Twilight settled over the dense forest path, the air rich with petrichor and dusk-chilled wind. Myrelion walked alone, a bloodstained cloak draped over his shoulder, returning from his recent Class S mission. The blades at his hips hummed faintly—sated from battle.
Then—
"Help!! Someone please—!! No—!!"
A scream pierced the silence.
Myrelion froze. The voice—desperate, trembling, female—was just a hundred meters to the west. He moved instinctively, body slipping into stealth like breath into shadow.
He found a high pine tree and ascended with practiced ease, perching silently on a thick branch. Below, in the moonlight-licked clearing, a cruel scene unfolded.
A pregnant teenage fox beastkin girl—barefoot, bruised, and no older than sixteen—was on her knees. Her hair, reddish-orange and matted with sweat and dirt, flowed around her tear-streaked face. Her fox ears trembled with fear, her tail fluffed defensively behind her swollen belly.
Four armed bandits sneered, surrounding her like wolves circling an injured doe.
"Tch... stupid beastkin bitch thought she could escape her dead mutt of a mate," one spat.
"Could probably sell the brat in her belly to the slave ring—halfbreed fetches high coin."
Myrelion's eyes darkened.
He didn't wait.
A whisper of steel, a flicker of shadow—and Solbite slashed through the neck of the nearest bandit before he even saw Myrelion land. Nyxfang reversed a fire spell the second caster hurled, turning it into frost that entombed him mid-scream.
The third died trying to run.
The last begged—until his magic backfired into lightning and broke his spine.
Silence.
Myrelion stood still, blades dripping, cloak fluttering in the dying wind. The girl cowered, shielding her belly, but did not scream.
Their eyes met.
Hers were red with terror and tears. His—violet and cold—softened for just a moment.
He sheathed his blades.
"…You're safe now."