One HP extra

Chapter 19 – Threadbare Faith

—Kyra—

She didn't mean to stay.

The moment he'd shouted at her to run, she'd pulled the crying boy behind her and darted off the path—just like instinct had taught her. But her feet stopped carrying her the moment she reached the tree line. Something in her refused to move any farther.

So she hid.

Not in a bush.

Behind a thick tree, arms around herself, ears low and twitching, golden eyes fixed on the clearing she should've abandoned.

The man—Arman—was still fighting. Still bleeding.

Still standing.

His opponent was enormous. Armor clanked with every motion, muscles rippled like knotted rope. The axe he swung looked like it could cut a horse in half. And Arman… Arman was already hurt. His sword arm hung slightly lower. His side bled freely.

She should have looked away.

But she didn't.

He ducked a swing and countered. Steel clashed. Sparks flew. And still, he refused to back down.

Every time the larger man laughed, Kyra's stomach twisted.

Every time Arman stumbled, her chest squeezed.

She didn't understand it.

Why would someone do this? Why would someone fight so hard… for her?

He didn't even know her.

And yet—

He'd bled for her. Risked everything for her. For all of them.

Even now, as the man—Ren, she remembered him being called—taunted him, saying vile things, laughing about the girls in cages… Arman never faltered.

He only gritted his teeth and said:

"I should gut you just for saying that."

Then the real fight began.

It was like watching a storm crack open the earth.

At first, Arman was methodical. He moved with purpose—quick steps, careful strikes, a parry here, a deflection there. She recognized it. It was how her brother used to spar. Controlled. Defensive. Surviving.

But then something changed.

She felt it before she saw it.

The air around him twisted. Grew cold.

No, not cold. Heavy.

Like a weight pressing down on her chest. The kind of feeling that warned of predators. Her fur bristled. Her pupils thinned.

Then, something flashed in her mind—

[AUTO-BATTLE ACTIVATED.]

[Sword Style: Dread Fang – INITIATED.]

And just like that, he moved differently.

Not like a fighter.

Like a beast.

He didn't dodge anymore—he slipped between attacks like smoke. His blade—black as pitch, crackling with something darker—moved with deadly precision.

No wasted motion.

No hesitation.

He whispered the names of skills like a ghost.

"Diagonal Slash."

"Twist Drive."

"Dread Fang – Second Claw."

Emotionless. Cold. Empty.

And Ren, who had started laughing, wasn't laughing anymore.

Kyra watched as his expression shifted from amusement… to confusion… to fear.

"What… what are you?" he barked.

Arman didn't answer.

He was no longer in control.

Even from behind the tree, Kyra could see it—his eyes were wide but hollow. His muscles trembled under the strain. Blood soaked his clothes. His breathing was ragged.

But he didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

And that terrified her.

Not him. Not the black sword. Not the blood.

But that someone could push themselves that far. Past the point of pain. Past reason. Past even survival.

She didn't want him to die.

And yet—she realized, with a chill—he didn't seem to care if he lived or died.

The clash reached its peak. Arman drove Ren to one knee. The big man screamed, raised his axe, aura bursting around him like fire—

Then Arman collapsed.

His body crumpled just as he raised the sword for a final strike. His chest heaved. His knees buckled.

A backlash.

Whatever force had been driving him—be it instinct or madness—had vanished.

Ren rose with a snarl, blood dripping from his mouth, teeth bared like a beast.

"Thought you had me, huh?" he growled. "You ain't shit. All that rage, and you still lost. You're just a monster pretending to be a hero."

He raised his axe, slow and cruel.

Kyra didn't think.

She moved.

She sprinted from the tree before her mind caught up. A dagger—one she'd found on a fallen slaver—was tight in her grip.

Ren didn't see her until the last second.

"What the—"

She plunged the blade into the base of his spine.

He screamed.

She twisted.

He fell.

The axe crashed beside her.

She stood there, panting. Hands trembling. Eyes wide.

It was her first kill.

And she didn't regret it.

Not for him.

Not for Arman.

He was slumped against a tree. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one weaker than the last. 

His body convulsed gently, fingers twitching; blood pooled beneath him, seeping into dirt. Breath shallow. Limbs trembling. Skin pale. Muscles locked tight.

His black sword lay beside him, pulsing faintly, as if echoing the pain of its wielder.

"No. No—no no no, not again…"

Kyra's knees struck the ground hard, but she barely noticed. Her fingers clutched his torn cloak with desperation, dragging herself forward until she could wrap her arms around him. His blood soaked into her fur, hot and thick and terrifying.

"Don't die," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "Not after everything. Not like this. Please…"

She pressed her forehead to his chest, her breath trembling. For a second, there was nothing—no movement, no sound, just the crushing weight of loss clawing at her throat.

Then—faint.

A breath.

Another.

The rhythm was shallow, uneven… but it was there.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

Tears ran down her face, but she didn't care. She didn't care about the dirt on her knees, or the stinging cuts along her arms, or the ache that made her bones feel hollow.

She only cared that he was still here.

That he hadn't left her.

Not like the others.

And as she held him close, trembling, something heavy and tight inside her began to crack—something she hadn't dared feel since the fire, since the cages, since her world was torn away.

Hope.

He fought for her. Bled for her. He didn't even know her he made that choice. But he made it.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of blood and smoke.

I finally found someone, she thought. Someone who didn't look at me like a product. Someone who didn't throw me away.

Someone worth protecting.

And just when the silence grew too heavy, when her arms began to shake from holding him so tightly—

A voice slid through the air like a blade through silk.

Cool. Dry. Unfamiliar

"…What happened here?"

Kyra jerked her head up, ears twitching sharply.

A figure stood at the edge of the clearing, barely touched by the chaos that had torn through the camp.

A maid.

She stared at Arman, her expression unreadable, mouth set in a flat line. Her gaze held no alarm. No rush. Just a quiet, unreadable calculation.

But she didn't look away.

And neither did Kyra.

She only pulled Arman a little closer, arms tightening around his broken form—as if daring anyone else to try and take him from her.