide, twin rows of fangs sharp enough to chew stone, its mouth a black abyss.

The creature’s limbs were human-shaped, claws black and hooked, feet like a beast’s, chest broad and ink-dark. It looked uncanny, brutal, a nightmare carved in iron.

...

“Ah! Captain Milia, what’s with those humans’ gear?!” A cute sprite went pale, fear washing her face like winter moonlight, stunned by their mountain-steep momentum.

Milia’s short hair draped her small shoulders. She braced a tree and stared, breath held. “The Captain was right. Our training and real combat aren’t even the same world. A frontal clash is certain death. Stick to the plan—lure and shoot.

Loose one volley, fall back. No one stops. Hear me?!”

“Yes!” Bows bent to full. Leaves around them rustled without wind, a soft “sha, sha, sha” like rain on silk.

“Milia!” The Lita Sisters’ squad arrived at the scene. The sprites didn’t waver. They held their bows tight. Arrowheads kindled with glimmering green light.

...

“Kridy, Boss! Over there!” Fire Dog pointed. Within a few hundred meters, the forest winked with green points like starlight. The light grew, bright as dew.

Kridy cast a surprised look from beneath his heavy helm. “Wind Sprites? No way. They dare come at us?”

He questioned for a heartbeat, then snapped orders like thunder. “Raise shields—advance—loose—”

The soldiers moved with iron rhythm. Heavy shields lifted as the line marched, steps thudding like drums. Greatsword men set their blades in cut stance. Silver crossbows hid behind the double wall and fired.

“Thump—” Dozens of bolts leapt. Arrowheads flashed cold silver, streaking toward that grove of green stars.

...

Milia’s slim pink ears twitched. She heard the shift in the air and lifted a fingertip, crisp as a bell. “Attack—!”

“Charge—!”

“Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—”

Dozens of arrows sprang like unbridled colts. Each shaft carried a small Cyclone, wind coiled tight at the tip.

The arrows crossed paths in a strange dance. All arrowheads converged, knitting into one massive arrow studded with a swarm of points.

“Swish—woo—” The great arrow tore the trees it passed, carving a scar that made the forest flinch.

“Boom!” It slammed into the bolts with a blast. The giant arrow trapped every bolt inside the Cyclone, “zzz, zzz” as sparks spat and sizzled. They hung there midair, locked in a stubborn stalemate.

Not ten seconds passed. “Bang!” The Cyclone shattered. The bolts crumbled like brittle ice.

“Clang, clang, clang… crackle, crackle…” Arrowheads and shafts fell from the sky, spinning weakly. The grove they crossed lay ravaged, leaves whirling down like wounded birds.

“Retreat—” Milia and the Lita Sisters didn’t linger. They called everyone and sprinted for the rendezvous.

“Wind Sprites for sure. And they’re women. Chase!” Kridy barked, and the men roared like wolves.

“Wooo—wooo—!”

...

“That rumble… at least three hundred. So many… Captain… what do we do?” A sprite fanned her clever ears, voice shaking like water on a leaf.

Medith arched her willow brows. “Heavy swords. Heavy armor. That sound… what is it? Why’s it ‘thump, thump, thump’…

Looks like an elite corps… Elite gear plus unknown weapons, and their so-called Wind-Cleaving Arrow. Head-on, we don’t win.”

“Ah! What about our plan…”

“What do we do…”

“Let’s retreat. Hide inside the barrier. They can’t touch us.”

“Idiot! You want the little sprites watching humans assault our home?”

“But… we can’t win…”

They hadn’t faced real battle. The tide of noise and the reek of killing shook them. Little hands trembled on bowstrings. Childlike faces wore fear like ash.

Medith stood firm on a branch. She watched the hunting party draw near the forest’s edge, steps slow, heavy. Her eyes hardened. She whistled, clear as a reed pipe.

Everyone turned to her. Medith’s lips parted, yet no sound left them. The wind rose instead, brushing leaves and stems, swaying trunks like a quiet sea.

Moments passed. Medith’s mouth closed. The sprites nodded as one, resolve settling like stone, and melted deeper into the woods.

Milia, the Lita Sisters, and Iling took the four cardinal boughs. Their eyes glowed green. Bows bent full. Bodies low. Half-kneeling on the branches, they aimed at one spot.

Medith leapt from the branch and walked out to the edge of the Glimmering Green Forest. She planted her sword in the earth and pressed both hands to the hilt. Her green hair swayed in the breeze. Her white war-gear shone under moonlight, both valiant and beautiful.

The hunting squad stepped from the trees across the river and kept advancing. Kridy at the front spotted a white figure—green-haired sprite girl—watching them with a half-smile, half-moon face.

That look made his gut tighten. “Stop!” He raised a hand. They halted on the far bank. A river wouldn’t stop them. They had ways across. Yet the girl stood like a statue, and his heart beat unevenly.

“You command them?” Kridy took off his helmet. His gaze was fierce as a hawk on Medith.

Medith walked to the river’s edge. Moonlight washed her cheeks, lit her features. The hunters breathed out in one low murmur.

“You’re beautiful,” Kridy said, tone flat as steel.

“I am.” Medith flicked her hair. Under the moon she looked like a sprite from a dream, born of dew and wind. “But… my sisters aren’t far behind. You’ve sampled their beauty already?”

Kridy lifted a brow. He admired the hidden blade in her words—honeyed courtesy, knives in the smile. He’d praised her; she twisted it to mock their filth.

“Are you truly a sixteen-year-old sprite? Or does the Elf Clan keep youth forever?” Kridy’s killing intent rose like a cold tide.

Medith drew her longsword. The urge to strike flashed and faded. Soldiers set to receive. She didn’t rush. She held the blade and spoke in a voice hard to read:

“Truth is, you’re strong. So strong it staggers belief. Your experience and gear dwarf ours. Fine. I came to bargain.

Pull your men back. Go home and tell your king: the Wind Sprite clan isn’t to be provoked. Do that, and I let you live. How about it?”