A wild hare sprinted frantically across the open plain. Its muscular thighs were already starting to outpace the hounds chasing relentlessly behind.

Albert cracked his whip, galloping forward while aiming his crossbow.

Whoosh! The bolt sliced through the air. Unfortunately, it struck half an inch from the prey, barely grazing its skin. Albert’s expression turned serious. He drew his longsword, ready to slash these infuriating creatures that had made him lose from start to finish.

But a crude arrow arced through the sky, piercing the hare’s neck instantly. The contest was over.

Albert dismounted with a resigned sigh, picked up the prey, and raised it toward a man sitting on horseback in the distance.

Cheers erupted from the caravan crowd!

“You won again, Boka,” Albert said, reining in his horse.

“Heh,” Boka scratched his head awkwardly. “Just luck.”

“Trena, take this,” Albert handed the hare to a red-haired girl nearby, busy processing other game.

“Brother, just give up. Boka’s too good,” she said.

Boka scratched his head again—that telltale sign of his embarrassment. Though both were supposed to hunt on horseback, Boka had barely moved from his spot, hitting every target. After hours in the saddle, he felt uneasy. He swung a leg to dismount but got tangled in the stirrup, tumbling face-first into the dust.

“Oh, damn it! I lost to someone who can’t even handle a horse!” Albert pulled him up. “But I’ll admit—you’re a likable guy.”

“Boka, are you okay?”

A small hand tugged his sleeve.

“I’m fine,” Boka gently patted the girl’s head beside him. “Don’t worry, Aisha.”

Dusk settled over the plains. The caravan had pitched tents and lit campfires for the night. As darkness fell, spirits lifted. People sipped apple cider, hung large pots over flames, and cooked the day’s game. Spices unique to traveling merchants filled the air with an irresistible aroma. Though the night held a chill, it couldn’t dampen their warmth.

Boka felt uneasy about the sheer number of rabbits they’d caught. He hunted only in moderation—overkill harmed nature. But he’d heard these plains suffered from rabbit overpopulation, stripping pastures bare for sheep herds. That eased his conscience a little.

“Which country did you live in before?” Albert asked. His sharp blue eyes and crisp demeanor made him look effortlessly handsome.

“Country? I don’t know,” Boka shook his head. “Aisha, do you remember?”

Aisha sipped her cider, her usual icy silence offering no reply.

“We lived in the mountains,” Boka said. “Up north—you know, that range?”

“The Aber Mountains?!” Trena’s eyes widened. “You came from there?”

“A lawless land,” Albert mused. “Even merchants avoid it. Wolf packs there once wiped out a two-hundred-man Albion army.”

“Our home was safe,” Boka insisted.

Trena’s gaze drifted to the gray fur draped over Aisha’s shoulders.

“Well… maybe one or two strays sometimes,” he added lamely.

Albert chuckled dryly. “Guess I lost to a born hunter.”

Boka and Aisha had met Albert’s caravan a week ago. After walking for over half a month with no transport, they’d joined when Albert’s group offered a ride—in exchange for Boka handling chores like tending horses. Today, his stunning skill had beaten Albert in a wager, winning everyone over.

The stew bubbled nearly done. Trena ladled portions into bowls with practiced ease, handing them out. Open-air cider and spice-simmered rabbit meat sparked hearty appetites. Trena was clearly beloved in the caravan—even more than Albert, its leader. Passersby greeted her warmly.

Unlike Aisha’s frosty reserve, Trena was a vibrant seventeen-year-old, brimming with dreams yet carrying quiet maturity.

“Boka, why are you heading to Albion’s capital?” Trena asked, her eyes hopeful.

“My father was born there. He was exiled for twenty years over some crime when young.”

Albert’s expression shifted subtly. “Going back for revenge…?”

“No, no!” Boka waved his hands. “Before he died, he left a letter. His shop in Albion should be mine now—the exile term’s up. He wanted me to inherit it.”

Boka had planned to leave the mountains with Aisha once her injuries healed. But winter hit unexpectedly half a month later. Thick snow buried the Aber Mountains, trapping them indoors. Without stored salted meat and grain, they might have starved. By the time spring melted the knee-deep snow, the season was nearly over.

Aisha burped softly. She’d eaten plenty but still reached for another strip of meat from the platter, flashing tiny fangs as she tore off a chunk, chewing contentedly. Boka marveled at how her small frame held so much—he’d long given up understanding it.

Albert watched the silent girl with interest and reached for the cider jug.

“Huh? Empty? It was full just now.”

Trena frowned, sniffing Aisha’s cup.

“Oh my! Boka, you’re giving a child apple cider! I thought it was milk!”

Aisha’s little face flushed slightly, and she giggled.

“What’s wrong with that?” Boka looked genuinely puzzled.

Ever since he’d handed her that first cup, she’d adored the drink. Through the Aber winter, she’d drained both of Boka’s oak barrels of wine and his homemade fruit brews. The cabin often reeked of alcohol, but he’d grown used to it. Drunk, she never raged—just chuckled softly to herself. Boka actually preferred this warmer side to her usual coldness.

“Kids shouldn’t drink this stuff?”

“Oh!” Albert facepalmed. “Boka, I question if you have normal human thoughts.”

“Haha!” Trena laughed instead. “That’s so Boka.”

“Really?” Boka stared blankly at Aisha.

His earnest question to an eleven-year-old cracked everyone up. But Boka relied on Aisha’s advice—it had saved his life before. He often felt she could see the future.

A roar surged from the crowd. A youth with twin longswords stepped forward, driving one into the earth.

The feast’s main event began.

Traveling merchants trained in swordplay to fend off bandits. Sparring among caravans was common—large groups were like armies.

A burly man emerged, yanked the embedded sword free, and challenged the youth.

Cheers peaked as steel clashed. Both were power fighters. The bigger man dominated early, but his stamina faded after a few rounds. The youth seized his moment, unleashing a fierce barrage. With a final two-handed swing, he knocked the weapon from his opponent’s grip. Victory! The youth bowed, sword held high.

Two more challengers fell quickly to his polished skill.

“Boka, do you know swordplay?” Trena whispered.

“I don’t think I’ve ever held a sword,” he admitted. No memory of it existed.

Aisha had drifted to sleep, snoring softly against Boka’s side. The feast’s end meant nothing to her now. Her breath carried a strong whiff of cider.

Albert answered the crowd’s call. His movements were fluid, and the youth paled the moment he stepped up. Caravan leaders earned respect through skill—Albert proved it by the third strike, numbing the youth’s arm. A flick of his wrist sent the opponent’s sword flying. Albert pressed his blade to the youth’s stomach. Match over.

“Albert’s amazing,” Boka sighed. “I could train a lifetime and never match him.”

“Think so?” Trena smiled. “He’s not even the best in our caravan.”

“What? Who else?!” Boka’s eyes widened.

Trena didn’t answer. She just smiled, her fiery hair matching eyes that held unspoken depth.

“Boka, you’re fascinating. Your eyes are so clear, pure like a child’s. Sometimes I wonder if you’re even from this world.”

She leaned against him like Aisha did. Her soft, youthful body carried a hint of maturity that left Boka flustered.

“If my fate had been different…” she murmured. “It’d be nice.”

“Uh… that is…”

Boka fumbled for words to ease the tension, but Trena stood up.

“Thanks for chatting, Boka. Goodnight. We enter the city tomorrow—I’ll rest now.”

She waved and slipped into her tent.

Boka stood frozen.

“Hehe…”

Aisha giggled without opening her eyes, her voice teasing. “Boka, that woman’s dangerous. Guys like you? Better stay far away.”