— Pilot 2 —

Sliding his longsword back onto the strap across his back, Sunny let out a breath, slow and measured. He turned to Aglaea, still bound, still trembling. The moonlight cast a pale sheen over her tear-streaked face.

"Don't be dumb and run away," he said, tightening the knots. "You'll die."

Aglaea swallowed hard and nodded. Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she didn't argue. She knew better by now.

With a sharp tug on the reins, Sunny mounted his horse once more. The beast snorted, restless under his grip. The wind carried the scent of salt and damp earth, whispering promises of storms to come.

Next destination, Eroi.

His mind drifted as they rode southward, deep into the rugged wilderness of Ovalau.

Eroi was a village older than memory itself, built by seafaring settlers who had long abandoned their former homes in search of solitude, independence, and something sacred. Five centuries had passed since they carved their settlement into the southwest coast—a place of spirits, of wandering ghosts, of whispered names carried by the wind.

Those who endure. That was what the name meant. It had been a stronghold against pirates, invaders, and horrors that had no name. When the first settlers arrived, the land refused them. It was cursed. Haunted. It swallowed men whole. But they had tamed it with fire and blood. They burned their weapons to the bone, no longer conquerors but guardians. And from that ash, Eroi was born.

It had never been a kind place.

Sunny knew better than to expect a welcome.

They don't trust outsiders, he thought, eyes narrowing against the cutting wind. And why would they? Their spear arts are sacred. They wouldn't hand them to someone like me.

But he needed them.

He needed to be stronger.

The journey would take at least two days on horseback, longer if the weather turned. The road was no road at all—only wild lands and old trails that the weak never survived.

Beside him, Aglaea was bound to his saddle. She shifted uncomfortably, the ropes chafing against her skin. Her eyes, once defiant, now carried only the dull gleam of exhaustion.

"You'll be my distraction when we get there," Sunny said, voice steady. "Understood?"

Aglaea whimpered, shaking her head in protest. Her lips quivered, but she made no sound beyond that.

He didn't expect an answer.

Hours passed. The sun drowned itself in the horizon, leaving only the cold, skeletal fingers of night in its place. The forest was alive with whispers—wind through the branches, unseen creatures shifting in the dark.

Sunny dismounted, tying his horse to a tree. He pulled Aglaea from the saddle and dropped her onto the damp ground. Without a word, he sat against a massive tree trunk, tilting his head back, closing his eyes.

For the first time in days, silence settled between them.

Aglaea's breath hitched. She waited. Listened. And then, she moved.

Slowly, carefully, she sank her teeth into the rough fibers of the rope binding her wrists. The taste of dirt and sweat filled her mouth, but she didn't stop. She chewed, gnawed, tore at the restraints like a starving animal.

Minutes passed.

Then—success.

The ropes fell away from her wrists. Heart hammering, she fumbled with the bindings at her ankles, working through the knots with trembling fingers.

She stood. Sunny didn't move. Step by step, she tiptoed away, breath shallow, heart pounding against her ribs. Then, she ran.

The sound of a dagger slicing through the air sent her body into a frozen panic. A sharp thunk—metal embedding itself into the tree just inches from her.

Before she could scream, something snapped around her legs.

Rope.

It tightened, dragging her backward with sudden, violent force.

Aglaea hit the ground hard. Her jaw cracked against the dirt, sending a sharp jolt of pain through her skull. Blood trickled from her nose, mixing with the earth beneath her. A sob choked its way out of her throat. Behind her, footsteps. Then a voice—low, cold, unyielding.

"It was dumb of you to think I sleep."

Her breath hitched.

"I don't sleep."

The ropes pulled tighter.

"I never sleep."

Tears burned hot against her cheeks as she was dragged through the dirt, back toward the monster who held her leash. She clawed at the earth, desperate, useless. By the time she reached his feet, she was nothing more than a sobbing, shivering mess.

Sunny towered over her. Shadows carved his face into something unreadable. He knelt, not out of kindness, but out of routine. The ropes wound themselves around her wrists, then her ankles. Tighter this time. No mercy. Then, something cold pressed against her throat. She gasped, eyes widening.

A collar. Black iron, etched with the spiral sun of an old god. Sunny locked it in place with a final click. When he looked down at her, his expression was colder than the night itself. She wasn't a person anymore.

She was his.

Sunny leaned back against the rough bark of the tree, his eyes never leaving Aglaea. The firelight cast sharp shadows across his face, making his features seem even more unreadable, his expression an eternal mask of indifference.

Enslavement wasn't a crime. Not in this world.

It was simply the order of things. The weak were bound. The strong remained free. That was the law, carved into the bones of civilization. Enslaving the powerless was common, an everyday affair that no one questioned. But to enslave the strong? That was blasphemy.

Sunny reached out, fingers gripping Aglaea's chin, tilting her face up toward him.

She whimpered, her breath catching in her throat.

Her skin was soft under his touch, fragile, like something that had never known hardship. Her wide, tear-filled eyes glistened in the dim firelight, reflecting nothing but fear.

His fingers trailed upward, brushing against the pointed tips of her ears.

"Do you want normal ears?" he asked.

The words cut deeper than a blade.

Aglaea stiffened.

She understood what he meant. He wasn't asking if she wanted a change—he was telling her that, in his eyes, her ears were unnatural. Deformed. A mark of something lesser.

Her heart pounded, anger flaring for the briefest moment before it was smothered by the weight of reality.

She couldn't fight back.

She couldn't even speak.

This is what it means to be weak.

Her mother had told her stories, once. Stories of the past, when elves walked proud and free, when their people were revered for their wisdom and magic.

Now, they were nothing. Now, she was nothing. Sunny's grip tightened for a moment, then released her. His cold gaze held no pity, no remorse, only a truth she couldn't deny.

"This world isn't the place for weaklings like you."

The slap came fast. Sharp. The sound cracked through the night like a whip. Aglaea gasped, her cheek stinging, more tears slipping down her face. She didn't cry out. She had learned not to.

Pain was inevitable. Protesting only made it worse. Sunny exhaled slowly, as if disappointed, as if expecting more from her.

"Since you are weak, you should actively seek to become stronger," he said, his voice the same emotionless calm. "Sympathy can only be given to the weak if they desire strength. But there is no sympathy for those who cling to the strong."

His words sank deep, settling in her stomach like poison.

She wanted to scream that she did want to be strong.

She wanted to tell him that no elf wanted to be powerless, that no one chose this fate.

But the truth was cruel.

It didn't matter what she wanted. 

Her people had already lost.

"O-okay…" she whispered. The words barely came out, strangled in her throat. Sunny watched her for a moment, as if weighing the worth of her existence in his mind. Then he leaned back again, his expression unreadable.

"I wonder how people haven't killed your kind yet," he mused. "Such creatures."

Aglaea's fingers curled into fists against the dirt.

She knew what he meant.

He wasn't just talking about her. He was talking about all elves.

Their traditions, their magic, their entire race. To him, they were nothing more than pests—creatures that had somehow managed to survive despite their supposed weakness. A parasite on the world.

But then, as if contradicting himself, he sighed.

"But your kind isn't entirely useless," he admitted. "You created good magic. Useful magic. For that, you have my respect." The words didn't comfort her.

His "respect" was not the kind given to people. It was the kind given to tools. Aglaea swallowed, biting back the urge to say something, anything, that would give her a shred of dignity. But there was nothing.

Nothing but the knowledge that she was bound, collared, and completely at his mercy. Sunny stretched, as if growing bored of the conversation. His eyes flickered toward the darkness beyond the firelight, toward the unseen path that lay ahead.

"When we reach the border of Eroi, you will distract the guards," he said.

The words came with the weight of finality. Aglaea stiffened. Her mind raced. "Of course, with how small, fragile, and weak you look, they'll have sympathy for you," Sunny continued, his voice carrying no doubt, no hesitation. "That's what I need."

Aglaea felt cold. A deep, suffocating kind of cold that settled into her bones.

"If they find out you're a distraction, you'll probably get burned at the stake," Sunny added casually. "But that isn't new."

A sob tore from her throat before she could stop it. The thought of fire. The thought of flames licking at her skin, of her flesh peeling away, of the agony—

She shook her head wildly, crying louder now, her breath coming in broken gasps.

She didn't want to die.

She didn't want to burn.

Sunny didn't react.

He only watched, unmoved, as she crumbled before him. As if her suffering was nothing more than an expected consequence of the weak existing in a world ruled by the strong.

A spider crawled toward Aglaea, its many legs skittering over her bare arm. She stiffened, frozen in place, her breath caught in her throat. The tiny creature, its body glistening black like polished onyx, lingered for a moment—then twitched. She flinched, her trembling fingers brushing against it in an attempt to shake it off. The spider jerked, then leapt, disappearing into the underbrush as if the night itself had swallowed it whole.

"Pests…" Sunny muttered, his tone laced with quiet disdain.

Then—a thunderous crack.

A massive tree came crashing down, its gnarled form collapsing as if torn from the earth by an unseen force. The impact sent a shockwave through the forest, sending leaves and splintered bark flying in all directions.

Sunny moved instantly.

Before the dust had even settled, he was on his feet, longsword unsheathed, body already shifting into a stance of readiness. His instincts burned, honed by countless battles, a sharpened edge against the unknown.

Then—movement.

A shape in the mist. Then another.

Shadows unfurled from the thick fog, twisting, taking form.

And then, they emerged.

Tall. Looming. Broad-shouldered and hunched, their fur bristling beneath the weight of ragged armor. They walked as men, yet bore the heads of wolves—ancient, demonic things, their features sharp with unnatural precision. Their eyes burned with an unholy glow, flickering like embers from the depths of hell.

They carried weapons—twisted, bladed things that pulsed with faint energy, jagged spears with obsidian tips, war-sickles mounted on long poles, the edges gleaming wickedly under the silver glow of the moon. Their claws, even unarmed, could tear through flesh and bone as easily as parchment.

Yet, they did not growl. They did not snarl. Instead, they breathed—deep, slow, measured. Each inhalation dragged through their massive chests, tasting the air, savoring the scent of fear.

They did not hunt like wild animals. They hunted with purpose. Their movements were disciplined, their approach precise. Not beasts—warriors. Killers crafted in the forgotten pits of some forsaken nightmare. 

Sunny's grip tightened around his blade. "Demonic wolves. As expected." His voice carried no fear, only cold certainty.

The first one struck. A blur of dark fur and steel, faster than human sight.

The war-sickle whistled through the air, arcing straight for Sunny's throat. A strike too fast, too precise to be mere instinct.

Sunny met it with steel.

His longsword clashed against the curved blade, the force of impact rattling through his bones. He gritted his teeth, muscles flexing as he redirected the blow, sliding the sickle away in a shower of sparks.

Then, the second wolf moved.

From his left—low and deliberate.

The spear came forward, thrusting toward his ribs, aiming for a killing blow. A perfect trap. Sunny dodged, twisting his body—only to find himself stepping into the path of a third wolf, waiting, anticipating his movement.

They were coordinated. Not mindless attackers, but tacticians. Killers who had studied the art of death. From the mist, a voice.

"We meet again, lost from light."

The leader.

His voice was smooth, unhurried—a predator at play.

"How has the depths of Ovalau been treating you?"

Sunny's eyes flicked toward him. Taller than the rest, broader, his armor heavier, layered in the remains of past victims. His war-sickle gleamed, etched with runes that pulsed with dark energy.

A smirk tugged at Sunny's lips. He understood their game.

They were trying to box him in. Force him into errors. Wear him down with numbers. It was a solid tactic. Well-planned. Well-executed. But tactics alone did not dictate survival.

Skill did. And he was better.

"Good tactics," Sunny murmured, rolling his shoulders, adjusting his stance. "But I'm just better at survival."

"You still fight well, despite being so young, demon hunter."

The words came mid-clash, spoken in the brief moment between steel meeting steel. Varkas, the Dreadfang, moved with practiced ease, parrying Sunny's strike, his massive war-sickle catching the edge of the longsword with a sharp screech of metal.

Sunny barely faltered, pivoting into his next attack. His movements were sharp, measured, controlled. Nothing wasted.

"It's been a while, Varkas." His voice remained steady, despite the chaos of battle. "Four months, if I recall."

Varkas.

The Dreadfang.

A name whispered in the dark corners of old, cursed lands. A being born in the era of misfortune and fate, when the world teetered on the brink of ruin. Few knew the full extent of his origins, but all knew his legend.

Now, that legend stood before Sunny, battle-worn but unwavering, a predator of calm calculation and ruthless efficiency.

The demonic wolf tilted his head slightly, those infernal, ember-like eyes flicking past Sunny, landing on something—or rather, someone.

"You have a slave now?"

The question was casual, but his interest was not.

Sunny didn't bother glancing back. He already knew who Varkas was looking at.

Aglaea.

The elf girl hadn't moved—couldn't move. Frozen in terror, she had backed herself against the side of the horse, her tiny form trembling violently. But the beast she sought refuge with was no better.

The horse, despite its size, shook beneath the weight of the presence before it, its instincts screaming at it to flee. Its wild, panicked eyes darted between the monstrous wolves and its unmoving rider.

And then—

"Lord help us…"

The voice was deep, yet weak with fear.

Aglaea's breath hitched. The horse spoke. Before she could even process the horror of it, the animal collapsed, its legs giving out as if its very soul had been drained. The world had shattered all its logic in one fell swoop.

But neither Sunny nor Varkas so much as blinked.

They had long grown used to creatures that were not meant to speak. "She is my distraction," Sunny stated flatly, dismissing her existence with the ease of casting aside a broken tool. "I only need her to get to Beqa."

Varkas hummed, his interest almost unreadable.

"You don't seem to care for the child."

A statement, not a question.

Sunny responded with another swing. Their blades clashed once more, but Varkas was faster this time. He saw the opening. He took it. Steel bit into flesh. A clean, deliberate slash tore through Sunny's left arm.

A deep wound. A brutal wound. But not a fatal one.

Sunny hissed between his teeth, immediately jumping back, sword raised. His muscles coiled, ready to retaliate. But even as the wound bled, his flesh already began to mend. The blood slowed. The skin knitted. A second later, the cut was gone.

Varkas observed the rapid healing in silence.

Sunny exhaled, measuring his options. He had no doubt that Varkas could kill him if this dragged on. The Dreadfang wasn't just strong—he was patient. He was disciplined. He fought to exhaust, to wear down, to kill without wasting a breath.

Sunny wasn't going to win this fight.

He clicked his tongue.

"This is unwinnable."

Then—he moved.

Before Aglaea could react, he grabbed her by the arm.

She yelped, squirming as his iron grip lifted her with ease. At the same time, he shoved his boot against the horse's side. The beast jolted, its breath ragged, eyes rolling wildly before it lurched back onto its feet.

In one fluid motion, Sunny swung himself onto the saddle, dragging Aglaea up with him. Then, without another glance, he yanked the reins. The horse took off into the night.

The last thing Aglaea saw before the fog swallowed them whole was Varkas, standing motionless, watching them go.