Greg exhales slowly and steps toward the fallen deer.
He kneels beside the nearest one and begins his work without delay.
His blade moves with practised precision.
First, he cuts along the base of the horns, carefully removing the scalp along with the red crystal horns intact, ensuring no damage is done to their structure.
The horns glint faintly, their crimson surface catching what little light filters through the trees.
He sets them aside.
Then, from his pocket, he takes out a small metal sphere, smooth and cold, with a Dream Crystal embedded at its centre.
Holding it in one hand, he channels his fighting energy into it.
The crystal responds.
A faint glow emerges.
Greg brings the sphere close to the horns.
The moment it touches,
The horns dissolve into strands of light and are drawn into the crystal, disappearing completely.
Stored.
Greg exhales.
His mission is complete.
But he does not leave.
There is still value in the bodies.
He lowers himself again and begins cutting into the deer, extracting what he can, meat, hide, and other useful parts.
Time passes.
Then,
A sharp sensation crawls across his skin.
The hairs on his arms stand upright.
Danger.
Greg reacts instantly.
He rolls away from his position.
In the same motion, he rises to his feet and turns.
A creature stands where he had been.
A cat.
But not normal.
It is the size of a dog, its skin a deep purple, with three eyes gleaming coldly on its face, and two tails swaying behind it.
It stares at him.
Then it lets out a sharp cry and leaps forward.
Greg raises his sword and blocks.
The impact pushes against him, but he holds firm and shoves the creature away.
The cat lands lightly and begins circling him.
Greg remains still.
Focused.
A Three-Eyed Cat.
Two tails.
A second-level Dream Monster.
Equal to his current strength as a Knight Apprentice.
Under normal circumstances, he would retreat.
Avoid the fight.
But not now.
The cat moves again.
It leaps.
Greg swings his sword.
The blade connects,
And the body bursts into smoke.
A sting flashes across his arm.
Greg turns sharply.
The real body stands behind him, its claws having already cut into his flesh.
It watches him.
Mocking.
It's the ' Phantom Clone' ability.
Greg tightens his grip.
The cat jumps again.
This time, shadow energy spreads across his blade.
He swings.
Again.
Again.
His sword moves rapidly, carving through the air, leaving behind thin, invisible layers, shadow cuts suspended in front of him.
The cat darts through them.
Then,
Contact.
The real body passes through one of the shadow cuts.
Greg's sword follows instantly, guided with precision.
The blade strikes true.
The cat cries out in pain.
Its body is thrown aside and crashes onto the ground.
It rises again.
The mocking look is gone.
Replaced by a cold glare.
It lets out a sharp cry.
Then,
Four phantom copies appear around it.
Five cats now circle Greg.
Each one moves in sync.
Each one is identical.
Greg breathes steadily.
Shadow energy gathers again.
He spreads more shadow cuts around him, forming a web in the air.
The five cats leap together.
At the same time.
Greg's sword moves.
Fast.
Precise.
One body passes through a shadow cut,
His blade follows instantly.
Blood spills.
The moment the blade cuts through the real body, the illusion falters.
The remaining phantom cats flicker, their forms wavering for a split second.
Greg does not hesitate.
He steps forward, his sword cutting through the air again and again, each swing guided by the faint disturbances in the shadow cuts he left behind.
The clones rush him from different directions.
Claws flash.
Teeth snap.
Greg twists his body, narrowly avoiding one strike, then pivots, his blade slicing through another phantom, which dissolves instantly into smoke.
Another lunges low.
He lifts his leg and steps back, bringing his sword down in a sharp arc, dispersing it before it can reach him.
The real one hides among them.
Waiting.
Watching.
Greg slows his breathing.
His eyes narrow.
He does not chase the illusions.
He waits.
Then,
A shift.
A subtle difference in movement.
The real body leaps.
Greg reacts instantly.
His sword moves.
The shadow cut triggers.
The blade meets flesh.
The Three-Eyed Cat lets out a sharp, pained cry as blood sprays into the air.
It is wounded.
Deeply.
The clones vanish completely.
The cat lands awkwardly, its body covered in cuts, blood seeping from multiple wounds.
For a moment, it hesitates.
Then it turns.
And runs.
Greg does not allow it.
From his wrist, he flicks out his remaining short knives.
They fly with precision.
One after another,
They pierce into the cat's body.
It's back.
Its side.
It's hind legs.
The creature stumbles.
Falls.
Tries to rise,
Too late.
Greg closes the distance in a single burst of speed and drives his sword down.
The blade pierces through.
The cat's body twitches once.
Then stills.
Silence returns.
Greg exhales sharply.
Without wasting time, he kneels beside the corpse.
His eyes lock onto the vertical third eye on its forehead.
The most valuable part.
He moves quickly.
His blade cuts carefully around it, extracting it with precision to avoid damage.
The moment it comes free, he stores it securely.
Then he stands.
He does not stay.
He turns and runs.
Back the way he came.
He leaves the elevated ground behind.
As his feet touch the wet, sinking earth again, his pace slows.
The terrain demands caution.
He shifts from running to a steady walk.
His breathing stabilises.
His senses remain sharp.
He moves through the swamp, retracing his path toward the Blackwood Market.
Step by step.
Careful.
Alert.
Then,
He stops.
Ahead.
Six figures.
They stand directly in his path.
Four of them carry a large box, supported by wooden rods resting on their shoulders.
The box is heavy.
Their movements strained.
Two others stand in front.
Not carrying anything.
Watching him.
For a brief moment, both sides remain still.
Silent.
Then one of the two men speaks.
"Kill him."
They charge.
The two men in front move first, their curved blades flashing as they close the distance.
Greg reacts instantly.
One blade cuts toward his neck.
He shifts his body to the side, narrowly dodging the strike as the wind of the blade brushes past his skin.
The second man follows immediately, his curved sword slashing toward Greg's torso.
Greg raises his own blade and meets the attack head-on.
Steel clashes.
A sharp ring echoes.
The impact travels through his arm, and in that instant, he senses it,
Fighting energy.
Both men are Knight Apprentices.
Just like him.
But something is different.
Greg's strength is deeper.
More refined.
He pushes forward.
His sword drives against the opponent's blade, forcing the man back a step.
Greg does not pursue.
He shifts his footing.
Keeps his distance.
The second attacker comes again.
Greg blocks, twists, and slides away, maintaining space between them.
His eyes never stop moving.
Beyond the two men,
The other four still stand.
Carrying the box.
Watching.
Waiting.
They do not move.
They do not assist.
Greg understands immediately.
They are not simple carriers.
They are guarding something.
Something important enough that they will not abandon it.
Greg adjusts his strategy.
He does not aim to defeat the two in front.
Not yet.
Instead, he begins to move.
Step by step.
He shifts the battle.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Every exchange pushes the fight further away from the four men.
The attackers press him.
Strike after strike.
Curved blades cutting from different angles.
Greg parries.
Dodges.
Deflects.
He gives ground.
But always in control.
Always guiding the direction.
The distance grows.
The four men remain behind.
Unmoving.
Guarding the box.
Greg's breathing steadies.
His moment comes.
Suddenly,
He explodes forward.
His movement sharpens.
His speed increases.
The nearest attacker is caught off guard.
Greg's sword arcs cleanly.
A single decisive strike.
The blade cuts deep.
The man's body stiffens,
Then collapses.
Dead.
The second man reacts instantly.
He lunges in anger.
Greg pivots.
His leg lashes out.
A powerful kick lands squarely against the man's chest.
The force sends him stumbling backwards.
Greg does not follow.
He turns.
And runs.
Fast.
Directly away.
Through the swamp.
Branches scrape against his clothes.
Mud splashes underfoot.
He does not look back.
After a short distance, he slows.
Stops.
Listens.
No pursuit.
He hides.
Finding a dense cluster of roots and bushes, he lowers himself and conceals his presence.
He controls his breath.
Waits.
Time passes.
Minutes stretch.
The swamp remains quiet.
No footsteps.
No voices.
They did not chase him.
Greg opens his eyes slowly.
His suspicion deepens.
Whatever is in that box,
It is more important than killing him.
He rises silently.
Carefully.
Then begins to move back.
Retracing his steps.
Returning.
Toward the place where the battle happened.