Greg steps off the boat and onto the wooden dock of the Blackwood Market.
The boards creak faintly beneath his weight, damp from the constant mist rising off the nearby swamp.
Before him stretches a small but busy market, built along the western bank of the Green Lake and pressed against the eastern edge of the Blackwood Swamp.
The air feels heavier here.
Moist.
It carried a faint, murky scent of rot mixed with something sharp and unnatural.
Greg adjusts his grip on the hilt of his sword and begins walking forward.
The market is crowded, but different from the one on the Misty Island.
Here, most people are armed.
Knights move through the streets, some in full armour, others in lighter gear suited for mobility, their weapons worn openly at their sides.
Some return from the swamp with muddy boots and blood-stained clothes.
Others sit at stalls, drinking or treating wounds.
Greg's eyes scan everything.
He notices injuries first.
Bandaged arms.
Blood seeping through the cloth.
A man limping heavily as he leans on a companion.
Then he sees something worse.
A man is being carried on someone's back.
Greg's steps are slow.
His grip tightens.
He recognises the man.
An official Knight.
But the man's body hangs limp.
No breath.
No movement.
Dead.
Greg's expression does not change much.
He does not find it strange.
An official Knight dying in the Blackwood Swamp is rare—
But not unheard of.
Because the Blackwood Swamp is not an ordinary swamp.
Deep within its core lies an open Dream Node.
Because of it, the energy of the Dream Side seeps into the swamp constantly.
Plants grow twisted.
Creatures evolve unnaturally.
The Dream Realm touches everything inside.
Danger lurks everywhere.
Greg continues walking.
Voices reach his ears.
Whispers.
Low, tense.
"Their whole team was wiped out…"
"A Pale-Fanged Monster…"
"He barely escaped…"
Greg listens without turning his head.
From the fragments, he pieces it together.
The Knight's adventure team was attacked.
A Pale-Fanged Monster.
The entire team was killed.
The Knight, gravely injured, managed to escape.
He ran until he encountered another adventure team.
After passing on the information—
He died.
Greg's eyes narrow slightly.
Something is wrong.
Pale-Fanged Monsters are not common threats.
They possess strength comparable to a Senior Knight.
Creatures like that remain deep within the core region of the swamp.
They rarely leave it.
Yet this attack did not happen in the core.
His face grows serious.
If such a creature is roaming outside—
Then the entire swamp becomes far more dangerous.
For someone like him, it could mean death.
He pauses for a moment.
The thought lingers.
He could turn back.
He could leave.
But he does not.
Instead, he continues forward.
Toward the Adventure Union.
The building stands sturdily at the centre of the market, its wooden structure reinforced with iron bands, a symbol of order amidst the chaos of the swamp.
Greg steps inside.
The interior is loud but organised.
Knights move in and out, some submitting tasks, others collecting rewards.
A large task board stands against one wall, filled with papers pinned in rows.
Greg walks toward it.
His eyes move across the tasks.
Hunting requests.
Escort missions.
Material gathering.
Each has different rewards.
Then his gaze stops.
Required: Five Horns of Red Horned Deer.
Reward: Five Gold Pence.
He studies it briefly.
The task is dangerous but manageable.
Without hesitation, he reaches out and pulls the paper from the board.
He turns and heads toward the counter.
A line has formed.
He joins it.
Time passes slowly.
Step by step, the line moves forward.
Finally, it is his turn.
He steps up to the counter and slides the task paper along with his adventure badge through the small window.
Behind the counter sits Gale.
She takes the paper and glances over it.
Then she stamps it with the seal of the Adventure Union.
Next, she records the number on his badge onto the paper.
Her movements are efficient.
Without unnecessary words, she returns both the task paper and the badge.
Greg takes them.
He steps away from the counter.
He hangs the badge back onto the chain around his neck.
Then he folds the task paper carefully into a smaller size and places it into his pocket.
Greg steps out of the Adventure Union and heads straight toward the edge of the Blackwood Swamp.
The noise of the market fades behind him.
Ahead lies silence.
A thick, oppressive silence.
He crosses the boundary.
The outer area of the Blackwood Swamp rises around him immediately, dense with tall, towering trees whose trunks are thick and dark, their branches stretching high above, weaving together to block much of the sunlight.
Only thin strands of light slip through, casting uneven shadows across the ground.
The earth beneath his feet is soft and wet.
Each step sinks slightly, producing a faint squelching sound.
The air is humid, heavy with the scent of damp wood and decay.
Greg slows his pace.
His posture lowers.
His senses sharpen.
He steps carefully, placing his feet with precision, avoiding loose patches of mud that might slow him down or make noise.
As he moves deeper, the ground grows wetter.
Small pools of stagnant water begin to appear, scattered between the roots of the trees.
The water is dark.
Almost black.
From its surface, thin strands of mist rise slowly, drifting upward like breath from something unseen.
The deeper he goes, the thicker the mist becomes.
It lingers low to the ground, curling around his legs.
Greg controls his breathing.
He keeps it shallow.
Quiet.
He hides his presence.
This is not a place where recklessness is forgiven.
A rustle echoes somewhere to his left.
Greg freezes.
He turns his head slightly.
Through the trees, he catches a glimpse of movement.
A beast.
Its form is distorted, its body slightly unnatural, touched by the influence of the Dream energy.
Greg does not engage.
He shifts his direction silently and moves away.
Another time, another place, he might have fought.
But not here.
Not now.
He continues.
Step by step.
Whenever he senses danger, he stops.
Waits.
Observes.
Then changes direction.
Avoids conflict.
Time passes.
The swamp seems endless.
The sounds change subtly.
Less stagnant.
More alive.
Hours later, something shifts.
The ground beneath his feet begins to rise.
Slowly at first.
Then steadily.
The wet earth gives way to firmer soil.
The pools of dark water disappear.
The mist thins.
Greg steps forward and reaches the elevated land.
He pauses briefly.
The environment has changed.
The tall, dense trees begin to thin out.
In their place grow shorter trees, their branches spreading outward rather than upward.
Vines hang between them.
Bushes crowd the ground, thick and tangled.
The air feels slightly lighter here.
But not safer.
Greg tightens his grip on his sword.
He steps forward.
Deeper into the swamp.
Such elevated flat fields are scattered across the Blackwood Swamp, rising above the wet and rotting ground like islands of relative stability.
Greg has come here with a purpose.
On his previous hunts, he had spotted a herd of Red-Horned Deer roaming one of these fields, grazing cautiously while staying near the edges where escape paths remained open.
He moves forward carefully.
Every step is controlled.
He keeps his breath hidden, his presence faint, blending into the surroundings as much as possible.
The bushes grow denser here, and he uses them as cover, lowering his body slightly as he advances.
Then—
He sees them.
A herd of Red-Horned Deer stands across the field.
They are similar to normal deer in shape and size, their bodies slender and alert, but what sets them apart are the horns growing from their heads, crimson like crystal, sharp and gleaming faintly even under the dim light.
They move cautiously, ears twitching, always listening.
Greg does not rush.
He studies them.
Counts them.
Tracks their movement patterns.
Finds the weakest points.
Then he moves.
In a single instant, his body surges forward.
Shadow Fighting energy flows into his legs, enhancing his speed and strength.
The ground beneath him barely makes a sound as he closes the distance.
Before the herd can react—
He reaches them.
His blade flashes.
The first deer falls instantly, its neck cut cleanly before it can even make a sound.
Greg pivots without pause.
The second strike follows.
The second deer collapses as his blade slices through its throat.
Blood spills.
Only then does the herd react.
A sharp, panicked cry erupts.
The remaining deer scatter in all directions, their hooves pounding against the ground as they flee.
Greg does not hesitate.
From his wrists, he flicks out three short knives in one fluid motion.
The knives cut through the air.
Precise.
Deadly.
Each finds its target.
One pierces into the back of a fleeing deer.
Another strikes deep into the side of another.
The third embeds itself into the flank of the last.
None of them dies immediately.
But they stumble.
Their movements falter.
That is enough.
Greg closes in.
He reaches the first and drives his blade straight into its heart.
It collapses instantly.
He turns and reaches the second, slitting its throat before it can recover.
The third tries to rise—
Too late.
Greg ends it with a swift strike.
Silence returns to the field.