The newcomers were vicious mercenaries, eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, snarling like rabid dogs straining at their leashes. A bald mercenary, a head taller than the rest, shoved his comrades aside, spear raised. "Long-ears!" he roared at Fro. "Where’d you hide our treasure?"

Beside him, a one-eyed man lifted his crossbow, aiming at the elf.

Fro gave them no chance. He charged first with a battle cry. The naturally savage mercenaries didn’t flinch. A scrawny one instinctively bellowed back, swinging his blade upward. Steel clashed. Fro pressed his rapier down, deflecting the knife aside. His light blade swept across the mercenary’s throat. A kick to the gut sent the man crashing down, his long knife clattering away. His frostbitten hands feebly clutched the bleeding wound on his neck.

Before Fro could savor the kill, three snarling hounds lunged. He retreated behind a tree, the crossbow bolt’s sharp tip like an ice spike aimed at his eye. He dodged just as *whoosh*—the bolt grazed his armpit. For a heartbeat, the elf’s heart stopped.

The hounds closed in. The bald mercenary ignored his fallen comrade, spear sweeping wide. "Surround him! He’s alone!"

Hiding behind the tree, Fro endured the hounds’ ear-splitting barks as they circled him. One leapt. Fro’s rapier sent it flying. A quick glance revealed mercenaries flanking him. Death would come fast like this—even the finest swordsman couldn’t fight on two fronts.

Then, a woman’s voice rang from the heavens, commanding and clear: "My chosen warrior, I command you: slay these defilers. Be grateful for my blessing."

Her voice drowned out the hounds’ snarls. Everyone froze, confused. Some mercenaries gaped up at the ashen sky. Then "blessing" descended—a wall of grayish-yellow mist coalesced from the ground. From it, a stone wall shot up, shielding Fro’s left flank.

"Gods above, what—what is this?"

"Surely the goddess’s blessing!"

"He’s a god-chosen warrior!"

"The Forest Goddess!"

Superstitious humans chattered in fearful awe. They recalled the unearthly beautiful woman the elf claimed fell from the sky—whom they’d mocked. Since her arrival, unnatural events multiplied.

Seeing his men waver, the bald mercenary lashed a retreating comrade’s back with his spear shaft.

"Cowards! What’s there to fear? Nine of us! Capture that woman, and we’ll drown in wine and women for life!"

Bolstered by dreams, the mercenaries tightened their circle. Seizing their hesitation, Fro killed another hound. The last one crouched, growling but refusing to advance. Another wall rose—slowly, but the mercenaries’ hesitation bought it time. When Fro’s back hit solid stone, he grimaced. The wall had sealed his escape. He was a cornered rat.

*Is she trying to kill me?*

Not surprising, really. After all, he’d sold her to slavers on their first meeting—and groped her chest.

The savage mercenaries flooded the narrow alley. Fro braced himself. Trained since childhood by his strict father, he faced men who’d barely held swords before becoming mercenaries. One charged, two-handed blade swinging. The alley allowed only one fighter at a time. Fro stepped forward, rapier raised. The mercenary feinted high, but Fro saw through the clumsy trick. He blocked the overhead strike with his crossguard. As the man instinctively pulled back to guard his head, Fro reversed his grip and slashed his thigh. The blade bit deep. The mercenary screamed, stumbling back as comrades dragged him away. Another lunged, fearless and fierce, closing to half an arm’s length.

Fro thrust without hesitation. His blade slid past the knife, crossguard stopping the swing. The rapier’s tip pierced the stained leather armor, sinking into the man’s gut. Attack and defense flowed as one. His father would’ve been proud to see such a close-quarters thrust.

The dying mercenary clamped onto Fro’s sword hilt, trapping it. Behind him, another swung a spiked club at the elf’s head.

*Thud!*

Fro’s skull rang like a struck bell. He wrenched his sword free—thankfully, his vision held, his footing steady. He’d expected the sound of a splitting melon when he glimpsed that brutal swing.

As the club-wielder fell, Fro severed his right hand, then his head. The mercenaries’ bloodlust surged; death meant nothing now.

Aelina’s alley had one advantage: Fro never faced more than one foe at a time. These weren’t disciplined soldiers—they swung wildly, wasting space in the cramped passage.

Another mercenary fell to Fro’s blade. As he collapsed, a young recruit was shoved backward into the elf. Fro parried the boy’s frantic swings—just as a spear pierced his chest from under the recruit’s arm. The spearhead barely breached his chainmail. Fro killed the youth, watching him fall to reveal the bald mercenary. Steam rose from his shaved scalp as he thrust his spear.

*Long weapons dominate in reach.* Fro’s short rapier forced him back—but the wall blocked his retreat. He slammed against it, expecting stone, but tumbled through empty air. The wall had vanished. The spear thrust through the alley’s gap. Fro rolled aside, springing up.

"Surround him!" the bald mercenary barked, pressing the attack. Wounded and outmatched by the veteran’s spear mastery, Fro was losing ground. With comrades closing in, defeat was inevitable.

Two mercenaries flanked Fro. The one-eyed crossbowman raised his weapon. Nicknamed "Death’s Gaze," his aim never missed. Now his single eye locked onto the elf.

One mercenary rushing Fro’s right flank never saw the sword tip gleaming behind him.

"Ha! Golden Ape, take this!" Aelina’s voice rang out. She lunged from behind a tree, executing a perfect thrust. Her rapier sank deep into the mercenary’s back. She yanked it free and leapt back. Adrenaline kept the man thrashing wildly for a moment before he collapsed. She smirked. "Filthy apes. Didn’t see that coming, did you?"

Behind her, a hollowed-out tree trunk gaped open—a cavity big enough to hide a person. Aelina had used her Molecular Reconstructor on a dead tree, hiding inside to play goddess.

"My treasure! There you are!" The one-eyed mercenary shifted aim, firing at Aelina’s knee. His mind stayed cold: kill her now, or all four would die here. A knee-shot beauty fetched less coin—but only the living spent gold.

"Mere mortal trinket." Aelina raised her "handle." The one-eyed man’s jaw dropped as the pink wand’s tip glowed pale blue. His bolt vanished—then reappeared in the girl’s hand.

Her fluffy golden ears perked up as she twirled the bolt. "Shall we continue, One-Eye Ape?"

*Ah!* A scream cut through the clash. The mercenary fighting alongside the bald man fell, throat slit.

Aelina strode toward the crossbowman, smiling. She saw only terror in the old ape’s eyes. "Crushing your filthy kind with intellect is effortless."

"D-demon!" He fumbled to reload, crossbow shaking as he aimed at Aelina’s golden starlit eyes. "Stay back!"

"Shoot." Her smile never wavered. She stepped closer, watching his trembling hands...

With a yell, the one-eyed man spun and fired at the grappling pair—then fled.

*Ah!* Fro’s cry made Aelina’s heart sink—not for him, but for herself. If the Golden Fur died, her own fate would be worse than death. Or worse: an RBQ life.

A crossbow bolt jutted from Fro’s ribs. At under ten paces, it had punched through his chainmail. Yet he didn’t fall. He sidestepped the bald mercenary’s spear, closed in, gripped his rapier midway, and drove the tip under the man’s jaw like a short spear.

The bald mercenary grabbed him, clutching the bolt in Fro’s shoulder, driving it deeper. They crashed down, locked in a bloody, rolling struggle.

"Damn filthy ape! Ruined everything!" Aelina lunged, driving her rapier into the bald man’s neck. He died quickly—killed by the woman who promised him riches.

She shoved his body aside. The elf lay drenched in blood, staring blankly at the sky, chest heaving. The bolt was buried deep in his side. Aelina knelt, checking the wound.

"Am I... dying?" Fro whispered, finding strange comfort in Aelina’s anxious face amid the pain.

"Not yet." Her voice turned cool, authoritative, laced with suppressed fury. "Lie still." She walked to the crossbow. Its long metal crank could tension the string—but Aelina lacked the strength, and refused primitive methods.

She scanned the string with her Molecular Reconstructor, then reconstructed it. The string snapped taut, locking into place. She loaded a bolt, raised the crossbow, and aimed.

Perched on a small slope, she watched the one-eyed mercenary stumble sixty meters away through the woods—far beyond a crossbow’s effective range. Even master archers wouldn’t waste bolts at this distance. But Aelina had never used such a primitive weapon.

Knowledge trumped experience. The terrain was mapped in her mind. She knew the bow’s draw weight, the bolt’s mass. The autumn air hung utterly still. At precisely 63.4 meters, she coldly murmured, "Fall, filthy ape."

The bolt arced gracefully through the air, threading through dead branches to pierce the mercenary’s thigh. He crumpled, howling. Aelina lowered the crossbow without looking back, walking toward the elf.

*Let the rusty bolt keep him crawling to Durant.* Someone had to carry the message back. Just as she’d planned.