The outpost felt like a frozen marsh—still, suffocating, and heavy with unspoken dread.
Colin's authority had forced the panic down, but it hadn't vanished. It had only sunk deeper, settling into the bones of everyone present. No one said it aloud, yet all understood: a gamble had begun—one that would decide whether they lived or died.
On one side of the table stood thirteen fragile lives.
On the other, a fully armed patrol roaming the forest with ease.
And between them—only Colin.
He offered no explanation. At dawn, he checked his dagger, took only the bare minimum of food and water, and slipped silently into the forest once more.
This time, he wasn't scouting.
He was hunting.
The Blackwood Forest became his domain.
Colin moved like a ghost through its shadows, trailing the patrol at a distance. Every tree, every patch of grass was familiar to him. He blended into the terrain effortlessly, the wind masking his scent while carrying the sounds of his prey straight to him.
Just as he expected, the patrol was inexperienced.
Their formation was sloppy. Their voices carried far too loudly. They behaved like hunters, oblivious to the fact that a true predator had already marked them—watching, waiting, choosing.
The moment came in the afternoon.
As they climbed a gentle slope, one soldier fell behind, grumbling as he stopped to shake a pebble from his shoe. Within seconds, he lagged far enough to be alone.
That was all it took.
Colin dropped from the side of a tree without a sound, closing the distance in an instant. By the time the soldier straightened, it was already over.
An arm locked around his throat.
A hand sealed his mouth.
A blade slipped in—precise, merciless.
A quick twist.
The body convulsed once… then went still.
Colin dragged the corpse into the underbrush and erased the traces in seconds. To him, it was routine—nothing more.
The patrol barely noticed.
A shout came from ahead, annoyed, careless. Two men were sent back to look, but they found nothing—only disturbed bushes.
They shrugged it off.
That mistake cost them.
Colin waited.
Patience was his greatest weapon.
When the searchers lagged and the formation loosened again, he chose his next target—an archer already on edge, glancing nervously into the woods.
A small stone flicked into the bushes.
A soft crack.
The bait worked.
The archer stepped away from the group, drawn by fear and curiosity. He called out, voice tight.
Silence answered.
Then—
Colin struck.
He burst from hiding like a striking serpent. No blade this time—just his hardened fingers, slicing clean across the man's throat.
Blood sprayed.
The archer collapsed without a sound.
Panic finally set in.
Two men gone in less than an hour.
The officer's composure shattered.
"Enemy! Form up! Stay together!"
The remaining soldiers clustered into a tight circle, their formation shaky and full of gaps. Fear had hollowed them out.
They shouted into the forest, demanding the unseen enemy reveal himself.
Only the wind replied.
From a distance, Colin watched.
He didn't attack again.
Cornered prey was dangerous. Breaking their bodies was unnecessary—he would break their minds instead.
And so he waited.
What followed was a slow unraveling.
Every rustle became a threat.
Every shadow, a lurking killer.
They fired arrows at nothing. A startled rabbit nearly sent them into chaos.
When night fell, they huddled around a blazing fire, backs pressed together, eyes wide and sleepless.
But the darkness belonged to Colin.
A distant wolf's howl from one direction.
A stone striking a shield from another.
Whispers of movement just beyond the firelight.
He circled them like a phantom, never striking—only pressing, prodding, eroding what little courage they had left.
By morning, they were broken.
The officer, pale and hollow-eyed, finally gave the order.
"Retreat! We're leaving! There are… demons in this forest!"
Discipline collapsed entirely. The remaining soldiers fled in disarray, stumbling over themselves in their desperation to escape.
Colin did not follow.
There was no need.
He had already won.
He returned to the fallen archer, stripping the corpse of its armor and weapons—a bow, arrows, a short sword.
Upgrading his tools.
Preparing.
Watching the fleeing patrol with cold, steady eyes, he turned back toward the outpost.
This was only the beginning.
What they had suffered—
was merely interest.
Kill Points: 32
And growing.
The hunt had only just begun.