James tightened his grip on the arrow, his breath ragged, vision swimming, but his resolve unwavering. He had one last shot—one final chance to turn the tide before his body gave out entirely.
The Crimson Fang King lunged.
James didn't hesitate. He threw himself forward, meeting the beast head-on, ignoring the fire licking at his skin, the agony clawing at his chest. He slammed the arrow directly into the creature's molten core—his fingers burning as he twisted the projectile deeper.
A blinding explosion erupted.
Heat roared outward, a wave of energy blasting through the forest as the Crimson Fang King let out a deafening snarl. The force sent James tumbling, crashing hard against the ground. His body screamed in protest, pain radiating from every nerve, but he didn't look away.
The King staggered.
Its fiery form flickered, its massive limbs buckling beneath it. James could see the cracks forming along its molten skin, its energy unstable, its strength failing.
Then—one final shudder.
The beast collapsed, its flames sputtering, its breath slowing until only embers remained.
Silence.
James lay there, chest rising and falling, exhaustion weighing down on him like an avalanche. He had won—but at what cost?
As the adrenaline drained from his body, darkness crept at the edges of his vision.
And then—
Nothing.
James awoke to the soft chirping of birds and the gentle murmur of flowing water nearby. His vision was hazy, his body heavy, wrapped in layers of thick bandages. Every breath carried the dull ache of his wounds, a reminder of the battle that had nearly ended him.
Above him, an unfamiliar ceiling—woven from reeds and thatch, rustic yet sturdy. The scent of earth and herbs clung to the air, blending with the faint aroma of woodsmoke.
Before he could gather his thoughts, the door to the hut rustled open.
A young girl rushed inside, her movements light, yet purposeful. Her simple dress swayed as she knelt beside him, her warm eyes full of concern. "You're awake," she murmured, helping him sit up, her touch gentle, careful not to disturb his wounds.
She handed him a cup of water, and James drank slowly, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. As he swallowed, his gaze wandered around the small space. The hut was modest—wooden shelves lined with dried herbs, a single fire pit smoldering at the center, casting a dim golden glow against the walls.
Then, the flap at the entrance lifted once more.
An old man stepped inside, his long, silver hair cascading past his shoulders, his presence commanding yet calm. He studied James for a moment, then turned to the girl. "Bring him the medicine soup," he instructed, his voice deep, steady.
The girl nodded and hurried away.
James met the old man's gaze, questions swirling in his mind—but for now, he remained silent.
James hesitated for only a moment before taking the bowl from the girl's hands. The steam curled upward, carrying the rich, earthy aroma of herbs—strong, unfamiliar, but oddly soothing. His body was wrecked with pain, and whatever this was, he had no choice but to trust that it would help.
The old man watched him, his sharp eyes unwavering. "Drink," he said again, his voice firm but not unkind.
James lifted the bowl and took a tentative sip. The liquid was thick, slightly bitter, but warmth bloomed in his chest as it traveled down. Almost instantly, a cool sensation spread through his aching limbs, easing the fire that still clung to his wounds.
The girl smiled slightly, relief flickering in her eyes. "It will help," she assured him.
A tense silence filled the hut, broken only by the soft babble of the nearby river.
James parted his lips, the question forming in his throat—a burning need to know what had become of the Crimson Fang King, the beast he had fought with every ounce of strength he had left. But before he could speak, the old man lifted a weathered hand and gestured toward the far corner of the hut.
James followed his gaze.
His gear stood neatly stacked, his bow resting against the wall, his cloak draped over a small wooden stool. But what drew his attention—what made his breath hitch—was the bundle of red fur beside it. Nestled within the soft strands was a gem, its surface pulsing with a faint crimson glow, as if embers still stirred within.
James stared, his fingers twitching, the weight of recognition pressing down on him.
"The beast fell," the old man murmured, his voice unreadable. "And I harvested its remains ."
The girl set the bowl of soup beside him, but he barely noticed. His eyes remained fixed on the glowing gem, his heartbeat slow, measured.
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