The Scarlet Hunt

The morning in Komorebi-no-Mura broke with dense silence. It wasn't the usual rustling leaves or birdsong. It was the silence of a forest holding its breath. After Arata's warning, the entire village felt like a clenched fist.

Elves moved like shadows, their bone-wood spears shimmering subtly. They reinforced defenses, activated natural traps—thorny vine nets, moss-illusion-covered pitfalls. Patrols tripled. Every elf, even Niralveth, Lyra's Familiar, appeared to listen for the slightest crack in the distance.

A nearly tangible tension draped the air. It clashed starkly with the forest's normal harmony.

"Is all of this really necessary?" whispered a young elf to his companion.

"The warning came from him," replied the other, his gaze drifting to Arata as he examined traps with Lyra.

Mumen—furrow-browed and distrustful—passed nearby, his dark eyes locked on Arata. Distrust hung like a veil on his face. The fractures in the village's morale showed themselves in those small gestures, in the uncertainty and fear of the unknown. A fear that grew with each minute of silence.

This incursion was not a battle cry. Not a frontal assault.

It was a cold exhale.

Zareth struck first. He moved as a shadow among shadows. His tracking Familiar, Chirinax, allowed him to slip past elf defensive lines where even skilled trackers couldn't follow.

One elven scout, stationed in watch, never screamed. His body was found oddly desiccated, as though life had been sucked away. A tiny scalpel-precise cut marked his neck, the blood traces oddly manipulated, whispering terror.

Another. Then another.

Fear began to spread like a silent plague.

Lyra and Satoru moved swiftly, their expressions hardened. The bodies, the nature of the wounds, the precision of the strikes—there was no doubt.

"The warning was real," Lyra said, her voice tight.

Satoru nodded, his deep eyes scanning the dark canopy.

"Blood warriors. No mistake. This ferocity and precision… this is no ordinary battle."

The trail of blood on the earth, barely visible to the naked eye, was a brutal signature.

Their presence didn't remain hidden for long. The five apostles emerged from dense foliage, flanked by a dozen hooded figures, all wearing the same blank masks. Not an army—but a cadre of relentless hunters. Each apostle a shadow of malice. Each subordinate a lethal tool.

Vahl led them, his bandaged robe dripping an almost visible darkness. There were no war cries—only his voice, thick with perverse charisma, slicing through the trees as though the forest itself obeyed him. They sought not an immediate massacre, but entrapment.

The five apostles and their subordinates spread out—a brutally effective strategy.

Nira, a black flash with crimson glints, moved like a surgeon's blade, flanked by two hooded fighters. Zareth, a silent phantom blurring air and reality, led three. Serika, a pale and erratic flash with a soft, death-bell laugh, led a smaller group.

Their target was clear. Arata.

They used the terrain to their advantage. They didn't chase elves aimlessly—they directed them. With each calculated strike, with each precise death, they pushed the elves toward a central clearing—a bottleneck. A perfect trap. The subordinates pressed the hammer; the apostles tightened the noose.

Chaos erupted.

The elven warriors—born of the forest—responded with the fierceness of the jungle itself. They fired green-wood arrows that sprouted within wounds. Lean bodies darted among trees, ambushing, vanishing, reappearing. They felled hooded fighters easily, but the elite blood warriors were different—nameless brutality.

Nira, the surgeon, slipped through the battle with hidden blades. She dismembered with surgical precision, without spilling a drop of doubt.

"So… delicate…" she murmured, her dark-red eyes shining with a strange fascination as an elf fell, his arm cleanly severed. Not cruelty, but a methodical appreciation of her "art."

Vahl reveled in it. He needed no Familiar for suffering to bloom. His presence drained the elves of will. Some fierce fighters shrank away, struck by inexplicable anguish. The blood. The presence. The mastery of pain.

Zareth: the silent killer. He eliminated guards, took out scouts trying to flank, tightening the cordon around the village. Each death chained the village closer to collapse. The hooded followers overwhelmed the defenders, while Zareth picked off key targets.

Arata found himself at the center of the storm. The reality of war was far more brutal than any battlefield he'd known: the screams, the clashing weapons, the blood. Hooded bodies fell, but the apostles remained—unstoppable.

He unleashed mini-pressure explosions with his strikes to shield the elves. The compressed-air bursts pushed back attackers, but weren't enough. The enemies were overwhelming—swift and too strong.

He realized the village was being herded—toward the clearing. A dead end. The fallen elf corpses and broken masks bore witness to cruelty. Brutal wounds. Torn flesh. Blood soaking into earth, the scent dense and metallic.

In the midst of the slaughter, a tiny movement caught his eye: Mia.

The small Faunir, who should have been hidden, had wandered too far. Her round eyes filled with terror, searching desperately for deeper cover.

Serika saw her.

Her soft, melodic laughter—laced with disturbing tension—floated above the chaos.

"She's so cute!" she exclaimed, her mismatched eyes—one normal, the other bloodshot—shining with warped anticipation.

The sight of vulnerable Mia ignited Serika's sick fascination. With dancer‑like finesse, she lunged toward the child. Her blood‑red eyes gleamed.

Arata saw it.

A protective flame ignited within him. Mia—she was the only one who'd shown him kindness. He couldn't let them touch her.

He knew he couldn't reach her in time running.

In a desperate, improvised act of control, Arata unleashed pressure. He focused it into his legs. A mini compressive explosion, held together by his raw determination:

FWOOSH!

The ground beneath his feet compacted. He launched forward with unnaturally sudden speed—an air-compressed bullet crashing toward Serika.

He caught her mid-air—as she was ready to strike Mia.

A roar rose from his chest—anger, desperation:

He channeled more power into his fist than ever before:

BOOOOM!

The impact was devastating. Compressed-air shockwaves blasted outward. Serika was sent flying—she didn't fall, she flew. A great distance. She smashed through trees, branches cracking, trunks splintering.

A sharp pain stabbed Arata's arm—his own blow almost shattered him. His left arm trembled violently.

He paused, gasping, the pain consuming him. His eyes fixed on where Serika had landed, then darted to where Mia stood—safe—for now. Widely blinking in shock.

In that fleeting moment of vulnerability, a silent, lethal strike hit him.

No sound. No warning.

A gray-and-red blur. A brutal blow to his side. Chirinax—the blood mark of Zareth's familiar—moved like a phantom. The strike precise and merciless—a ram of bone and pulsing flesh.

Arata staggered. His torso buckled. Blood soaked the clearing floor, forming a dark, warm pool. His head spun.

Before he could react…before he could understand this second blow—

A blur black bandages. Vahl.

A punch—direct.

Arata flew like a ragdoll, slamming against a large rock. Pain engulfed him. Darkness began to swallow him.

The village was besieged. Decimated. The few remaining elves fought desperately against the surviving hooded attackers.

And he—their only hope—was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

The blood warriors' shadows loomed over him and the survivors. A brutal defeat. Crushing. The most desperate situation yet.