Volunteers step forward almost the moment the decision is spoken aloud. The movement spreads through the gathering with surprising speed, as though many had already expected the call. Druids rise from beneath the trees, their antlers catching the lantern light as they approach. Outcast mages close their books and slip wands into their sleeves before joining the forming group. Even a few younger hags step forward from the edge of the clearing, their cloaks dragging softly across the moss-covered ground. When the counting is finished, nearly one fifth of the enclave has gathered to go.
Zuwena raises her hand among them.
"I will go." she says.
The older hag studies the volunteers briefly, her sharp eyes moving across the assembled faces. After a moment she nods once.
"Prepare the boats."
The response is immediate. Within minutes, long dugout canoes are being slid carefully into the narrow water channels that wind away from the village like dark veins through the swamp. The volunteers board quickly, stepping lightly over the curved hulls while keeping their balance on the shifting water. The tribesman who brought the warning climbs into one of the boats with visible hesitation. His hands tremble as he grips the side of the canoe.
The hag gestures toward the dark channel ahead.
"Show us."
Paddles dip into the black water. The boats begin to move.
They glide swiftly through the swamp, cutting through narrow corridors of reeds and low-hanging branches. The water parts in silent ripples behind them. Thick roots twist beneath the surface like skeletal fingers reaching upward from the mud. Birds burst from the trees as the small fleet passes, startled wings scattering pale feathers through the moonlit air.
Zuwena sits near the front of one canoe, steady despite the rocking motion of the current. Her eyes move constantly across the trees, studying every shadow between the trunks. The swamp seems endless in the dim light, each stretch of water leading into another tangled corridor of roots and moss.
Her wand rests loosely in her hand.
If they attacked the tribe, she thinks, why give us three days?
The question lingers heavily in her mind. Something about the situation refuses to settle into sense.
After a long stretch of paddling, the boats begin to slow. The first shapes of the tribe's territory appear through the reeds ahead. Wooden huts rise above the grass, their roofs dark against the pale sky.
The paddles pause.
Everyone stares.
The village stands completely intact. Thin trails of smoke drift upward from cooking fires. Women walk between the huts carrying baskets filled with herbs and roots. Elders sit in the central clearing speaking quietly to one another. Children run across the dirt paths, laughing as they chase one another between the houses.
Nothing looks burned.
Nothing looks broken.
The entire team freezes.
"What…" someone whispers.
The tribesman suddenly stands in the canoe, nearly upsetting the boat in his shock.
"No!"
He stares at the village with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"This is impossible!"
The old hag narrows her gaze toward the settlement. Without another word, the boats move forward and dock along the muddy shore. One by one, the volunteers step carefully onto the land.
The villagers greet them with confusion.
"You returned?" one elder asks.
"What happened?" the hag demands.
"Nothing," the elder replies.
He gestures toward several injured men resting near the huts.
"Your enemies wounded them, but we treat them now."
Zuwena looks around carefully.
The village truly appears normal.
Then the hag asks quietly.
"The burned huts."
The elder hesitates.
Children nearby overhear.
One of them runs forward and points toward a patch of ground slightly outside the village boundary.
"Over there!" the child says.
They walk toward the area.
Charred remains of two small huts lie scattered there.
Fresh ash.
Still faintly warm.
"We only saw this yesterday," another child explains.
"It burned at night."
"Who built them?" the hag asks.
The children shrug.
"No one."
The volunteers stare at one another.
A slow realization spreads through the group.
One mage suddenly turns toward the crying tribesman.
"You lied to us!"
The man shakes his head frantically.
"No! I swear—!"
The hag raises her hand.
"Stop."
She looks troubled.
"This is my fault." she admits quietly.
"I searched his memories. I saw the burning huts."
Zuwena kneels near the ash.
She studies the ground.
Then she speaks softly.
"The huts were built here deliberately."
Everyone looks at her.
She points at the soil.
"The foundations are temporary. Light materials. Meant to burn quickly."
Her eyes widen slightly.
[A staged memory…] she realizes.
She stands.
"We have been fooled."
The group falls silent.
The hag curses softly.
"Return to the enclave." she orders immediately.
They leave the crying tribesman behind with his own village as the boats push back into the swamp.
The paddles cut through the water rapidly.
Midway through the journey, something appears ahead.
A single armored figure sits in a narrow boat.
Ten empty boards float behind him, tied by rope.
He sits perfectly still.
Eyes closed.
Meditating.
The boats slow.
Zuwena studies him carefully.
She senses no magic from him.
None.
Yet something feels wrong.
The man slowly raises one hand.
Without looking, he points toward a nearby tree.
The trunk splits.
The entire tree falls sideways into the swamp as if cut cleanly by an invisible blade.
The team freezes.
"What was that?" someone whispers.
The hag frowns deeply.
Zuwena's companion leans closer.
"That man…"
He swallows.
"He might be dangerous."
Far away, hidden among the canopy shadows, Aldo Patriot watches through a small brass spyglass.
He lowers it slowly.
"Phase two." he murmurs.
Back on the water, Zuwena raises her wand.
Her heart pounds.
"We strike first." she whispers.
She lifts the wand toward the armored stranger.
Before she can cast—
The man opens his eyes.
He points directly at her.
Zuwena feels a hand shove her sideways.
Her companion.
She falls into the boat floor.
The companion stands where she had been.
Then he collapses slowly.
No scream.
No wound.
He simply lies down.
His chest does not rise again.
The team recoils in horror.
"What… what is he?" someone whispers.
Fear spreads.
No one wants to be the next target.
Zuwena forces herself upright.
Her wand trembles slightly.
Magic?
Something else?
Behind the distant tree line, shadows begin moving quietly. The water of the swamp barely moves.
A quiet stretch of dark surface lies between tangled roots and thick reeds. Moonlight hangs over it like a thin silver veil. Somewhere in the distance a night insect chirps. Another answers. The rhythm is slow, patient.
Then—
A line of small skiffs slices through the water.
They move fast.
Too fast for ordinary fishermen.
Oars dip and rise with disciplined rhythm, pushing the narrow boats through the channels that snake between the trees. The paddlers do not speak. Their bodies move in practiced silence. Every stroke sends ripples spreading through the swamp like invisible fingers.
These are not villagers.
They are the slave-soldiers of the 204th company.
And they are following Aldo's plan.
Far behind the vanguard, deeper in the shadow of thick canopies, Aldo stands in another boat, watching the distance with steady eyes. The faint light catches the edge of his coat. His posture is relaxed but his gaze is sharp.
Ahead of him, the skiffs accelerate.
They are heading toward Zuwena's team.
And toward the man in armor who waits alone.
Zuwena stands knee-deep in the low marsh grass near the riverbank.
Her wand remains raised.
Her heart is still pounding from what just happened.
Beside her lies the body of her companion—the one who pushed her aside seconds earlier. He lies unnaturally still, eyes half open toward the sky.
No wound.
No blood.
Just silence.
Zuwena swallows.
Her fingers tighten around the wand.
[What kind of magic was that…?]
Across the water, the armored man sits calmly in his boat.
Ten empty boats drift behind him like silent shadows.
He sits cross-legged.
Meditating.
Or pretending to.
The helmet hides his face.
But something about his posture feels… amused.
The experienced hag stands slightly ahead of the others, leaning on her wooden staff.
Her eyes narrow.
She studies him carefully.
The team forms a cautious semicircle along the bank.
Nobody attacks.
Nobody moves.
The memory of the fallen companion hangs in the air like a warning.
One of the outcasts whispers under his breath.
"Did anyone sense a spell?"
Another answers quietly.
"Nothing."
"No mana flow."
"Nothing at all."
Zuwena breathes slowly.
She forces her voice steady.
"You there!"
Her voice cuts across the water.
"Who are you?"
The armored man slowly tilts his head.
He looks at them.
Then he speaks.
His voice carries easily over the quiet swamp.
"Me?"
A short pause.
Then a casual shrug.
"Just a traveler with ghosts."
He gestures lazily toward the empty boats drifting behind him.
"These are my subordinates."
The team exchanges uneasy glances.
One of the druids mutters.
"Ghosts?"
The armored man nods proudly.
"Yes."
He taps the edge of his boat.
"Commanded by me."
He points at one of the empty vessels floating behind him.
"That one is particularly loyal."
A few of the druids instinctively step back.
But none of them sense anything.
No magic.
No spirits.
Nothing.
Zuwena frowns.
"You expect us to believe those are ghosts?"
The armored man chuckles softly.
"Believe whatever you want."
Then he casually points toward a nearby druid.
Just a simple motion.
A finger extended.
Nothing else.
The druid collapses.
Instantly.
His body drops to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.
Silence crashes down.
Nobody breathes.
The team stares.
Another body.
No wound.
No spell.
Just death.
One of the druids stumbles backward.
"What—what was that—?"
The experienced hag raises a hand.
Her eyes remain fixed on the armored figure.
"Interesting…"
She murmurs quietly.
No mana signature.
No spell formation.
Anomalous ability?
Zuwena forces herself to speak again.
Her voice comes out sharper now.
"What is your purpose here?"
The armored man scratches the side of his helmet as if thinking.
"Purpose?"
He glances lazily toward the direction of the nearby tribe village.
Then shrugs.
"Maybe I'll attack that village."
The words land heavily.
The team stiffens immediately.
The hag steps forward.
Her voice becomes colder.
"Are you related to the intruders?"
The armored man shakes his head.
A simple movement.
"No."
The hag studies the trembling tribesman for a long moment before slowly closing her eyes. A faint shimmer flickers beneath her eyelids as her magic reaches forward, slipping carefully into the edges of his mind. Memories rise to the surface in scattered fragments—steel clashing in the dark, strangers in armor lunging from the reeds, the sudden violence of an ambush. She sees him fighting back, defeating them one by one with brutal determination. She searches deeper for signs of illusion or manipulation but finds none. The memories remain steady, unaltered. Real. The hag opens her eyes and quietly signals the team. "He is not lying."
A quiet ripple of confusion moves through the group.
One druid whispers.
"Then what is he?"
The hag answers quietly.
"Something unpredictable."
Her gaze returns to the armored man.
Then she speaks again.
Calmly.
"What do you want?"
The swamp breeze rustles the leaves.
The armored man remains silent for a moment.
Then the hag continues.
Her voice softens slightly.
"If your goal is the tribe village… I will make an offer."
Several druids glance at her in surprise.
She keeps her eyes on the armored figure.
"I will trade myself."
A pause.
"You take me."
"Leave the tribe safe."
Zuwena turns sharply.
"What?"
The hag does not look at her.
"It is a fair exchange."
The armored man remains motionless.
Silence stretches.
Then slowly…
He nods.
The movement is small but unmistakable.
The hag exhales quietly.
"Very well."
The armored man lifts a hand slightly.
"Show me."
The hag understands immediately.
She lowers her wooden staff.
The staff sinks gently into the soft mud.
Then she spreads her hands.
"See?"
She glances back at the team.
"Follow."
One by one, the druids and outcasts reluctantly lower their wands and staffs.
Wood touches mud.
A small pile of magical tools lies on the ground.
Their power gone.
The armored man watches calmly.
Only one person remains standing with a raised wand.
Zuwena.
Her jaw tightens.
This is wrong.
The hag looks at her.
"Zuwena."
A quiet warning.
"Put it down."
Zuwena shakes her head.
"He killed two of us already."
The armored man slowly raises his hand again.
Not pointing.
Just lifting it.
Zuwena's breath catches.
Her eyes widen.
If he points—
The memory of her companion collapsing flashes through her mind.
The hag's voice sharpens.
"Zuwena."
"Now."
Zuwena grits her teeth.
Her fingers tremble around the wand.
The armored man's hand rises slightly higher.
Her courage cracks.
She drops the wand.
The wooden stick falls into the mud.
Relief spreads across the armored man's unseen face.
And at that exact moment—
The swamp explodes with movement.
From both flanks.
Skiffs burst out of the reeds.
Dozens of slave-soldiers rush forward.
Hooks grab robes.
Hands seize arms.
Ropes tighten.
Wands and staffs vanish from the ground as soldiers snatch them away.
Several druids try to shout spells—
But rough cloths are shoved into their mouths.
Fabric binds their jaws.
Hands are tied behind their backs.
Everything happens in seconds.
Zuwena struggles.
"Mmmph—!"
A soldier twists her arms behind her and ties them tightly.
Another stuffs cloth into her mouth.
The team collapses into helpless confusion.
Captured.
Disarmed.
Silenced.
The armored man throws his head back and laughs.
A loud, genuine laugh.
He reaches up.
And removes his helmet.
Dark hair falls free.
A confident grin spreads across his face.
Hano Kichiro.
The hag stares at him.
Her eyes widen with bitter realization.
Fooled… again.