The town did not wake all at once.
It stirred in fragments—shutters creaking open, boots scraping stone, the distant clatter of metal as guards changed shifts with more ceremony than discipline. Eren moved through it quietly, keeping to the edges of the streets where shadow lingered longest.
He had not given Tomas an answer.
Not yet.
Staying meant entanglement. Leaving meant clarity. Both carried weight, but only one demanded patience—and patience had never been his strength.
The market square sat at the town's center, a wide stretch of cracked stone that once must have hosted festivals. Now it held only necessity. A handful of stalls sold dried goods, rusted weapons, strips of cured meat wrapped in cloth. Prices were chalked crudely onto boards and changed often.
Inflation born of fear.
Eren watched from a distance.
Trade here was not about fairness. It was about leverage—who had food, who had protection, who could afford to lose neither. He saw it in the way people hovered near the guards, in the way merchants flinched at raised voices.
Weak systems bred predators.
The hunger stirred faintly.
Eren ignored it.
He moved on, circling toward the northern edge of town where the wall had partially collapsed. Repairs were underway—if they could be called that. Men hauled stones and timber into place with more hope than skill. The gap was too wide, the materials too poor.
Monsters would find it eventually.
Eren crouched near the broken wall and studied the surrounding terrain. Beyond lay a stretch of low hills and sparse forest—ideal territory for lesser monsters. Goblins, maybe. Wolves twisted by mana. Things that tested numbers rather than strength.
Things the town could not afford.
Footsteps approached behind him.
"You walk like someone measuring an exit."
Eren did not turn. "Habit."
Tomas stopped beside him, leaning on the wall with a grunt. Up close, the older man smelled faintly of oil and old iron. His armor bore the marks of maintenance rather than pride.
"You didn't answer," Tomas said.
"I didn't refuse," Eren replied.
"That's not how this place works," Tomas said calmly. "If you stay undecided, someone decides for you."
Eren glanced at him. "You recruiting?"
"Observing," Tomas corrected. consisting of villagers and two guards who looked far too young to wear armor.
"Problem?" Eren asked.
Tomas followed his gaze. His jaw tightened. "Depends how you define it."
They watched as the group approached the collapsed wall. The guards spoke briefly with the workers, then one of them pointed toward the hills. The villagers hesitated, murmured among themselves, then began moving out through the gap.
Eren's eyes narrowed. "They're sending civilians."
Tomas nodded. "Scouts. For nests."
"That's suicide."
"That's necessity," Tomas replied. "We don't have trained hunters to spare."
Eren watched the villagers disappear into the hills. He counted their weapons. Too few. Too light.
"They won't come back," he said.
"Some won't," Tomas agreed. "But maybe one will. And that's enough to know where to send real fighters."
Eren turned to him fully now. "You call that efficiency?"
Tomas met his gaze without flinching. "I call it triage."
The hunger pulsed.
Not toward Tomas.
Toward the hills.
Eren felt the familiar pressure beneath his ribs, the quiet insistence that there was opportunity there. Difficulty. Risk. Reward.
And something else.
A test.
He looked back at the path the villagers had taken.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
Tomas was silent for a moment. "Because you're not pretending not to see."
Eren exhaled slowly.
He could leave. Walk out the western gate and never look back. Let the town handle its own problems. Let the hunger remain untested.
Or—
He straightened. "How far."
Tomas blinked. "What?"
"The nests," Eren said. "How far from the wall."
A pause.
"Half a day's walk," Tomas replied carefully. "Why?"
Eren turned toward the gate. "Because if you're going to cross a line, you might as well choose which one."
Tomas watched him for a long second, then followed.
They did not gather a group.
That alone said enough.
Two men moved through the hills beneath a clouded sky, the town shrinking behind them. Tomas carried a heavy blade worn smooth by years of use. Eren walked lightly, senses stretched outward, attuned to shifts in sound and mana alike.
The hunger grew more active the farther they went.
It did not rush him.
It anticipated.
They found the bodies near a dry streambed.
Three villagers. Two men, one woman. Torn open, limbs scattered carelessly as if discarded. Blood soaked into the dirt, already darkening.
Goblins.
Eren crouched beside the nearest corpse, eyes tracing the wounds. Crude blades. Jagged teeth. Multiple attackers.
"Five," he said. "Maybe six."
Tomas nodded. "They hunt in packs this size."
The hunger pressed forward.
Eren stood. "They're close."
They moved quietly, following tracks through brush and stone. The goblin nest lay tucked into a shallow ravine, concealed by thorny growth and loose rock. Crude totems marked the entrance—bones tied together with sinew, symbols scratched into stone with no artistry.
Inside, guttural voices echoed.
Eren felt his heartbeat slow.
This was familiar.
Not the monsters.
The moment.
He moved first.
The first goblin died without sound, its throat crushed beneath Eren's grip. The second barely had time to squeal before Tomas's blade split its skull.
The nest erupted into chaos.
Five goblins rushed them, blades flashing. Eren moved through them with efficiency born of repetition. He did not hesitate. He did not overcommit. Each strike ended a life cleanly.
The hunger surged with each kill, warmth spreading through his limbs. Strength layered onto strength, subtle but undeniable.
One goblin fled deeper into the nest.
Eren chased it.
The tunnel widened into a crude chamber—and froze.
The goblin cowered near the back wall, clutching something.
A child.
Human.
Alive.
Eren stopped.
The hunger did not.
It flared—not toward the child, but toward the choice.
Difficulty spiked.
Risk sharpened.
The goblin screeched and lunged.
Eren's sword moved on instinct.
The blade took the goblin's head cleanly.
The body fell.
The child screamed.
Eren stood there, breathing hard, the hunger roaring—then abruptly cutting off.
No reward.
He felt it immediately.
The warmth faded, leaving only exhaustion and something colder.
He looked down at his blade.
Blood dripped onto the stone.
The child huddled against the wall, shaking violently.
Eren sheathed his sword.
He turned and left the chamber.
Tomas was waiting at the tunnel's mouth. He took one look at Eren's face and said nothing.
They returned to town in silence.
That night, Eren could not sleep.
The hunger remained quiet.
But the line he had crossed did not fade.
It never did.