Punk and his group had nearly reached the border of the Dylan Kingdom. Days of relentless travel had brought them into the transition zone between the lush forest and the Old Nike Woodland, where the vegetation grew denser with every step.
It was nearing midnight—twenty-six o'clock in the local time system. The night was pitch-black, and at some point a dark cloud had swallowed the pale blue moon of Gal and the golden radiance of Thor's Glory. Only the semi-mechanical moon, the Eye of Dorasz, remained in the sky, casting a faint, eerie glow.
To avoid being overtaken, Punk decided to use magic to push forward at full speed. The two warriors took turns carrying Princess Nasya, their bodies igniting with battle aura as they followed behind. Fatigue weighed heavily on them all—the grueling daytime battle had drained their strength, and Nasya was still dazed from Menezi's death.
But… there was no time to rest.
The night stretched like an endless abyss, thick with darkness. The overcast sky swallowed the stars, and the skeletal branches of the trees clawed at the void. Scattered bioluminescent plants flickered faintly, their dim light as feeble as the final breath of a dying man. Fireflies glowed weakly in the gloom, barely piercing the suffocating blackness.
Then—without warning—the silence shattered.
A surge of killing intent, sharp and overwhelming, descended like wildfire beneath a spring thunderstorm.
"Zzzzt—!"
Punk, who had been sprinting at full speed, stopped instantly.
Crimson sparks erupted around him, each ember brimming with highly compressed fire elements, burning at temperatures exceeding a thousand degrees. This was one of his signature apprentice-level spells—
Fireworks Circle.
Thin and fleeting though the sparks were, they swarmed together, forming a dense ring of fire within a one-meter radius.
In less than a second, two masked figures in black emerged from the shadows with agonized screams. The searing embers had already scorched their bodies, reducing them to smoldering husks before they could react. Their corpses crumpled onto the charred grass, not even twitching in their final moments.
Yet Punk's expression remained grim.
These two assassins were merely apprentice-level stalkers—weak, under-equipped, and utterly incompetent. Their clumsy attempt at an ambush was laughable, as if they had been sent to die by their leader.
But that was precisely what made it disturbing.
Punk's instincts screamed that this was a distraction.
His sharp gaze flicked toward the two warriors behind him. One of them still carried Princess Nasya on his back. The princess, exhausted beyond measure, had just woken from an uneasy sleep, rubbing her red and swollen eyes. Dazed, she gazed into the darkness, uncomprehending.
The two warriors, however, realized the danger at once. Against hidden assassins lurking in the shadows, Punk—an accomplished mage—was their best hope of defense.
But instead of taking evasive action, they rushed toward him in a straight line.
"I swear, are you idiots!?"
Punk gritted his teeth. Their thoughtless charge was the definition of suicidal stupidity.
But the truth was… they weren't entirely to blame.
Unlike mercenaries, soldiers were trained for absolute obedience. Their rigid military discipline conditioned them to follow orders without hesitation or independent thought. That strict hierarchy functioned well in organized warfare, ensuring seamless command execution.
But in a sudden crisis—where split-second adaptability meant the difference between life and death—their training worked against them.
And now…
They would pay the price.
A dark green dagger materialized out of thin air, its cold, gleaming edge slicing toward Princess Nasya's exposed throat with lethal precision.
The soldier carrying her was still mid-charge, unable to halt his momentum. Inertia pulled him forward—straight into the assassin's blade.
Two moving objects accelerating toward each other—one charging, the other striking—meant the speed of their collision was the sum of their velocities. The faster they moved, the deadlier the impact.
And worst of all, the soldier had no way to block the attack.
His hands were occupied holding the princess, and his weapon was still sheathed at his waist.
Punk could only watch.
The timing was too tight. He had wasted precious seconds dealing with the decoys. Casting a spell now would be too slow.
The dagger was going to land.
Punk exhaled slowly, brushing his fingers over the brass ring on his left hand.
"I tried my best. The Judgment Eye shouldn't count this as breaking the contract… right?"
The princess's fate was sealed.
But just as Punk accepted her imminent death—
Something unexpected happened.
"I will never let you succeed!"
A furious roar tore through the night.
The soldier, eyes burning with reckless determination, made a decision. He knew he couldn't defend with his hands. He knew he was out of time.
So he did the only thing left.
He threw his head forward.
A sickening schlkk echoed in the still night air.
The dagger plunged deep into his skull, slicing clean through his cranium and emerging slightly from the back of his head. His body shuddered violently, his mouth twitching as if trying to speak.
But no words came out.
Then, with a swift, merciless tug, the assassin yanked the blade free.
A spurt of dark, poisoned blood sprayed onto the dirt.
The warrior's corpse crumpled to the ground. The fire in his battle aura flickered out, leaving only his final charge behind—a hollow echo of what had once been.
Silence reclaimed the wilderness.
Punk turned his gaze to the last surviving warrior, who stood frozen, stunned beyond words.
Nasya, too, remained motionless, as if unable to comprehend what had just happened.
Through the dim glow of the mage hoodPunk had summoned earlier, he could see the princess's face.
She trembled slightly, lips parted in an unspoken sob.
She had sworn not to cry again.
But this time…
Her crystal-clear eyes held no tears at all.