Pluto and Saul clashed with the four ambushers the moment they stepped out of the bushes.
There was no hesitation.
The moment their silhouettes emerged through the mist, Pluto moved. Not because he had the instinct, but because it was a known fact to him.
He swung the crude blade he had taken from a dead entrant weeks ago, his arms moving before his mind could question the decision. The blade cut through the damp air in a wide arc.
The first ambusher met the strike wholeheartedly.
Steel slammed against steel with a harsh ringing sound that echoed through the trees.
Pluto staggered back from the impact.
The man in front of him barely moved.
Saul moved at the same time.
His attacks followed the rhythm he had grown used to—clean, deliberate strikes that flowed together in a pattern of battle cadence. His blade flashed forward toward the nearest opponent's throat.
The man blocked.
Another attacker moved in from Saul's flank immediately, forcing him to redirect his strike.
Saul pivoted smoothly, knocking the second blade away with the flat of his own.
For a moment the battlefield erupted with the sound of steel colliding.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
But after a few moments Saul noticed something.
Something wrong. Something skilled.
These were not the usual entrants stumbling through the forest with fear and desperation clouding their judgment.
These men moved with discipline.
They shifted positions around each other with subtle coordination, closing angles and supporting one another without needing to speak.
Each attack came with purpose.
Each retreat had meaning.
Saul narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
After a few exchanges of sword and fist, the truth became obvious.
He wouldn't be able to handle more than two of them.
At best.
Which meant Pluto—who barely had real combat experience—was left facing the same number.
And none of them had even shown their abilities yet.
Pluto steadied himself as two of the ambushers approached him.
They didn't rush blindly.
They circled.
Watching.
Measuring him.
The eel painting tightened along his arm.
It began moving again.
Push.
Pull.
Release.
Contract.
The signals came in quick bursts.
Almost like instructions.
Pluto followed them.
His body moved when the painting told it to move. He worked like a puppet.
A blade slashed toward his ribs.
The painting tugged sharply.
Pluto twisted sideways.
The blade skimmed past him. Barely.
He swung in response, his weapon cutting toward the attacker's shoulder.
The ambusher blocked effortlessly.
Pluto's blade struck at an awkward angle.
The weapon rang loudly as the metal vibrated with a chattering noise.
The strike had landed on a weak point in the blade.
His senses were far duller than the sharp signals coming from the eel. He couldn't just take it all in.
When the painting tugged, he reacted only after the sensation had travelled from his skin to his brain.
Too slow. Too intentional, and not enough reflex.
The second ambusher attacked immediately.
A kick aimed for Pluto's knee.
The eel told him to counter with a knee-high kick of his own.
But Pluto raised his leg too high. A little too quickly.
His balance shifted awkwardly.
The motion became clumsy. Clunky.
The attacker slipped inside his guard and slammed an elbow into Pluto's ribs.
Pain exploded through his side.
Pluto stumbled backward.
The ambushers noticed instantly.
Their attacks changed.
No longer aggressive.
Testing.
Probing.
One slashed toward Pluto's shoulder.
He blocked.
Another blade darted toward his thigh.
He barely avoided it.
A shallow cut opened along his arm.
Another across his side.
None of the wounds were serious.
But they were stacking up.
The ambushers knew they didn't need to rush. At least for now.
They only needed Pluto to make mistakes.
And Pluto would.
His trust in the mysterious eel painting reduced those mistakes.
But it couldn't erase them.
***
Across the battlefield Saul fought two opponents at once.
His blade moved in controlled arcs, each strike calculated to conserve energy.
One attacker lunged for his chest.
Saul parried.
The second attempted to sweep his legs.
Saul jumped backward and countered with a kick to the man's wrist.
The strike forced the weapon downward for a moment.
Saul slashed immediately.
The man twisted away just enough to avoid losing his arm.
Steel clashed again.
Saul pushed forward briefly, forcing one attacker back three steps before the other intercepted him.
The coordination between them was irritatingly precise. Annoyingly consistent.
Attack for attack.
Defense for defense.
Neither side gained ground.
Saul realized something unpleasant.
He wasn't dealing more damage than he was receiving.
Which meant the fight would eventually turn against him.
Because there were four of them.
And only two of him.
***
Pluto gritted his teeth as another strike forced him back.
His blade rattled again.
The crack in the metal grew larger.
The weapon was nearing its limit.
Every collision brought it closer to breaking.
Pluto cursed silently.
He wished the Owl had bothered to tell him how people actually made weapons in this forest. Where the materials were found.
Instead he was stuck fighting with scraps.
One of the ambushers lunged forward.
The eel painting yanked Pluto's arm downward.
He ducked.
The blade whistled above his head.
Pluto slashed upward in retaliation.
The attacker stepped back calmly.
The second ambusher struck immediately, driving a fist into Pluto's shoulder.
Pluto staggered.
He barely managed to raise his weapon in time to block the next strike.
He tried again to reach for his instinctual battle ability.
Saul had described the feeling before.
Spirit.
Energy flowing through the body like a second bloodstream.
But Pluto felt nothing.
Just emptiness.
The same emptiness he had felt since entering the forest.
At first he thought he simply hadn't learned how to sense it yet.
But now he wasn't sure.
It had been a month.
And still…
Nothing.
***
His mind drifted briefly.
He wondered what was happening outside the forest. In the real world.
Were his parents worried?
Had he disappeared completely?
Was his face on the news along with the others who had vanished?
Or maybe time hadn't moved at all outside this place.
Maybe the world had paused.
Pluto hoped desperately that was the case.
***
Suddenly he felt it again.
That strange sensation.
The world tightening around Saul.
The mist began to swirl subtly.
Leaves lifted slightly from the ground.
For a brief moment the battlefield felt slower.
As if reality itself was hesitating.
The attackers noticed it too.
They glanced around uneasily.
But nothing happened.
The strange phenomenon vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Leaving only tension behind.
Then Pluto's blade broke.
The weapon shattered with a sharp crack.
Fragments scattered across the forest floor.
Pluto jumped backward immediately.
He created distance between himself and the ambushers. Tension too.
His chest rose and fell rapidly.
Sweat dripped from his face.
His arms trembled from exhaustion.
For a moment—
Everyone paused.
The battlefield grew strangely quiet.
Pluto inhaled deeply.
He was about to say something.
The words had already formed in his mouth—
But before they could leave his lips—
Saul moved.
Without warning Saul threw a dagger.
The blade cut through the air like lightning.
It streaked past one of the ambushers on Pluto's side.
The edge grazed the man's cheek.
A thin line of blood appeared.
Pluto reacted instantly.
He stepped forward.
The dagger slammed into his shoulder.
Pain burst through his arm.
He groaned as the blade buried itself into muscle.
Pluto stumbled from the impact.
But he held his ground.
He gripped the dagger's handle and tore it free from his shoulder.
Blood soaked his sleeve.
But the weapon in his hand was far better than the crude blade he had lost.
It was sleek.
Balanced.
Made from metal far superior to anything the forest should contain.
Where it came from didn't matter.
Because right now—
It was the only thing preventing a blade from reaching his throat.
That—
And the guidance of his eel painting.