The world twisted for a moment — light bending and pulling — before Trafalgar, Garrika, and Sylven stepped out of the shimmering Gate. The hum of mana behind them faded, replaced by the noise of life.

Verdant Hollow spread wide before them, half wild and half tamed. Around the Gate stood a vast hunting outpost — tents of stitched hide, wooden stalls, and small forges glowing beneath makeshift roofs. The air was hot, heavy with smoke, sweat, and the metallic tang of mana-charged steel.

Dozens of hunters moved through the clearing. Some bargained for supplies, others compared trophies or polished weapons already stained with blood. The crowd was a blend of races — humans, elves, beastkin, dwarves, and demons — all carrying the same sharp look of hunger and purpose.

Trafalgar took it all in silently, hands in his pockets. 'So this is Verdant Hollow… feels more like a marketplace than a hunting ground.'

A few passing hunters nodded to Garrika and Sylven. Brief greetings, nothing flashy. Garrika returned the gestures with calm professionalism, her usual easy confidence in every step. Sylven gave quiet nods in response, his eyes scanning the horizon rather than the people.

Trafalgar followed just behind, unnoticed — and preferred it that way. 'Good. The less attention, the better.'

They moved through the outpost until they reached a registration stand where a clerk waited behind a desk.

"Request form?" the man asked lazily.

Garrika handed it over.

"Material collection, outer zones — approved," the clerk muttered after a glance. "Avoid the inner zones two parties went missing this week."

"Understood," Sylven said, his tone composed.

Before leaving, Trafalgar glanced back at the clerk. "What exactly happened to the last squads?"

The man gave a tired shrug, leaning on the counter. "Same as always. They probably went deeper than they should've. This place is a hunting ground — everyone here knows what they're signing up for. But every time someone dies, the families show up crying, blaming the others." He exhaled smoke from a half-burnt cigar. "You know how it goes."

Trafalgar gave a slow nod. "Yeah… I do."

As they walked away, Sylven adjusted the strap of his quiver. "Don't worry," he said calmly. "With my class, we'll stay safe."

Trafalgar glanced at him. "Your class?"

Sylven's tone was composed, almost indifferent. "[Guide.] I have skills that allows me to sense movement within a certain radius — helps track paths and avoid ambushes."

Garrika nodded with a small smile. "Thanks to him, we always find the safest route."

Trafalgar exhaled softly, intrigued. 'Guide, huh… useful.'

Without another word, the three of them moved toward the tree line. The air grew thicker, heavy with moss and the hum of unseen mana. The chatter of the crowd faded behind them, replaced by the whisper of leaves and distant calls of beasts.

And with that, they stepped into Verdant Hollow.

The forest swallowed most of the noise from the hunting grounds behind them. Shafts of sunlight broke through the canopy, painting the path in shifting gold. The only sounds were the soft rustle of leaves and the faint crunch of boots against soil.

Trafalgar glanced at Sylven, his tone level but sharp. "You said your class keeps us safe. Then how did you miss the ambush last time? When Garrika was taken?"

Sylven froze for half a step but didn't turn. "That's… fair," he said quietly. "They used cloaking items — ones designed to nullify presence entirely. Even a [Guide] can't detect what doesn't exist to the senses."

Trafalgar's eyes narrowed. "Convenient excuse."

Garrika shot him a warning glance. "Trafalgar, enough. He's telling the truth."

But Trafalgar didn't look convinced. "Because of that 'truth,' Ronan lost an arm. I had to pull you out myself. If I hadn't shown up—"

Sylven cut in calmly, his tone steady but heavy. "She would have been turned into a prostitute, so thanks for saving her."

The words hung in the air like a blade. Garrika's ears twitched, but she didn't look away. Her expression stayed firm — she'd long made peace with what happened, or at least pretended to.

Trafalgar's hands clenched at his sides. The image of that night flashed again. He had pretended to be a noble looking for "a night's company" just to get inside that high-end brothel where she was kept. When he first entered, Garrika had tried to attack him, mistaking him for one of them. It didn't go well — Bartholomew had to use his sleep skill on her before she calmed down. Once they explained everything, the truth sank in, and the chaos turned to relief.

Sylven exhaled slowly. "I failed then. I won't again, sorry for my incompetence back then."

Trafalgar studied him in silence, his anger fading into something colder. 'Well… thanks to Sylven's mistake, I met Garrika. Saved her. Got Arden and Marella to trust me enough to sell the place. Butterfly effect, I guess.'

He nodded faintly. "Fine. Let's just make sure it doesn't repeat itself."

Garrika broke the silence with a small smile. "Relax, Traf. You worry too much."

As they kept walking, his thoughts drifted for a moment. 'Traf? Since when does she call me that?' Sylven chuckled quietly beside him, clearly having noticed. "Careful, Garrika's getting attached," he teased.

Trafalgar shot him a flat look. "Not happening."

He exhaled through his nose, eyes forward. 'I already have Mayla. And even if polygamy's normal here… I don't know how normal that is for me, although this trend of open relationships did start on Earth... ugh... just thinking about it makes me cringe. If you want to sleep with someone else, break up with the other person first; you'll save them the humiliation. Besides, I want to do things right. First, Mayla, and I need her opinion; it's the most important thing.'

Trafalgar kept walking beside Sylven, the dirt path crunching softly beneath their boots. After a few moments of silence, he asked, "So, Sylven—what kind of skills do you have, exactly? You mentioned being a Guide, but I haven't seen what that really means."

Sylven adjusted the strap of his bow over his shoulder, tone calm and composed. "Most of my skills are meant for support and reconnaissance. My main one is [Aether Trace] — it lets me read movement patterns within a short radius, even through light cover. Then there's [Echo Step], which silences my steps and anyone I move alongside. [Mana Sight] helps me detect residual traces, like monsters or traps."

He paused a moment before continuing, "[Spirit Mark] is another one — I can tag a creature or object, and it stays visible to me for hours, even through terrain. [Camber Vision] lets me adjust distance and focus with my eyes, like a hawk's view. And finally, [Pulse Link] — it connects me to my allies' energy signatures. I can sense if someone's wounded or losing mana."

Trafalgar nodded, impressed. "Not bad. Makes sense why you're the one tracking."

Sylven gave a slight smile. "And you? You're a swordsman, right? House Morgain is well-known for that."

Trafalgar smirked faintly. "Yeah. I'm from one of the Eight Great Families. We've always been known for our swordsmanship and military strength. So… yeah, I guess I fit the stereotype."

Sylven chuckled. "Could be worse things to be known for."

Trafalgar only half-listened, his mind drifting. 'Well, technically, I'm also a Riftspawn… but that's not something I'll be sharing anytime soon. Some things are better kept quiet.'

He looked ahead, where Garrika was walking a few steps in front, tail swaying idly. The forest air was dense, humid, alive — the kind of place where anything could be watching.

Trafalgar's grip tightened slightly around nothing, instinctively reaching for the sword that wasn't yet summoned. "Guess we'll see how your skills hold up soon enough."

Sylven nodded, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. "You'll be surprised."

Garrika slowed her pace until she was walking right beside him, her shoulder brushing lightly against his arm. The forest path narrowed ahead, the sound of insects filling the gaps in their silence.

Trafalgar glanced sideways, noticing how close she was getting. "You're doing it again," he said quietly.

She looked up, ears twitching. "Doing what?"

He sighed. "Getting close. You remember Mariven, right? You tried to—"

"Seduce you?" she interrupted, grinning faintly. "Yeah, I remember."

He gave her a flat look. "And I remember renting another room right after."

Her tail flicked behind her, amused. "Relax, Traf. I know you're with Mayla."

That stopped him for a moment. "You do?"

"Of course. She told me herself," Garrika said easily. "So no need to remind me."

He arched a brow. "Then you don't care that you're basically trying to make me cheat on her? Or that you'd be betraying your friend?"

She met his gaze without hesitation. "I liked you first, Trafalgar. Mayla knows that. She's not the jealous type, and you know how this works — no one blinks at someone having more than one partner. Look at your father Valttair, how many wives does he have? Four? Five?"

Trafalgar exhaled through his nose, tone steady. "Four... My father has four wives."

Garrika's eyes softened slightly, but the smile stayed. "You told me it wasn't a good time back then — that it wasn't safe. So tell me… when will it be?"

He stayed silent, staring at the dirt beneath his boots.

She looked ahead, voice quieting. "Probably never, huh? You're a Morgain. Nothing's ever simple for people like you."

Before he could respond, Garrika's expression shifted — her nose wrinkled, ears twitching sharply.

"We've arrived," she said, tone suddenly focused.

Trafalgar straightened, the earlier tension fading from his face. Still, her words lingered in his head. 'Probably never, huh? I don't know myself.'

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