Ethan's expectant gaze bore into Pit, making the seasoned hunter shift uncomfortably. The boy's determination was like a weight pressing against his chest—heavy, undeniable. Pit had always cared for Ethan in his own quiet way, though he rarely showed it. The kid's grit reminded him of himself at that age, clawing for survival in a world that didn't care.
But helping Ethan would mean risking everything.
Still, the thought of turning him away made Pit's gut churn.
Ethan, sensing hesitation, pushed harder. His voice was calm but edged with urgency. "I don't need you to train me physically. I know Stanley's dogs are watching. I just need something to practice with. Leave it in the woods, show me theory—whatever you can. I'll do the rest."
Pit stared at the boy. For a second, he thought the kid was joking. He thinks he can learn to survive from lessons and scavenged tools? He let out a long sigh, running a hand through his graying hair.
"Kid, don't romanticize the wild. You're not just dealing with animals out there. Some of those things…" He shook his head. "Nature twisted them. They're monsters. Listening to campfire stories won't save you from something with six fangs and armor for skin."
Ethan's fists clenched. "We both know I'm not looking to hunt monsters," he said quietly, voice shaking. "That's not the kind of prey I have in mind."
Pit stiffened. The implication hit like a cold wind. "That's exactly why I shouldn't help you," he said, his tone darkening. "I won't turn you into a murderer."
The room fell into heavy silence.
Ethan's jaw trembled, but he held Pit's gaze. "I'm certain that I'm already marked for death after what I said yesterday," he said, barely above a whisper. "Stanley's going to kill me. Maybe not today. But sometimes later when the reason he keeps me here is no more, I'm gone. You know it. Everyone does."
His voice rose with bitterness. "So what do you want me to do? Sit still? Wait to be sold or killed like livestock?" He laughed—a sharp, broken sound. "You won't make me a killer, huh? Then what? Let me die nice and clean?"
Pit turned away, jaw tight.
He had always wondered why someone like Stanley would keep a kid around. Once, he'd overheard Diggen's lackeys talking—it was supposed to be temporary, they said.
But it didn't take a genius to figure out what that fat, greedy bastard was planning. A boy like Ethan was rare: young, healthy, and unclaimed. The kind of prize men like Stanley didn't just stumble upon—they kept, until the time was right.
But now the kid had stepped out of line, defied him in front of others. That changed everything. Stanley wouldn't be satisfied with profit anymore. Now, he wanted to eliminate a threat. And when a man like Stanley felt threatened, he didn't wait—he acted. Swiftly, and without mercy.
And Pit... Pit didn't want to live with that on his conscience.
With a grunt, he crossed the room to an old wooden chest. He knelt, lifted the lid, and rummaged until he found what he was looking for: a knife. Nothing special. A plain, knife—small enough for a child to wield, but sharp enough to draw blood.
He handed it to Ethan. "Here. It won't kill a beast. But it might be useful against unprepared thugs."
Ethan stared at the knife, eyes wide. He imagined himself stabbing Stanley with it, or defending himself from his wrath. A weapon meant hope. Meant agency.
But reality crashed in quickly.
"I can't take it now," he said, lowering the blade reluctantly. "Diggen's men have been following me since this morning. If they see me walk out of here with it, they'll confiscate it from me."
Pit walked to the window and peeked out. Sure enough, two men loitered thirty meters away, pretending not to watch.
He muttered, "Why can't they just leave the kid alone?"
Then, turning back to Ethan, he nodded slowly. "Remember where we saw each other yesterday? The berry patch?"
Ethan nodded.
"I'll pass through there later today. I'll leave the knife in the bushes. But if anyone asks—you found it by accident. Got it?"
Ethan's eyes sparkled with gratitude. "Got it."
It wasn't much, but it was the first step.
Elsewhere in the village…
More than twenty men had gathered in a secluded grove beyond the main paths. Unlike the ragtag thugs under Diggen's command, these men were disciplined—focused. Their movements were efficient, their weapons sharp, their eyes always scanning.
At their center sat a broad-shouldered man with sun-darkened skin and braided hair: Jenkins.
He looked nothing like the gang leader he pretended to be in the village. Contrary to what they this man was a captain of the Dark Scimitar, one of the most feared organizations in the underworld. Slavery, extortion, smuggling, assassination—if it was illegal, the Scimitar profited from it. They controlled nearly a third of the kingdom's black market.
Jenkins leaned forward on a boulder, his tone low and commanding. "Alright. Now that everyone's here, let's talk strategy."
The men fell silent, hanging on every word.
"The higher-ups want to expand into this marquisate, but there's a problem: Donovas Ross. That noble's got muscle in the underworld. Whoever's backing him isn't just wealthy—they're powerful. We don't know who they are, but if we move too fast, we could start a war we can't win."
One of the men—a wiry figure with a scar carved down his cheek—spoke up, his voice edged with impatience. "Boss, do we even know who's backing this guy? If we did, we could just take him out like we always do. Why waste time in this godforsaken pit?"
Jenkins shook his head slowly, his expression hardening. "We can't afford that risk. Not yet." His voice was calm, but there was steel behind it. "If we shift too many of our assets here too soon, other organizations will notice. The marquise will tighten his grip, and whoever's backing Diggen will start sniffing around. We're not ready to start a war with a noble—and definitely not with a hidden hand we can't see."
The men exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of their leader's words sinking in. They were veterans—fighters hardened by countless operations—but even they understood the danger of moving against nobility without a plan.
Jenkins let the silence stretch before continuing, his smirk returning, a flicker of cunning in his eyes. "That brings us to our current position. This place will be the place we can fall back to if something happen in the city, so we need full control of it and when we do we build hideouts, tunnels, check points…"
He stood, brushing the dirt from his coat, gaze sweeping across the ruined village beyond the trees. "We make this place ours. Quietly. Carefully'
'This will be our outpost—our beachhead. Once we've got it, we can spread from here."
His grin faded, replaced by calculation. "For now, we lay low. We study the locals. We find pressure points. When the time comes, we strike fast and clean. No mistakes."
The men nodded. Their mission was clear.