The Aftermath of War

Roka moved like he was trapped in a dream, silent, relentless, and starving for more. His hunger had grown into something primal, more than just need, it was purpose. And for once, he had the means to feed it. Day and night, he hunted rabbits without pause, like a ghost sweeping through the fields.

He learned the patterns of the land, the hollows and furrows that let him strike without being seen. His body remembered how to move like a predator.

The field stretched out flat and wide, a deceptive calm. Crops grew in every direction, but their silence hid no mercy, just more places to stalk, more shadows to vanish into.

Time passed without notice. The rhythm of the hunt dulled everything else, but when morning came, it brought a quiet sting. That's when he had to press another stone into his belt, a cold reminder that his time here was bleeding away. Each stone was a countdown.

This period awakened the beast within him. The animal inside had begun to grow stronger. His beast-like ears had sharpened, twitching at the slightest movement. His claws were longer now, thicker and deadlier. His eyes could see farther than ever, piercing through the dark like a blade.

He no longer looked like an eight-year-old child. He now resembled a sixteen-year-old teenager, his body stretched and hardened. His limbs had grown longer, but they weren't thin anymore. They were dense with muscle, lined with veins that pulsed just beneath his skin.

He discovered that the rabbits with crystals on their foreheads were different, faster and smarter. At first, he failed to catch even a single one.

Now, it was the end of the sixth night. The stone on his belt had faded, its once-rich color nearly white. Its power was almost gone.

Then he saw it. A rabbit with a glowing crystal embedded in its forehead.

His instincts surged. Thought vanished. The beast took control.

Without a sound, he began to move. Each step was deliberate. Controlled. His breathing slowed. His muscles tensed. He stopped at the perfect distance, just at the edge of detection.

His fingers gripped the soil. He coiled like a spring.

And then he launched.

The prey never had a chance. It was caught.

He felt a flicker of pride deep within him, the kind that came with a kill well earned. But there was a hint of disappointment too, a bitter edge to his victory. Only one crystal in six days.

The carriage rolled up, its wheels grinding against the dirt. The driver's eyes widened as he saw Roka. Six days ago, he had looked like a child, fragile and small. Now, he was different, but the man said nothing, he simply nodded, his gaze lingering for a moment before he drove forward.

...

As the carriage approached the city, Roka's thoughts turned dark. The city was in ruins, worse than before. Whole houses that had stood tall and proud were now nothing more than piles of rubble. Smoke curled from distant fires, drifting lazily into the sky, but there was no peace in it. People ran through the streets, their faces masks of fear and desperation. Their footsteps echoed in the chaos, panicked and uneven.

Roka chose to ignore the chaos outside.

Suddenly, a man appeared from the shadows of the street. His hand gripped a knife, his intentions were clear, this wasn't a simple beggar or lost soul, he meant harm.

Before the man could get any closer, a sharp crack split the air. The driver's whip lashed out with precision, landing across the man's face with brutal force. The would-be attacker crumpled to the ground, the knife falling from his hand.

The driver clicked his tongue, not even looking at the man on the ground.

He spoke in a low, venomous tone.

"Think twice before you approach the SeedBurn, you scumbag."

Roka steps down from the carriage at Timberland Market, but the market is vanished, replaced by shattered stalls and splintered wood. A group of figures wielding pickaxes stalk through the wreckage. Their movements are erratic, their faces obscured by grime and shadows.

Roka freezes. He had never seen this city so dark before.

He hurries to Sam's house. The building still stands while others around it have crumbled.

He expects to find Sam inside. But the house is empty.

Roka steps forward, scanning the large room, confusion tightening in his chest.

A sudden creak. A hidden mechanism inside the wall groans, and then, a section of the wooden wall cracks open. A concealed door unfolds.

Sam stands inside the narrow space between two rooms, eyes sharp with urgency.

"Get in. Now."

"Why are you..."

"Just move!"

Something in his voice leaves no room for hesitation. Roka obeys, slipping into the cramped hiding spot.

Sam pulls the door shut behind them, sealing them in. The space is suffocatingly small.

"Big things happened while you were away," Sam whispers, his voice cautious.

Only now does he notice Roka's body, broader, stronger, changed.

"You've improved… a lot."

"How much?"

Sam checks the guild members list.

"You're level 9 now."

"Better than you." his tone is mocking.

But Sam doesn't react. His expression remains steady, controlled.

"That dungeon they discovered, it's overflowing with money and relics. So much that the city's major and mid-tier guilds have gone to war over it. Or at least… it looks that way."

Roka's ears twitch. Something faint, approaching.

"Stepstone Guild was on the..."

He cuts Sam off, voice low, urgent.

"People are coming."

The front door shudders under a violent kick, bursting open. Moments later, another brutal strike forces the entry to the central room wide.

Two men step inside.

One of them is Scarface, a name earned not through battle, but birth. The scar that defines him stretches from his right ear, carves down past his subtle mustache, and runs along his neck, its deep red hue like burned flesh.

He's 30, athletic, and armed. Two swords rest at his sides, their hilts worn from use.

Scarface is the second-in-command of RedMoon, a guild with over 100 members.

"Are you sure?" Scarface's thick voice cuts through the room.

"Yes, sir. He established a guild recently, he must have money."

Scarface's gaze sweeps across the space, scanning the doors.

"Look!" The man gestures toward an elegant and sturdy table, its drawers carved with precision. "He was selling these to the rich."

At the word "rich" Scarface's expression darkens, a shiver of repulsion rippling through him.

The man draws his sword, aiming to cleave the table in two. The blade strikes with force, but instead of cutting through, it rebounds with a sharp clang, leaving only a shallow scratch.

Scarface doesn't hesitate. His swords flash, slicing the table into three clean pieces in a single, fluid motion. Before the splintered wood settles, his blades are already back in their sheaths.

The man swallows hard, visibly intimidated.

"Shall I destroy the place?"

"No. The house is sturdy, it may be useful later. Search every room. Then leave."

Scarface steps out, leaving the man to exhale, relieved. He inspects every room, but there's nothing, no riches, no hidden treasures. Just empty space. Unsatisfied, he exits.

In the cramped hiding spot, Sam resumes their hushed conversation.

"Stepstone Guild assured my protection," he says, voice grim. "But they were on the losing side of the war."

"What about BloodForge Guild?" while his gaze sharpens. 

"They were on the winning side."

Roka exhales slowly, contempt curling in his tone.

"Unfortunately."

"It wasn't an all-out war, more of an elite battle. Stepstone fought with their four strongest fighters… and they all died. With their loss, the guild is pulling out of the city." Sam's tone is grim. "Now, in the power vacuum they've left behind, the real players are moving in, trying to carve out more territory. Here, in Timberland's central zone, RedMoon seems to be the dominant force, the same ones who were here earlier."

Roka scoffs.

"Great," he mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm. "So what now? We just live like this? Stacked together in hiding?" His frustration is unmistakable.

Roka exhales sharply, curling in on himself, shifting into a position meant for long-term waiting. He feels stronger than ever, yet here he is, hiding like a frightened child. The contradiction stings.

Sam's voice is measured, careful.

"There's another option. But it's risky."

Roka's eyes flick up. For the first time since they entered this cramped space, hope stirs in his chest.

"What is it?"

"We can hide in Highcrest District."

"Highcrest? The rich district?"

"Yes. In times like these, many seek refuge there, so access is restricted. But the Guild Regulation Association owes us a service, I think we can get in. The real question is…"

Sam meets Roka's gaze, his voice weighted with meaning.

"Are you strong enough to face this city until we get there?"

There's no hesitation.

"I am."

Sam nods, determination setting in.

"Then that's the plan. We go to Highcrest."