The forest still trembled.
Ash lingered in the breeze, and the trees bore fresh scars where Baphomet's dark shockwaves had ripped the earth apart. Even now, steam hissed from the deep crater where the demon's massive body had fallen, split open, bleeding shadows into the soil.
Red stood at the edge of it all, blood cooling on his skin, breathing steady.
In one hand, he held the broken horn of Baphomet, severed cleanly at its root. It pulsed faintly in his grasp, still carrying a trace of the abyssal magic it once channeled. The weapon fragment would be proof enough for the guild. He didn't care for the bounty or the fame. He needed the drop for something else, something personal.
He flicked the blood off his sword before sheathing both blades, one over each shoulder. Then, without a word, he turned and walked.
The sun had already begun to set by the time Red saw his home appear between the trees.
A small wooden house, twenty kilometers outside Silverhaven. Just big enough for one man and the occasional visitor, though few ever dared come this far.
Simple walls, a sloped roof, and reinforced wooden stakes formed a perimeter around it. Not enough to stop an army, but enough to convince goblins and curious beasts to try their luck elsewhere. Hidden traps, pressure wires, pitfall snares, spike rigs, lined the outer edge, all set by hand. He could dismantle them blindfolded.
It was quiet here. Safe, in the only way Red needed.
He dropped the heavy horn onto the porch with a dull thud, then stepped off the path and into the underbrush, following a trail only he knew.
The stream wasn't far. Clear, cold, and untouched by city runoff. He crouched by the water and plunged his hands in, letting the chill bite through the grime. He didn't wear armor to bathe. He didn't wear anything at all. There was no one to see, and nothing to hide.
No shame. No audience. Just water, rock, and muscle hardened by years of survival.
Back at the house, dinner was quick
Pan-fried root vegetables, dried meat soaked in broth, a sprinkle of salt he'd traded for weeks ago. Functional, filling. Nothing more.
He checked the perimeter once more before locking the door. Every trap was in place. Nothing had moved.
Then, he sat down by the hearth, removed his twin blades, and leaned them gently against the wall.
His armor followed. Chestplate. Gauntlets. Greaves. Piece by piece, stacked carefully.
He reached for his guild card last.
A flick of mana lit the runes. The interface shimmered into visibility, floating faintly in front of his eyes.
Quest: Baphomet Elimination
Time Remaining: 29 Days
He stared at the number, unmoved.
Plenty of time.
He had no reason to rush back to Silverhaven. Not after finishing a High-Rank Boss. Baphomet wasn't just any demon, it had taken a full Mithril-ranked party last season just to wound the beast. And Red had taken it down alone.
He didn't need praise. He didn't need applause. He needed rest.
Tomorrow, he'd go to the guild. Report the kill. Collect the reward.
Tonight… he slept.
With no prayers, no dreams, no guilt.
Just silence.
The skies were still dark, just the barest shade lighter than midnight.
Stars, once bold, now flickered faintly like dying coals. No birds sang. The woods hadn't fallen silent; the monsters hadn't yet retreated to their dens. It was that in-between hour, when even time seemed to hesitate.
Red opened his eyes.
No groan. No stretch. Just breath. Then movement.
He sat up, pulled back the fur blanket, and stood. The floorboards were cold underfoot, just the way he liked them. First, he went to the basin outside, scooping up cold water to wash his face. A sharp, bracing splash. He didn't flinch. Next, he pulled out a small wooden brush and a strip of cleaning paste. His teeth, like his blades, were maintained with care.
Routine. Unchanged.
Inside, he stirred a small pot on the hearth. Steam rose. He poured himself a cup.
Black. No sugar. No cream. He liked his coffee bitter. Strong.
His breakfast was simple: dried jerky, some root slices from last night, and a half-loaf of crusty bread. He chewed without hurry. The warmth of the coffee lingered on his tongue longer than the food did.
When he was done, he cleaned the cup, checked the traps one last time, then walked back inside and strapped on his gear.
Chestplate. Shoulder guards. Gauntlets. Greaves. Leather straps buckled tight.
Then came the twin swords, his old companions. Worn, but clean. Razor-sharp. One across his back, the other at his hip.
He stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
There were no horses tied to the post. No wagons waiting. No teleport scrolls. Just the open path to Silverhaven, twenty kilometers of forest, fog, and thought.
Red walked.
No rush. No reason to run. He preferred it this way.
The world moved differently when it was quiet. The crunch of earth under boot, the occasional rustle of a bush, the distant cry of some unseen beast. These things filled the silence, but never interrupted it.
His mind wandered. Sometimes to old battles. Sometimes to nothing at all.
Time passed, but he didn't mark it.
The trees began to thin. The sky brightened, just slightly. Then came the distant creak of wheels, the low murmur of voices.
The edge of Silverhaven came into view.
Just outside the city gates, merchants were already setting up their wagons, arranging crates, untying canvas tarps, arguing softly with sleepy-eyed apprentices.
The guards at the gate straightened as Red approached. One of them opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to recognize him and closed it again, wisely choosing silence.
Red gave a slight nod, just enough to be polite. Then walked past the gates and into the city.
He didn't come here often.
But when he did, the Guild knew he had something to report.
And this time, he brought the horn of a demon.