PREVIOUSLY-
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant croak of a swamp toad.
Then, the chieftain's snout curved upward in a toothy smile. "Heh. That's good."
He turned, watching the warriors file into ranks behind them, axes clinking against shell armour.
"Once you have the cure," he said, "head to the eastern grove. That's where we've hidden the children... and the old ones."
Theobald's expression hardened.
"Understood."
The chieftain clasped his forearm with a warrior's grip—scaled fingers over human wrist.
"Don't die, small one," he rumbled. "That's my plan."
-X—
The Medic Guild camp buzzed with a restless energy — boots thudded against damp earth, tent flaps snapped in the wind, and the sharp tang of antiseptic hung thick in the air. Somewhere beyond the outer rows, mercenaries barked orders, their laughter occasionally breaking into the uneasy rhythm of work.
"Mrs. Penrose!"
The call cut through the noise, firm and resonant. Annie froze mid-motion, the narrow-necked flask in her hands trembling just enough for the viscous green liquid inside to lap against the glass in uneven ripples. She forced herself to swallow, throat tight.
"Y–Yes!?" she answered, her voice pitched a touch too high.
The canvas flap shifted and a man stepped in — Dr. Cyan. His frame was imposing, his shoulders stretching the seams of his white coat. Firelight from the brazier outside threw his shadow long and crooked over the table, swallowing the rows of neatly aligned vials, scattered notes, and half-filled syringes.
"Dr. Cyan," she managed, smoothing her apron with one hand, the other still clutching the flask as though it might shield her. "How… how can I help you?"
He did not answer immediately. Instead, his eyes swept the tent — the stained mortar and pestle by the basin, the faint chemical tang of something recently distilled, the corners where dust motes drifted in the muted light. Then his gaze fixed on her, pale and unblinking.
"Mrs. Penrose." His voice dropped lower, heavy enough to press the air from the room. "What… are you hiding?"
The flask in her grip shuddered again, a bead of green slipping down the side to her fingertips. The distant shouts outside faded to a dull, hollow thrum, as if the entire camp had taken a breath and was waiting for her to speak.
Annie bit down on her lower lip until she tasted copper, the flask trembling in her hands. A bead of sweat broke free from her temple, tracing a slow, deliberate path down her cheek.
"N–Nothing," she said, her voice thin, almost swallowed by the heavy air between them.
Cyan's gaze didn't waver. He took one measured step forward, the floorboards beneath his boots groaning under his weight.
"Intern," he said, his tone clipped and cold, "when a doctor asks a question, you answer it truthfully. Do not make me repeat myself."
His arm came forward, the shadow of his hand stretching across her chest as it reached for the flask—
THUD!
The sound cracked through the tent like a hammer strike. Cyan's eyes went wide for a fraction of a second before his knees buckled. His hulking form crumpled forward, hitting the dirt hard enough to make the vials on the table rattle in their racks.
"Hello!"
A shadow moved at the tent's entrance, then a hand lifted in a casual wave.
Theobald.
"Kid!" Annie's voice cracked with relief as she all but threw herself toward him, her arms wrapping tight around his shoulders. He could feel her trembling.
"The cure is ready!" she blurted, pulling back just enough for him to see the wild brightness in her eyes. In her hand, the green liquid shimmered faintly in the dim light, its surface swirling as though alive.
Theobald's gaze dropped to it, lingering a heartbeat too long. Something unreadable passed over his face.
"Okay," he said at last, his tone low and steady. His hand closed over hers, fingers curling around the cool glass. "Let me give you some free advice—"
His eyes locked with hers, sharp and urgent.
"Run. Run fast."
Theobald reached past her, fingers deftly plucking a worn canvas bag from the edge of the table. Without ceremony, he slipped the vial into its depths, the faint clink of glass muffled by cloth.
"Rook," he called, his voice barely above a murmur.
From the shadows at the tent's opening, the orange vulture appeared—silent, sudden, like a breath of cold air. Its black eyes gleamed in the lamplight, unblinking.
Theobald looped the bag's strap over the bird's neck, tightening it with practiced care.
"Eastern grove," he instructed.
Rook dipped his head once, the gesture crisp and precise. Then, with a single powerful sweep of his wings, the tent's walls shuddered and the vulture was gone—just a rush of wind and the faint rustle of feathers vanishing into the sky.
Theobald strode toward the tent flap, the weight of the axe rolling lazily between his fingers as if it were no more than a coin.
"Wait!" Annie's voice cracked, her hand darting out to catch his sleeve. "What's your name, kid? And what exactly are you doing?"
He paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder. The faintest curve touched his lips, a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"The name's Theobald," he said lightly, "and I'm just going for a little walk in the garden."
Her brows knit. "Garden?"
A breeze slipped into the tent, stirring his hair. He looked straight at her then, the smirk sharpening.
"Come on, girl," he said, voice low and almost playful, "I'm just going to touch some grass."
And with that, he stepped out.
Theobald ghosted between the rows of tents, slipping through the narrow gaps like smoke. The clang of steel and low murmur of voices faded behind him until he reached an open field where the air was tense and still, the early morning breeze dying against the heat of gathered bodies.
Two lines of mercenaries stood in formation, their armour dulled from use, their eyes sharp with the promise of blood. At the head of the assembly, a knight stood rigid, flanked on one side by a mercenary with a massive, portly frame, and on the other by a lean figure swathed in black from neck to boot.
"Men!" the fat one roared, raising his greatsword high so the light glanced along its chipped edge.
"Today we raid that lizardmen settlement!"
His thick fingers combed through his burly ginger beard, a wolfish grin splitting his face.
"Slaughter them all!"
A chorus of cheers erupted — weapons rattling, boots stomping, voices rising in fevered agreement.
"Haa…" the knight exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping the crowd with a weariness that seemed almost calculated. He brushed his fingers back through his slicked brown hair.
"Don't kill everyone like the barbarian you are," he said, voice cool but carrying across the ranks. "We need about twenty children alive. The Guild requires test subjects."
A shadow rolled across the field, blotting out the pale morning light.
"W–What?!" one mercenary shouted, pointing upward. "Is that—?!"
Before the question could leave his mouth, the sky rained death. Vials, flasks, and grotesque monster remains plummeted like a storm of arrows, bursting on the earth in sickly splashes. Acrid fumes hissed into the air as poisonous smoke writhed through the ranks. Men coughed, gagged, and stumbled in panic.
"Who the hell threw these?!" the fat mercenary roared, his voice muffled in the choking haze. But before his last word left his lips, the fog split like torn cloth.
A flash of steel surged from the gap — an axe screaming toward his throat.
CLANG!
Steel crashed on steel, the fat man's warhammer catching the axe in a jarring, bone-deep impact. Sparks spat into the smoke.
SWISH!
The axe vanished from his sight, and a searing pain lanced across his vision. His eyes watered, burned.
"WHO DARES TO—?!" he bellowed, but his roar was cut short—
Another swing.
CLANG!
The mercenary caught the axe once more, steel grinding against steel. His hand jerked upward, and the warhammer howled through the air in a brutal vertical arc.
"You bastard!" he roared.
Theobald pivoted a heartbeat before the blow landed. His hips snapped, driving the heel of his right foot into the mercenary's jaw with a dull, meaty crack.
"Sorry," he murmured, the word almost casual.
A sigh drifted through the choking fog — low, deliberate, and far too close.
Before Theobald could move, cold iron coiled around him. Chains snaked over his shoulders and chest, their links clinking as they cinched tight, pinning his arms to his sides.
"Kid…" the breath was hot against his nape.
He started to turn — but something cold and curved kissed the side of his neck. A sickle's edge, resting just enough to promise blood.
"Stay still,"
The voice rasped, each word frayed and dangerous.
Somewhere at the back of the camp, Annie's eyes darted between the motionless body of Cyan and the tent's entrance.
"Wh-What should I do?!" she whispered to herself, her voice trembling.
Her teeth worried at her nails, gnawing until the taste of iron bloomed on her tongue. Every creak of canvas or shuffle of boots outside made her flinch.
Then her gaze caught on something.
'That.'
A squat iron cage sat half-hidden near the supply shelf, its bars dull with rust.
A few moments later—
"Urgh…"
Dr. Cyan groaned, pressing a palm to the back of his skull. Pain pulsed there in slow, nauseating waves.
He blinked the fog from his eyes, pushing himself upright.
'Where… am I?'
When his vision cleared, the answer jolted him fully awake.
"Mrs. Penrose!"
He stumbled forward, clutching the cage bars. Annie sat slumped inside, her hair falling like a curtain over her face.
"Shit!" His hands fumbled over the padlock, then roamed frantically over the floor.
"Where are the damn keys?!"
Near the mercenary grounds, Theobald strained against the chains, the iron biting into his skin.
"Don't bother, kid," the man behind him rasped, pressing the sickle deeper until its edge kissed flesh. A warm bead of blood traced down his neck. "It won't end well."
The fat mercenary approached, each step sinking into the earth with weight.
"Well, well…" he drawled, cracking his neck with a sharp pop.
"Let's see what's under that mask."
Theobald's pulse roared in his ears.
'Think… think!'
His mind flickered through desperate options, none good.
Then the mercenary leaned closer—
Theobald's legs coiled.
He exploded upward. Both boots slammed into the man's face with a meaty thwack.
SHLRK!
The sickle's tip raked his neck, a hot sting blooming down to his collarbone.
"Sorry again," Theobald muttered.
His fingers clamped around the sickle-wielder's wrist. His body spun, wrenching the joint until it popped. In the same breath, his right foot scythed low, sweeping the man's legs from under him.
"Huh—!"
Theobald's eyes flew wide as the man's arms snaked around his throat, the grip tightening like a steel vice. In the same motion, his legs coiled around Theobald's torso, locking him in a crushing chokehold.
"You're quick," the man murmured, voice low and almost approving, "quite good… for a boy."
The black collar of his coat shadowed his jaw, the brim of his hat hiding all but the curve of a widening smile—sharp, slow, and full of intent.
"Don't forget me!"
The fat warrior roared, spittle flying from his beard as he swung.
The warhammer's head screamed through the air, its iron tip blurring toward Theobald's face with bone-breaking intent. The air split with a deep whump, the weight of the strike promising to shatter whatever it touched.
Theobald twisted at the last instant—his left heel grinding into the dirt as the hammer skimmed past his cheek, the wind of its passing hot against his skin. Before the warrior could recover the backswing, Theobald ducked low, his shoulder slamming into the man's gut.
The big man grunted but didn't yield—thick arms tightening around the hammer's haft as he wrenched it up for another crushing blow.
Chains rattled around Theobald's wrists as he pivoted, dragging his weight sideways. He used the momentum to snap a boot into the warrior's shin.
The bigger man staggered, but his grip didn't break.
"Too slow, boy!" the warrior snarled.
Theobald's gaze flicked—just a fraction—to the black-clad mercenary behind him, still scrambling up from the dirt.
The moment the hammer came down again, Theobald sidestepped, letting the iron head bury itself deep into the earth.
The ground shook.
Before the warrior could rip it free, Theobald vaulted over the embedded weapon's haft, twisting in midair. The tip of his boot cracked against the man's jaw with a thunk of bone on bone.
The warrior reeled, blood dripping from his split lip—
—but the black-clad fighter was already closing in, sickle flashing for Theobald's throat.
The sickle's crescent arc kissed the air where Theobald's throat had been a heartbeat ago. He ducked, feeling the cold wind of its passage. His bound wrists snapped upward—chains rattling—as he hooked the links around the sickle's haft.
With a sharp twist, he yanked the weapon sideways, dragging the black-clad mercenary forward.
The fat warrior lunged from behind, warhammer now free of the dirt. Theobald dropped flat to the ground, the hammer's head sweeping over him in a brutal horizontal arc.
It smashed into the black-clad man's ribs with a wet crunch.
The man in black coughed blood but used the momentum, rolling away before the fat warrior could strike again.
Theobald sprang to his feet, pivoting so the chains wrapped tighter around the sickle.
He wrenched it free from the black-clad mercenary's grip, spinning the weapon once before lashing it toward the fat warrior's exposed neck.
The warrior blocked with the hammer's shaft, steel grinding against steel, the blow sending tremors up both their arms.
Before Theobald could press the advantage—
CLANG!
A third blade cleaved between them, forcing them apart.
The knight from earlier stepped into the circle, slicked-back brown hair immaculate despite the chaos. His longsword rested casually in his grip, yet its point was angled directly at Theobald's heart.
"You've made quite a mess, intruder," he said calmly, though his eyes burned with cold intent.
He took a slow step forward, the ground beneath him seeming to tense with each movement.
Theobald's fingers curled tighter around the sickle.
The fat warrior grinned, blood on his teeth.
The man in black rose, clutching his side.
The knight tilted his head slightly.
"Let's end this—"
Theobald exhaled through the mask, rolling his shoulders as the weight of steel settled into each palm—the axe in his right, the sickle in his left.
Chains clinked softly with every movement, the links swaying like restless serpents.
A wry smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Haha…I am fucked."