James tore his gaze from the gem and turned to the old man, his voice rough but steady. "Where am I?"
The elder folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "A safe place, far from where you fell," he answered. Then, with a slight nod toward the girl, he added, "It was my granddaughter who found you, lying half dead in the forest. She called for me, practically begged me to help you." His tone softened just slightly. "So, if you're going to thank anyone, it should be her—not me."
James shifted his gaze to the girl, who stood beside him, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes uncertain. She had gone out of her way to save him, dragged him back from the brink.
He met her eyes. "Thank you."
The girl blinked, then quickly looked away, the faintest crimson dusting her cheeks. "I—It wasn't anything," she murmured, suddenly very interested in the wooden floor.
James let out a slow breath. He wasn't sure where he was, or what came next—but at least, for now, he wasn't alone.
James shifted slightly, adjusting his aching body against the bedding. His wounds throbbed with every breath, but now that he had a moment to think, the questions weighing on his mind refused to stay silent.
He looked at the old man, his voice still rough from exhaustion. "Where exactly is this place?"
The elder let out a low hum, glancing toward the small window where soft morning light filtered in. "This is a quiet corner of the world," he finally said. "A place hidden away from prying eyes, where few venture unless they are lost—or seeking something they do not yet understand."
James frowned. That was hardly an answer.
He turned to the girl instead. "Is this your home?"
She nodded, though her gaze remained downcast. "We've lived here for as long as I can remember. It's… peaceful. Safe."
James studied the hut again, then the distant sound of the river outside, the scent of damp earth and herbs hanging in the air. "How far are we from where you found me?"
The old man crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "Far enough that no beast will come searching for you. But not so far that you can leave easily—not in your state."
James exhaled slowly. It seemed his recovery would keep him here for a while.
The old man studied James for a long moment before nodding. "You should rest," he said firmly. "Your body has been pushed to its limits. Until your situation stabilizes, moving too soon will only make matters worse."
James exhaled, sinking back against the bedding. He hated the idea of lying idle, but the deep ache pulsing through his limbs left little room for argument.
The old man turned to his granddaughter. "Come. Let him be for now."
The girl hesitated, her gaze flickering briefly toward James before she followed her grandfather out of the hut.
Left alone, James stared up at the thatched ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the river beyond. He let his eyes drift to the corner where his gear rested, the crimson-glowing gem nestled beside it.
Whatever had happened to the Crimson Fang King… it was over.
For now.
James let out a slow breath, closing his eyes as the weight of exhaustion pressed down on him. But instead of drifting into rest, he focused—his mind sharpening, replaying the battle in vivid detail.
He visualized every movement, every strike, every mistake.
The Crimson Fang King had pushed him to his limits, forcing him to adapt, to fight with precision instead of brute force. He recalled the way the beast moved—the way it anticipated his attacks. He had barely won, and only because of a well-timed final strike.
But what if he faced something stronger next time?
He analyzed his footwork, how he had dodged, where he had hesitated. His bow had been his lifeline, but had he used it to its fullest potential? Had there been an opening he missed, a more efficient way to land a decisive blow?
His mind refined the battle, adjusting his movements in thought alone—making them sharper, faster, more efficient.
He had survived this time. But survival wasn't enough.
Next time, he had to be better.
A faint breeze whispered through the hut as James slowly exhaled, committing his thoughts to memory.As the hours passed, James remained still, refining his thoughts. His mind replayed every movement, every strike, every lesson the battle had carved into him. His limbs ached, but his resolve was sharper than before. Next time, he would be ready—he would fight smarter.
Evening arrived, casting warm hues through the hut. The soft rustling of fabric signaled the girl's return. She stepped inside, carrying a bowl of steaming fish soup in one hand and a damp towel in the other. Without a word, she sat beside him, dipping the towel into cool water and gently pressing it against his forehead.
James winced slightly but remained silent.
Then, without hesitation, she scooped up a spoonful of soup and lifted it toward him. He glanced at her, then looked away. "I can eat by myself," he muttered.
The girl narrowed her eyes, her expression firm. "You shouldn't move too much just yet," she countered. "So eat while I'm being nice—or you'll get nothing."
James blinked at her boldness, caught off guard. She held his stare for a second before a quiet laugh escaped her lips, amusement flickering in her gaze.
Still surprised, he relented, accepting the spoon she offered.
The warmth of the soup soothed him, its flavor simple yet comforting. He ate in silence, and the girl patiently continued feeding him, her motions steady.
Once the bowl was empty, he exhaled, shifting his gaze toward her. "James," he said, his voice quieter than before. "My name."
She paused for a moment, then met his gaze. "Aria."
James nodded, filing the name away.
Aria set the empty bowl aside, glancing toward the window where the fading light of evening bathed the hut in warm hues. She seemed thoughtful for a moment before speaking.
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