Chapter 13: The White Oak

Every region's night carries a distinct hue.

In the elven capital of Evilius, the night is an elegant poem played by harps and leaf flutes; whereas in the Steel Bastion, the molten city, the night is largely filled with iron resolve and the smoke of war.

The deep night in the Mistwood Forest is quiet.

The chirping of insects and the cries of beasts are present, of course, but unlike the desolate wilderness elsewhere, the sounds are faint, blurred, as if a veil separates them even when they are close.

It is as though even the sounds dissolve into the mist that permeates the air.

Maggi sat alone by the campfire.

Gently, he wiped down his longbow.

It was an “old companion” that had been with him for nearly twenty years.

Though countless memories from the past had faded into the grayness of his life, he still remembered that morning twenty years ago, when he came of age at eighteen.

His father, always silent and stoic like the mountains, had cut down the white oak tree in their yard—the very tree that had sheltered him through his childhood—and used its finest wood to craft this longbow.

Honestly, it was nothing special.

The limbs were flexible but lacked stiffness; the grip felt rough; the string grooves were not polished finely.

In every aspect, it fell short of the “fine goods” found on shop shelves.

But just like the countless afternoons spent napping under that white oak tree,

with gentle, refreshing breezes and the rustle of leaves,

the longbow seemed to merge with his body, perfectly fitting and intimate.

If not for the luxurious carriage that had slowly rolled into the village, perhaps he would still be wandering those endless mountains alongside his “old companion” today...

The orange-red flames flickered across Maggi’s weathered face, shadows cloaking it so his expression was unreadable.

His right leg, tightly bound in bandages, still throbbed faintly, and his arm ached numb from overusing his combat skills.

He lifted his head, gazing up at the pitch-black sky.

He took a deep breath.

His eyes swept past the towering pine tree beside the camp—

The spiked hammer taken from the goblin cave lay quietly among the fallen leaves; nearby, the two-handed axe belonging to another fallen comrade rested steadily against the trunk.

Speaking of which, the half-orc named “Crunchbone” had been somewhat rough-tempered, but once familiar, he was actually...

“Forget it,” Maggi shook his head.

Late at night, the heart was prone to melancholy.

Now, it was time to focus on the matter at hand.

His gaze shifted to the other side of the camp.

Across the roaring campfire, a figure lay motionless, the slow, steady breath faintly audible in the air.

There was no hesitation in Maggi’s eyes; his decision had long been made.

“Don’t blame me, kid.”

He did not rise, remaining seated cross-legged on the ground.

His wooden longbow silently rose upright; the bowstring was drawn taut, the arrow feathers trembling lightly in the air.

At such close range, failure was impossible.

With a gentle release, the sharp arrow could end this young life before him.

“Adventurers are like this, you must understand,” he murmured inwardly.

At that moment, Maggi suddenly saw Shan’an’s eyelids twitch slightly.

He opened his eyes.

Clear and bright, far from the drowsiness of awakening.

“Realized it?”

Surprise flickered in Maggi’s mind, but his fingertips had already loosened the arrow shaft.

Swish—

Time seemed to freeze.

The slender, sharp arrow disturbed the mist, stirring faint currents in the moonlight;

Beyond the campfire, the rising flames twisted and climbed like hellish demon tentacles, drawn upward by invisible forces at their core, yet firmly restrained.

Air, blankets, fine grass, soil.

The arrow pierced through the blankets and into the earth, but there was no sound of flesh being pierced.

Had it missed?

No, that had been where Shan’an’s head lay in slumber.

But the “novice adventurer,” prepared in advance, had moved to avoid and counter once he confirmed the movement.

What appeared to be a side-lying, deep sleep posture was in fact the most ready stance for action.

The blanket covering him was suddenly flung aside, blocking the attacker’s view, but when it fell back, Shan’an’s figure was gone.

The sound of something moving through the air.

“Boom!”

The campfire was abruptly kicked over, sparks flying, heavy logs wrapped in flames hurtling through the air.

Immediately after came two fleeting arcs of silver light.

[Spinning Slash]

The firewood was sliced through, scattering sparks.

The blade pierced the body and sliced out the other side.

The broken longbow fell to the ground.

“Hah... hah...”

Shan’an stood on the meadow, in front of him was Maggi, clutching his throat.

His windpipe had been cut; he could not speak, only blood trickled between his fingers.

The night was deep, and Shan’an could not discern Maggi’s expression.

He only saw the other’s eyes widen before losing all life, and the body twitching before collapsing backward.

Crouching down, he confirmed that Maggi was truly dead.

Only then did Shan’an exhale and sheathe the twin daggers gifted by the gnome “Elki” at his waist.

It was no stroke of luck.

The moment he noticed Maggi’s change in demeanor in the cave two days ago, he had become more vigilant in secret.

Though this was his first mission, the ragtag team’s performance along the way, fitting the objective stereotype of “low-tier adventurers,” had been deeply etched in his mind.

One must never let guard down, even with comrades who had just survived a deadly battle together.

Still, Shan’an had no intention of launching a preemptive strike; after all, Maggi had shown no hostility until just now, even sincerely inviting him to join the team.

Fortunately, his timely caution had helped him escape this sudden crisis.

Compared to the mental toll before, their fight had been quite simple.

Maggi, gravely wounded, had only a single chance with one arrow, and had to wait until they reached the edge of the Mistwood Forest—when his body could still make it back to town—to act;

While Shan’an, retaining most of his strength, needed just one strike to end it.

The sky began to brighten slightly.

Without another glance at the corpse, Shan’an quickly packed the camp supplies, applying the battlefield-cleaning techniques he had learned from several companions along the way.

Maggi carried little useful gear; the only weapon, the wooden bow, had been broken during the fight and would likely fetch no price.

Therefore, Shan’an took only the quiver, extinguished the fire, and hurried away.

A gentle breeze stirred, and the rustling of branches whispered through the forest.

Maggi closed his eyes, leaning against a tree with the broken white oak bow cradled in his arms.

In this moment, he seemed to return to that sunlit, dappled afternoon many years ago.