CHAPTER 55: ASHES AND BETRAYAL

They lay sprawled in the grass, breaths ragged, each inhale scraping the throat raw from exhaustion. The clearing was quiet again—unnaturally quiet, as if the forest itself was holding its breath in respect for the fallen beast. The smell of burnt hide and scorched earth still clung to the air, thick and metallic, mixed with the damp sweetness of crushed leaves beneath their bodies.

The monster they had fought—massive, terrible, impossible—was gone. Its bulk had not collapsed into a carcass, nor rotted where it fell. Instead, its death left behind nothing more than a drift of ash. Fine gray powder scattered like snow across the clearing, whispering through the air with every breath of wind. And on that heap, half-buried in the remains, a glimmer of gold winked in the light.

A coin.

The swordsman rolled his head toward it, still flat on his back, voice hoarse yet teasing. "So... who’s taking this one? I already claimed mine. Your turn."

The spearman pushed himself up onto his elbows, sweat streaking dirt across his face. His chest still heaved, but his voice was steady. "Let her take it. We’ll find another later."

The mage gave a small, tired smile, brushing strands of hair from her damp forehead. "Fine. I’ll take it." She stood, ash clinging to the folds of her robe, and walked forward. Each step left prints in the dust, small craters in the powder where her boots pressed down.

She bent, reaching out. The coin was warm, as though the beast’s dying breath still lingered in it. The instant her fingers closed around it, it shattered like glass. Gold dissolved into light, scattering through her hand and then gone.

Her waistband flickered. The glowing "0" etched upon it melted away, reforming as a crimson "5."

She exhaled softly, shoulders drooping. "Really? Just five points?" Her voice carried more disappointment than anger, as though even her complaints had been worn down by fatigue.

The spearman gave a low chuckle. The swordsman joined him, a brief spark of laughter breaking the silence of the forest.

Hidden in the shadows of a thick trunk, Avin hadn’t moved in what felt like hours. His thighs screamed, calves tight with cramp, and sweat trickled down his back, but he forced himself still. His breathing shallow, heart pounding. He had watched every strike of their battle, every motion, memorizing the way they fought. But to stay hidden that long, unmoving—it was torture.

At last, he shifted, just slightly, enough to ease the strain. Bark scraped faintly under his heel.

The mage froze. Her head turned, sharp as a hawk.

"What was that?"

Avin’s blood turned to ice. She heard that? The sound had been nothing, just the whisper of bark. He hadn’t even heard it himself.

The swordsman flopped a hand lazily in her direction, still sprawled. "Relax. Rabbit."

The mage’s eyes lingered on the trees, suspicion narrowing them, but after a long pause she lowered her staff. "...Right."

Avin let out a silent breath, his chest loosening. He slid lower against the bark, settling fully onto the dirt this time to hide the tremors in his legs.

Then came another rustle.

This one sharp. Deliberate. It crawled through the air like a warning. Even Avin stiffened. That wasn’t me.

The spearman rose fully, weapon in hand, gaze darting. "There it is again."

The mage’s grip tightened on her staff. "Something’s out there."

The swordsman groaned, eyes still closed. "For the last time—just a rabbi—"

The word never finished.

The sound that followed was wet. A sickening crunch of flesh pierced by steel.

Avin’s heart stopped. His eyes snapped toward the clearing.

The mage stood frozen, her body jerked upright. Her lips parted as if to speak, but only a choked gasp escaped. From her stomach jutted a blade, gleaming with fresh blood that poured down in rivulets, soaking her robe in dark crimson.

Her staff clattered to the ground.

The swordsman shot up to his feet, eyes wide, while the spearman reached for her, his face paling.

The mage’s body trembled. Her hands clawed weakly at the blade embedded in her stomach, fingers slick with her own blood. She tried to push it free, but her strength failed. Her arms dropped. Her breaths came in ragged, shallow bursts, each exhale painting her lips red.

She looked at her companions one last time, and impossibly—she smiled. A faint, fragile smile that carried neither blame nor fear, only a weary acceptance.

Her waistband cracked like glass, shattering into a burst of glowing blue shards. Her body unraveled with it, dissolving into motes of light that drifted upward into the branches. For a heartbeat, the clearing glittered with her remnants, beautiful and terrible, before the breeze carried them away.

And behind where she had stood, revealed at last, was him.

A tall figure. A man. His sword still impaled her as she vanished, leaving only his grip around the hilt. A grin curved his lips—too wide, too knowing, too pleased. He pulled the blade free in a slow, unhurried motion, letting the last of her blood drip onto the soil.

The clearing seemed to shrink.

The spearman’s body shook with tension, rage barely contained. The swordsman, face twisted with horror, nearly lunged forward then and there.

The man tilted his head, his smile deepening as though he were amused by their pain. He gave his blade a casual spin, flicking the blood into the grass, then rested the flat against his shoulder. "Why so tense?" His voice was smooth, unhurried, each word dripping disdain.

The swordsman roared, but the spearman gripped his arm hard, pulling him back. His voice was low, strained. "She’s alive. Disqualified, not dead. Don’t lose yourself."

The swordsman’s breathing shook, but he forced himself still, fists trembling.

The intruder crouched, plucking the mage’s fallen waistband from the ash. It crumbled the instant he touched it. His own belt glowed fiercely, the numbers shifting, climbing higher, brighter.

"Fifty-seven."

The spearman’s eyes widened. The swordsman’s mouth hung open.

"You—what?!"

The man smiled, teeth glinting in the light. He brushed a stray strand of hair from his face with his free hand, utterly at ease. "Ah... you didn’t know? Killing earns you points, too. Their belts, their totals, all yours." He spread his arms mockingly wide, as if lecturing children. "The examiners never said it wasn’t allowed."

Avin’s lungs burned, but he didn’t dare move. Fifty-seven? In one strike? His mind spun. So the exam isn’t just about monsters. It’s about us, too. Predators hiding in plain sight.

The man’s gaze lingered on the two survivors. He raised his blade slowly, pointing it toward them like a judge passing sentence. "Now... let’s talk properly."

The forest fell silent. Not a bird called. Not a leaf moved. Only the three men stood in the clearing, air thick with iron and tension.

And Avin, pressed hard against the bark, understood: this was worse than any scorpion, worse than any beast. Because this monster had a human face.