After what felt like hours, the group finally reached a clearing where the signs of an abandoned camp began to emerge through the misty dusk. The fire pit was long dead, a black crater in the earth surrounded by broken stones. Torn canvas fluttered from half-collapsed tents. Discarded gear littered the edges, as if dropped in haste or left behind with a promise to return.
Timur was the first to react. His eyes scanned the familiar chaos with a grunt of recognition. “Oh, nothing’s gone yet. Good,” he muttered, and immediately began striding toward the remnants.
Melisande didn’t speak. Her steps quickened as her eyes landed on a small, half-crushed wooden crate—the faint clinking inside unmistakable. She dropped to her knees beside it, opening the lid with a mix of urgency and reverence.
“Still intact,” she murmured, relief softening her usually chipper tone. “Thank the stars.”
Inside, neatly lined rows of potions glimmered faintly—some for healing, some for stamina, others marked in the distinctive black-stoppered glass of curse purging.
A short distance away, Gorak bent down beside a massive pack—more a boulder than a backpack, the kind only a true brute could carry across miles of dead land. With slow, deliberate movements, he began checking the straps, the weight, the blade compartments.
Timur had veered toward a weapons rack—really just a fallen log with a few blades leaned against it—and began inspecting a short sword. His current ones, still sheathed, were visibly bent and notched beyond use. He gave the blade a few testing swings through the air.
“This camp looks too large for just four people,” Ludwig said, watching the activity. His tone was quiet, but the observation was pointed.
“It is,” Timur replied without looking back. He ran a calloused thumb along the edge of the blade, testing sharpness. “We were eleven.”
Robin, who had been silent for much of the walk, finally spoke. “Only four of us made it to the March.”
His words landed like a stone in still water. No elaboration. No dramatics.
Just fact.
Ludwig’s gaze drifted over the camp again. Eleven. And now only four. That explained the strange arrangement—the surplus of tents, the rations, the spare gear that seemed untouched and the bloodstains. A memory frozen mid-sentence.
Melisande stood slowly, clutching a folded bundle of clothes to her chest. She hesitated.
Ludwig turned toward her. The clothes didn’t match her frame—too wide at the shoulders, too long at the hem.
“Your change of clothes?” he asked. He paused. “They look… slightly oversized.”
She blinked, then smiled—gently, but with effort.
“These were Tanya’s,” she said softly. “A sister of mine. She didn’t make it.”
The way she spoke, the pause before the name, told Ludwig everything he needed. There was pain there—but not fresh. Worn pain, shaped and reshaped until it could be held without breaking.
“But at least we’re alive,” she added quickly, brightly. Too brightly.
Timur gave a heavy exhale as he straightened with the new weapon in hand. His back cracked audibly. “I don’t know how I’ll tell her husband,” he muttered. “Or her kids.”
“She was still a member of the Order,” Melisande replied. Her voice was steadier now. “They’ll take care of her.”
Ludwig caught that. Not we—but they. She had distanced herself from the Holy Order with a single word. A quiet severance.
But he didn’t press. Whatever reasons led her away from them, they weren’t his to uncover.
Timur sheathed the sword with a grunt and turned to face Ludwig fully.
“Most of us have someone waiting back home,” he said. “A spouse. A parent. A kid. Life’s hard for folks like us. Adventuring’s dangerous, yes, but for a lot of us—it’s the only way to live better than the dirt we were born in.”
He paused, then added, “Sir Davon, you’ve got the air of nobility about you. Might seem like all this is thrilling—heart-pounding, blood-rushing, a grand tale waiting to be written. But take it from me—don’t treat your life like it’s expendable.”
Ludwig raised a brow slightly. “What do you mean by that?”
Timur folded his arms. His voice was quieter now, steadier. Less gruff. More honest.
“The life of an adventurer starts and ends by the blade,” he said. “We don’t get peaceful ends. We don’t grow old. We survive until we don’t. And I’ve seen plenty of strong folk—stronger than you, even—get taken out by the simplest trap in the book.”
He stepped forward slightly.
“Do you know why D-rank adventurers have a higher survival rate than C-ranks?”
Ludwig tilted his head. “I know the system in outline. But no, I don’t know why.”
Timur grinned. But there was no humor in it.
“Because C-ranks get cocky. Especially the ones who start there. Talented kids who never had to fail. They think it’s all beneath them. And that’s how they die. Arrogance kills faster than any monster.”
He paused, then added, “F-ranks? They know they’re weak. They plan. They prepare. They survive.”
He pointed a finger at Ludwig—not accusatory, but firm.
“You’re strong. Probably B-rank easy, maybe even A. But the way you talk about heading to the Dawn Islands? That’s C-rank thinking. That’s ‘I’m special, I’ll be fine’ thinking.”
Ludwig didn’t flinch. But the words did not pass over him lightly.
He couldn’t explain that he had already died. That death—true death—was complicated for him now. That so long as the Price was met, he could return.
But even that wasn’t certain anymore. Not since the Moon Flayed King had twisted that safety into a question mark.
“I understand your concern,” Ludwig said quietly. “And if the situation is too dangerous, I’ll withdraw. For the time being.”
That got Robin’s attention. He nodded once. “That’s a good answer.”
Melisande smiled again—this time warmer, less forced.
“You didn’t say you’d give up,” she said, tapping him lightly on the back. “Just that you’d wait. That’s the mindset of someone worth keeping around.”
Her eyes shimmered slightly. But there were no tears.
Only poise.
Ludwig watched her for a moment. He wondered how many pieces of herself she’d hidden behind that smile. How many she’d left back at this camp.
“Alright,” Timur said, slapping his gloves together. “South it is. Let’s keep moving!”
And with that, the group resumed their path, leaving the half-empty camp behind, and the ghosts of those who didn’t.