The army of Casimiro moved in disciplined formation through the dense expanse of the Fiora Forest, their presence marked by the rhythmic clinking of metal and the rustling of undergrowth beneath their steps.
The force was diverse, consisting of Lionkin warriors, their imposing frames exuding raw strength, Cervitaurs whose graceful yet powerful strides allowed them to navigate the terrain with ease, and a lone Harengon, whose presence stood out among the ranks.
Each soldier was clad in armor, the metallic sheen catching glimpses of filtered sunlight that broke through the thick canopy above.
Their weapons, a mix of swords, spears, and bows, rested at the ready. The air around them carried a sense of purpose—this was no mere march but a movement with intent.
At the head of the formation strode Keiran, his posture relaxed yet commanding. Unlike his armored comrades, he bore no protective plating.
Instead, his attire reflected his status, a direct result of the flourishing trade between Casimiro and Harheim. He was clad in a black suit, the fabric woven with intricate patterns of pure gold that shimmered subtly with each movement. The back of his suit bore a custom socket, seamlessly designed to allow his wings to emerge without obstruction when he chose to summon them.
His black pants bore a distinctive feature—a chain forged from a black steel alloy, attached to his belt. It swayed with his steps, producing a faint yet distinct sound with each motion.
His feet were secured in black combat boots, sturdy and well-crafted, built for both travel and battle.
The journey to the Silverfang tribe was arduous, stretching across unforgiving landscapes.
Jagged cliffs loomed over treacherous paths, and raging rivers threatened to sweep away the unwary.
Each step tested endurance, and every night was spent under the open sky, with only the crackling of campfires to break the silence of the wild.
Days passed before the first glimpse of the tribe came into view.
Morning light revealed a settlement of moderate size, encircled by tall wooden spike walls that stood as its primary defense. The walls bore signs of wear, some sections reinforced hastily, hinting at past struggles.
As the approaching force drew nearer, a deep, resonant horn echoed from within the tribe.
The call was met with movement—wolfkin warriors emerging from behind the walls.
They were thin, their frames lacking the strength expected of seasoned fighters. Their youthful faces carried the weight of hardship, their hollow eyes betraying hunger and exhaustion.
At first, their stance was tense, weapons in hand, poised for confrontation. But as recognition dawned upon them, their wariness faded.
Relief washed over their expressions, and their grips on their weapons loosened. The sight of those arriving was not one of impending battle but of something else entirely—perhaps hope.
Keiran and his forces approached the Wolfkin citizens, who observed them with cautious eyes.
The atmosphere was tense, as if the tribe had been through hardships that left them wary of outsiders. Some among them bore signs of malnutrition and exhaustion, their bodies lean and worn.
At the center of the group stood their leader—a Wolfkin with gray hair, appearing no older than seventeen. His frame was disturbingly thin, his body riddled with scars that spoke of countless battles or severe mistreatment.
Yet despite his frail appearance, there was no mistaking the aura of strength surrounding him. His posture, the way the others instinctively looked to him for guidance, and the sharpness in his eyes all signified that he was the most powerful among them.
[Common: Wolfkin — Level 9.]
And that was a very bad sign.
If the strongest warrior in the tribe was someone so young and so physically weakened, it meant the Wolfkin had suffered immense losses.
They had been reduced to a state where even a half-starved adolescent had to take charge. Whatever had happened to them, Keiran knew one thing for certain—this was not the tribe at its full strength.
The leader bowed, his trembling young body pushed to its limit as he struggled to maintain composure. His voice, though steady, carried the weight of exhaustion and desperation as he spoke.
"Greetings, people of the nation of Casimiro. I am Brei Silverfang, the current leader of the tribe. Welcome to our humble tribe."
Keiran stepped forward, his posture firm and commanding, yet respectful. He returned the bow with measured grace, his voice clear and unwavering.
"I am Keiran Graywood, the ruler of the nation of Casimiro. We have come to aid you in defending against the invasion of demons."
A visible sense of relief washed over Brei's face. His tense shoulders relaxed slightly, and he let out a soft breath before offering a grateful smile.
"I am grateful that you answered our call for help," he said sincerely.
Without hesitation, Brei turned and gestured for Keiran and his forces to follow. He led them through the tribe's settlement, moving with urgency but ensuring he remained a proper host.
As Keiran walked through the tribe's grounds, his sharp eyes immediately took note of the state of the homes. The structures were hastily built, their foundations weak and unsteady.
Many looked as though they could collapse with the lightest push, barely able to withstand a strong gust of wind.
The urgency of their situation was clear—these people had little time to construct proper shelters, likely having been forced into this position by the looming demon threat.
Brei seemed to read what Keiran noticed and let out a weary sigh before speaking. "This is just a temporary settlement for us. Our home at the foot of the mountain, where the demon camps had gathered, was destroyed. We are the only ones who remain after their siege." His voice carried a deep sense of loss.
Greon, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke up. "Have you decided where to settle permanently?" His tone was calm, but there was a trace of concern.
Brei shook his head, his expression darkening. "It's difficult to find a safe place when demon invasions are happening in every corner of the forest. No matter where we go, they are always there, destroying everything in their path. We've already lost so much." His voice wavered slightly, though he quickly steadied himself.
Keiran met Brei's gaze, his expression unreadable. "Then you can live with us in Casimiro," he offered without hesitation.
Brei's eyes widened slightly, surprised by the proposal. He lowered his gaze and exhaled. "It would be an honor," he admitted, "but I've heard that your nation is home to the most powerful forces in the Forest of Fiora. I don't think weaklings like us have the right to live in such a place." A bitter smile formed on his lips, as if the mere thought of stepping foot in Casimiro was beyond his reach.
Keiran didn't answer. Instead, he simply watched Brei in silence, his expression unreadable.
Keiran's eyes wandered to the remaining survivors of the Silverfang tribe.
The children were malnourished, their frail bodies barely able to stand. Their sunken eyes carried exhaustion, fear, and the quiet acceptance of their inevitable fate.
There were no adults—only a group of thin teenagers who struggled to keep the younger ones safe. Whether the adults had been slaughtered by demons or fallen victim to the unforgiving nature of the forest, Keiran did not know. But their absence was painfully clear.
Using mana observation, Keiran sensed the overwhelming presence of powerful monsters lurking within the area. Their strength was far beyond what a group of starving Wolfkin could ever hope to challenge.
The Silverfangs, once known as fierce hunters, had been reduced to prey.
If the demons had not yet taken them, then starvation certainly would. Their bodies, already weak from hunger, stood little chance against the merciless forces that roamed the forest.
Their eyes, hollow yet pleading, turned to Keiran. Their request for help was not born out of mere desperation—it was their last and only hope.
There was no other path left for them. Either Keiran extended his hand, or the Silverfangs would disappear from the world altogether.
This moment weighed heavily on him. He had taken up the role of a hero, but situations like these made him question how much he truly understood about what that meant.
Strength alone would not be enough to save everyone. The suffering of the weak, the struggles of those left behind—Keiran had never fully considered just how dire things were in the depths of the Fiora Forest.
If he was to call himself a hero, he needed to learn. And fast.