One HP extra

—Arman—

The road to Hollowrest was muddy from last night's rain, the wagon wheels leaving deep furrows behind. Arman sat beside the driver but kept mostly to himself, eyes drifting across the treeline. His mind, however, was three steps ahead.

He knew the story. He remebered the novel. But not everything had been perfectly clear. The fox girl—her name was Kyra, if memory served—was never given a precise location during her introduction. Just that she was found weeks too late, broken, brutalized, and used by a noble slaver. Leon, the original protagonist, found her just after she'd been discarded.

But Arman wouldn't be late.

That's why he was here—days early. Hunting the slavers *before* they made the trade.

Problem was... he didn't know exactly where the deal would go down.

Hence, the detour.

They arrived at a minor trade hub just outside the Hollowrest Woods—a grimy little city called Tharros. Less city, more sprawl of mudbrick alleys and half-built stone towers leaning on themselves like drunkards. Perfect place for slavers to pass unnoticed.

Miren raised an eyebrow as the wagon pulled to a stop at the inn's stables.

"I thought we were rescuing a girl," she said dryly. "Not sightseeing."

Arman hopped down. "We are. But unless you know which route the slavers are taking, I need to ask around."

She narrowed her eyes. "Ask? Or threaten?"

"Whichever gets results." He offered her a small pouch. "Stay here. Get a room at the Emberfly Inn. Keep your ears open but don't draw attention."

"You're not subtle, you know."

Arman smiled faintly. "I'm not trying to be."

---

He moved through the streets like a shadow in broad daylight—his noble cloak tucked and muddied to dull its shine, boots scuffing the cobbles with deliberate grime. Even so, heads turned. In a place like Tharros, fine posture and sharp eyes spoke louder than coin. He entered a crooked little pawnhouse marked by a rusted bell and a hanging rat cage.

Inside, the scent of mildew and wet iron filled the air. A squat man behind the counter paused mid-count, eyes narrowing.

"I don't sell to your kind," he muttered.

Arman ignored the comment. "I'm looking for information."

"I don't give it."

He tossed a coin pouch onto the counter. It jingled heavy.

The man blinked, then scooped it closer with slow, greedy fingers. "...What kind?"

"Slave caravan. Eastbound. Passed through recently or about to."

The man's fingers paused. "I don't do that kind of work."

Arman tilted his head. "No one said you had to."

The man hesitated. "Even if I knew, I wouldn't say. Not worth the trouble."

Arman didn't blink. "Didn't ask if it was."

The man opened his mouth to protest—but Arman's hand shot out, grabbing the man's wrist and slamming it down. He twisted just enough to make bone creak. The man howled, half-choked.

"I'm not asking anymore," Arman whispered.

A blade wasn't drawn—but the threat loomed all the same.

Finally, with sweat beading at his brow, the man hissed, "Two wagons. Passed three days ago. South edge of the Hollowrest. Off the main road. Noble seal—Serpent crest. You didn't hear it from me."

Arman let go. "No. I didn't."

Dusk found him back at the Emberfly Inn, bootsteps quiet across the wood flooring. The place reeked of pipe smoke and damp bread.

Miren sat in the corner of the lounge, a book cracked open and tea gone cold. She looked up when he entered.

"Get what you needed?"

"More than I wanted."

He passed her the marked map.

"You'll stay here."

Her eyebrow twitched. "You want to fight slavers alone?"

"If I fail, return to Valacre and tell my father what happened."

"You're expecting to die?"

"I'm planning not to."

She didn't reply. But her eyes followed him as he disappeared upstairs.

The following morning, Arman left before dawn, riding alone into the woods.

The Hollowrest trail was narrow, curved, and overgrown in places. Wildflowers bent low from last night's storm, and fog still clung to the roots of every tree.

But he moved with purpose.

The route he'd selected curved into an old gully—once a riverbed, now half-choked with vines and moss. High ridges on either side made it a natural bottleneck.

Perfect for a trap.

He spent hours building. Nets strung between oaks with fishing cord. Oil-soaked strips of cloth stuffed under stone. Crude caltrops buried beneath autumn leaves. A few steel wires linked to small bells for audio detection. Each component primitive—but in the right place, lethal.

He paused, wiping dirt across his gloves.

This wasn't a game anymore. These weren't mobs with scripted patterns. These were men—armed, cruel, and seasoned.

But he had something they didn't.

Preparation.

And a reason.

He crouched near one of the finished traps, running his fingers through the earth.

Kyra.

He remembered her face from the art in the novel—wild hair, half-starved eyes, broken spirit. Leon had found her after the damage was done. Patched her wounds. Held her together with kindness and hope.

But he'd arrived too late.

Arman could do better.

He would.

Because in this version of the story—*he* got to choose who lived.

And who paid.

He stood, eyes scanning the distant bend in the road.

They'd come soon.

And when they did—he'd be waiting.