“That really happens?” The rest of the villagers started talking, voices fluttering like sparrows under eaves.

“No wonder. Beasts that should be mortal enemies were teaming up to attack us.”

“Yeah, and they moved with rhythm—like an army marching to drums.”

“That makes sense. But who is the man? Where is he? Why would he do this?” Their questions hung like mist over a stream.

Lucimia heard the chatter, coughed twice like tapping a bell, then said, “I’ve already found him. I’m going to catch him now.”

“Really? Where?” Eyes flicked around, quick as minnows, thinking he hid among them.

“Heh. He’s not here. He’s in the forest,” Lucimia said, a smile like moonlight under pines.

She dropped from the rooftop like a falling leaf, ran to the cabin, led out her horse, and sprang into the saddle.

“Relax. We’ll bring him back.” Hooves drummed like rain as she drove the horse toward the trees.

After Lucimia’s order, Desty rode in, skirting the forest’s flank under Invisibility Magic she wore like mist.

“Third row. Fifth tree.” As she neared, her gaze combed the trunks, sharp as blades, hunting for the man.

She soon spotted the familiar masked figure, crouched like a raven on a high central branch.

“Good.” Desty eased the reins, tied the horse to a trunk, drew her long sword, and slipped forward like a shadow along bark.

She lowered herself, then lifted her chin, watching the man perched on the branch, eyes steady as lanterns in wind.

Her heartbeat drummed: still a gap; closer; win it in one stroke.

Her nerves cooled like night water. She edged in, brushing no grass, until the distance felt right.

Steel settled in her eyes. He’d fled this morning; it wouldn’t repeat. She poured mana in, and the blade bled red light.

It was a new technique. Strength wouldn’t grow overnight in this perilous world, so she cut a new path through stone.

She forged a silent, single-hit sword art, a pierce meant to punch through anything.

The blade trembled like a humming string. Desty sank lower, then kicked off—she turned into a red streak and thrust.

He heard the stir, snapped his head around, and his eyes went wide, round as full moons.

Too fast. No time to dodge. But he still had a beast.

The parrot-like monster on his shoulder swelled, feathers flaring like a fan, and blocked the blow for him.

The red, laser-like blade punched through the parrot’s body and drove on toward the man’s chest.

The parrot ate the first strike; his wits snapped back. He clicked his tongue, dropped from the branch, hit snow, and ran.

“Hmph. Still running?” Desty didn’t drop. She spent mana and sprang to another branch, light as wind.

He pounded through the snow below; Desty raced above, leaping branch to branch like a hawk shadowing a fox.

It echoed the morning chase, but differed: Desty owned the high ground, and the beast tide was drained against the village.

He couldn’t summon a swarm to box her in again.

“Hmph.” Desty flared her mana; eight White Swords ghosted into being and speared down at him.

He kept checking her through his run. Seeing the sword art, he clicked his tongue, then a sharp whistle cut the air.

The familiar whistle rang; the forest shivered like a sleeping beast rousing.

The tremor was lighter than before—proof the forest’s beasts were thinned like a river after drought.

One White Sword arrived first, driving for the masked man. A demon hound burst from grass, tackled him, and took the strike.

He hit ground, popped up, and kept running like a hare under arrows.

“What a pain.” Desty steered the White Swords and kept the chase.

Two more White Swords crossed in, but a deer-type monster slid in. It cast Frost to block one, then drove its antlers at the second.

“Tch.” This time Desty clicked her tongue, sharp as a pebble on steel.

She vaulted past the ice-antlered deer. It bawled, antlers glowing blue, ready to fling Frost up at the woman in the branches.

Desty raised her blade, swept a White Sword arc, and sheared the antlers clean, white light slicing like winter sun.

The deer shrieked. She left it to bleed and vaulted to the next tree, pressing the chase like tide against shore.

But maddened, the deer charged. With its half antler, it rammed her tree; the trunk shuddered, and Desty slipped—she fell.

“Uwah.” Lucky more branches. She snatched one like a cat and climbed back up fast.

“Troublesome… I hadn’t planned to kill you.” Her red blade flashed, and the deer dropped into the snow.

By then the masked man had gained dozens of meters, distance pulling like wind through reeds.

“Does he not get tired?” she muttered, breath steaming, and sprang after him again.

In truth, the masked man was exhausted. He gulped air, eyes on Desty, steering beasts to counter like chess under snow.

The chase burned hotter through the trees, white breath scattering like sparks.

He threw every beast and trick to stall her—Frost, Wind Blade, pits, even illusions—emptying his bag to the dregs.

Desty broke them one by one, a knife through silk. She never fell far behind, yet couldn’t close the gap.

She felled trunks to block him, but he vaulted each with easy grace, a fox clearing fallen logs.

They ran half a ring of the forest. He finally ran out of strength—and beasts—and stood, heaving, steam ghosting in the cold.

Desty was winded too, perched on a branch, hair plastered to her cheeks with sweat like dew threads.

Seeing him halt, she wouldn’t waste it. She drew a deep breath, dropped from the branch, and cut for him.

He caught her motion, breathed deep, stamped once, reached into his cloak for the hilt, turned, drew, and met her blade point-blank.

CLANG! A deafening metal crash rang, making their ears throb like drums struck too hard.

Pain bit her palm. After taking the clash, she hopped back two steps, opening space like a door in storm.

Such power, she thought, a cold pebble dropping through her gut.