The boat continued to rock, swaying gently yet uneasily upon the water, as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed from deep within the mist.
Each step carried a strange weight, pressing against the silence like a hammer striking a hollow shell. They were deliberate, heavy, and eerily steady, reverberating through the wooden hull as if the footsteps themselves were walking upon the planks. Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn n͟o͟v͟e͟l͟f͟i͟r͟e͟.net
Veythor’s pupils constricted to sharp slits, his crimson gaze narrowing with piercing intensity. His brows knitted together in a subtle frown, the faint creases along his face tightening as his thoughts sharpened into blades.
Yet, despite the tension rippling beneath the surface, his outward demeanor remained unnervingly calm, almost statuesque.
So... they’ve arrived, have they?
The thought carried no surprise, no trace of alarm. It was neither revelation nor discovery but simply the confirmation of a truth he had long anticipated.
From the moment the mist had risen and the river had stilled, he had suspected the end would unravel in this way. No matter how he fought the current, no matter how furiously he rowed against the flow, their course was already bound.
As I thought... no matter what I do, we are destined to fall into their hands.
There was no anger in his mind, no regret clinging like a desperate shadow. Instead, there was only the clinical certainty of a man dissecting inevitability as though it were a corpse laid before him. His crimson eyes glimmered faintly in the pale haze, not with fire, but with a cold resignation that neither faltered nor broke.
The mission has failed. Failed completely, and yet... in its failure, it has still succeeded in proving what was needed.
At least Shimi will not die. That much is certain. Not that her life matters to me beyond the convenience she provides. But... it was the only benefit we could gain by willingly stepping into this snare.
And so, even in defeat, Veythor felt a bitter sliver of satisfaction. The footsteps pressed louder against the silence, breaking it apart piece by piece. They drew nearer, slow and inexorable, until the air itself seemed to thicken.
The mist churned, disturbed as though something vast were cutting through it. Within that shifting veil, a vague shadow stirred... faint at first, an indistinct silhouette moving like a phantom. But slowly, steadily, it began to sharpen, the lines of its figure forming with dreadful clarity. The haze peeled away in layers, until finally the shape stood revealed.... a man emerged.
Veythor did not even flinch. He was not surprised.... he had already seen this outcome with his mind’s eye long before it manifested.
It was exactly as he had anticipated: one of the masked men. This one wore a pelt of animal furs draped over his shoulders, his presence exuding the aura of a predator long accustomed to the hunt. In his hand he carried not a weapon but a prize. Shimi’s limp body dangled helplessly from his grip, her head lolling, her breath shallow but steady.
So... they’ve already retrieved the treasure.
A cold laugh flickered through Veythor’s chest, though it never reached his lips. It lived only in the hollow of his heart, silent and sharp.
Even here.... standing at the very threshold of death he felt its bitter pull. If anything, the thought made him want to laugh aloud, to unleash a mocking howl of defiance into the face of inevitability. A faint smirk betrayed him, curling at the corner of his mouth, crooked and wry.
Thinking back... just how many times have I stood at death’s door?
The thought tasted like iron. He let out a dry, rasping chuckle, the sound more bone than breath.
"Heh... fuck, I’ve lost count."
The masked man suddenly moved, his body snapping forward with the force of a coiled spring. His leg lashed out, driving a vicious front kick straight toward Veythor’s chest. Crimson eyes flashed, widening briefly, but his body reacted with perfect instinct. He slid back in an instant, feet scraping hard against the wooden floor as he narrowly avoided the strike.
But his retreat carried him into something solid. The collision was harsh, unyielding. Veythor twisted his head, gaze cutting sharply behind him... another figure.
This one stood bare-chested, his skin glistening, his body still dripping with the remnants of river water. In his arms hung Raika, limp, powerless and unconscious gripped with brutal certainty. The man’s silent presence pressed down like a wall, the mist around them thickening, suffocating, as though the very air sought to close the cage tighter with every breath.
No chance of victory... but I won’t surrender without fighting back.
The fur-draped man advanced again. His leg swept low this time, a predator’s strike aimed at taking Veythor’s legs from beneath him. Yet Veythor’s body surged upward like a blade drawn from its sheath, leaping over the attack with startling swiftness. The kick struck not him but the bare-chested man’s calf instead.
The man staggered with a cry, his body dropping to one knee in pain.
Veythor landed like a hawk, and in that fleeting opening, he struck. His body lunged forward, all force compressed into a single movement, his knee snapping upward. The blow crashed against the man’s face... more precisely, against the mask that hid it.
The impact was brutal. The mask split into two jagged halves, fragments scattering. The man reeled backward, his grip on Raika breaking as he stumbled into the river. With a violent splash, his body vanished beneath the surface.
But Veythor’s own balance betrayed him. The force of his strike, the lurch of the boat, and the mist’s suffocating weight combined to drag him off-kilter. Before he could catch his footing, his body pitched backward, and he too tumbled into the icy embrace of the river. The world went dark.
Icy water swallowed him whole, its chill biting into his skin, burrowing into his bones. His lungs strained against the sudden suffocation, his body sinking deeper and deeper into the river’s cold, blue murk. He forced his eyes open, but the world was little more than drifting silt, twisting shadows, and faint shafts of light dissolving into the abyss.
"...Isn’t it beautiful?"
The words escaped him like a secret confession, muffled in the water, yet no less true. For the first time in what felt like eternity, a genuine smile curved across his mouth.
How good it would feel... if I could remain . Forever... forever... forever. Only silence. Only this beautiful stillness. No burdens. No enemies. No worries. How peaceful it would be...
The thought lingered, delicate and fragile. Yet dreams cannot last. The darkness pressed close, swallowing even that fleeting illusion whole.
He began to turn his head, just barely, when the world jolted again. Something hard, brutal, and unseen smashed against his skull. Pain bloomed white-hot, flashing through his senses like lightning.
His thoughts shattered in an instant.