"Shit—hey!"
Yona struggled on the ground, trying to push herself up with shaking arms. Her voice was rising now, shrill with panic.
"Release me! You put a sigil on me, didn't you? Take it off! Take it off!"
Keiser didn't answer immediately. His eyes were locked on the sky.
Above them, shadows circled—wings wide and leathery, tipped with claws. Its screech had shaken the trees and startled birds into flight, and now the creature hovered with eerie precision, its snout turning as though sniffing them out.
"That's why," Lenko muttered, his face drained of color, eyes wide. "That's why I said we should've hired someone! We're too close—still too close to Sheol!"
The beast let out another cry, sharper this time. It was searching. Or maybe already found them.
Yona's hands clawed at the air, reaching for Keiser. "I can't move! I can't run! If we die because of your stupid runes—!"
Lenko snapped his attention down to her. "You shouldn't have stolen from us."
"Yeah? Well, congratulations! I had my reasons! Now take it off!" Her voice broke at the end.
Lenko was clutching the coin pouch like it was a talisman. He stepped toward Keiser. "My lord—should I draw a ward? Something temporary? Just until we get back to the main path—?"
"No," Keiser said. His tone was quiet but firm.
"We don't have time—"
"I said no." Keiser's gaze didn't leave the sky. "It's already found us."
Above, the beast folded its wings—and began to dive.
"M-My lord, we have to—we have to run!"
Lenko's voice cracked in panic, but Keiser only grimaced.
Keiser never—he doesn't run from a fight. Not even the ones he's bound to lose. He never had though. Not until the day he died on that court, run through by his own sword—one forged from the core and bones of the very dragon he once saved.
The memory alone was enough to make his blood boil. Despite the bone-deep fatigue, he could feel his body heating up again, fury rekindling beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.
He tightened his grip on the stick in his hand—crude, heavy, nothing like a sword, but it would do.
Behind him, Lenko cowered, shouting at him to retreat, to return to the village. While the Princess kept insisting, demanding release. He couldn't focus on her now, didn't know how to help her even if he wanted to. But he knew this.
Once he holds something, it becomes a weapon.
Even in a body not his own. Even now.
This body—Muzio's—was a far cry from his own. It heaved for breath after a short sprint, trembled under strain, and sweat poured from it far too easily. The stick in his hands was thick and unwieldy. If he were still himself, he could've snapped it in two with one hand. Maybe even with just his fingers, if he really tried.
But this was his body now, whether he liked it or not.
And it had mana.
Not just that—it had the ability to read and write runes. Sigils. Something inside him had clicked, as if unlocking a door he hadn't realized was closed.
His hand trembled again—but not from fear. No, this was something else.
Warmth.
Then heat.
Searing.
It pulsed from his palm, crawling up the stick like fire drawn to oil.
The air split with shouting—and the screech of something flying overhead.
Keiser's eyes snapped upward.
It was fast. Massive.
A shadow cut through the light as wings beat the sky, at least six feet wide. Thick, dark fur. Long snout. Huge, widely spaced upright ears. Large, reflective eyes that zeroed in with terrifying precision.
A Pteropus.
He knew this monster. Bat-like, ruthless, and relentless. Keiser had fought its kind before during the war, especially near villages where prey was plentiful. These beasts always struck fast, often in groups, always insistent. They had a keen sense for weakness—and clearly, it had already picked its target.
It dove.
Straight at him.
Because of course it did.
Between him, a trembling boy hiding under a money pouch like it could buy him mercy, and a still on the ground, writhing princess screaming on the forest floor—the choice was obvious.
Muzio's body was the weakest. The slowest. The least threatening.
But Keiser wasn't.
As the Pteropus swooped in, shrieking, its wings slicing the air, Keiser gritted his teeth and swung the stick.
He threw his full weight into it, body protesting, lungs burning—but his grip was steady.
And the stick—burning with that strange heat—met the beast's body with a sharp crack.
The shout rang out.
But it wasn't from Lenko—still gawking in shock—nor from the princess, sprawled wide-eyed on the ground.
It came from the Pteropus.
The monstrous shriek tore through the air as the beast was blasted backward, crashing through the trees from the sheer force of a blow—from a stick.
Lenko stared, stunned.
His young lord—Muzio—stood with his hood blown back, his face flushed, almost glowing like polished alabaster. Sweat clung to his hair, damp strands sticking to his brow. He was panting, nearly wheezing for breath, chest rising in sharp, uneven intervals.
But his young lord's eyes—Muzio's red eyes never left the Pteropus.
In Muzio's trembling grip, the stick still glowed red-hot.
The brief silence shattered with another screech overhead.
"My lord!" Lenko shouted, clutching Muzio's shoulder. Whatever focus had lit Muzio's eyes was gone the moment that piercing cry tore through the sky.
"We really need to go back to the village," Lenko urged, tugging at him. But Muzio stood unmoving, his gaze fixed on the stick in his hand—no longer glowing.
Then, he laughed. Low and bitter.
"This fucking body," he muttered. "That's all it could manage? I put 'wood-reinforce', 'beringei-strength', 'haul-beast'—and that was it?"
Lenko frowned. He had never heard his young lord sound so frustrated—at anything. His eyes followed Muzio's gaze, landing on the stick.
He flinched.
The wood was no longer solid. It was charred, brittle—cracking apart like burned charcoal.