The scene in front of him was exactly what he’d anticipated—and worse.

Roen was on the ground a few meters from the cart’s side, bleeding from a wound on the left side of his abdomen that no minor healing skill was going to close in time. He was conscious, pressing the wound with one hand, his eyes fixed on what was happening with Liaraen, unable to do anything about it.

Liaraen was sitting on the ground three meters from the guide. Two men held her by the arms. Not with brute force, but with the specific professional efficiency of people who know the merchandise isn’t damaged before delivery. She wasn’t fighting.

Beside her, on the ground, was the box. Open. Waiting.

Around them, in a wide encirclement formation, were six more men. Three with visible Seals glowing with intensity. One Solrath bearer. One Velrin bearer. One with a Seal Nathan didn’t recognize but that had the specific signature of the major Pillars. The other three were support—no visible Seals but clearly armed and trained.

And at the front of the group, directing the operation, stood a tall man, around fifty years old, dressed in light black leather armor reinforced with silver plates on his shoulders and chest. He had the Seal of Solrath engraved on the back of his right hand. His Class radiated the specific signature of A-Rank.

*This isn’t one of Brenwick’s search teams.*

*This is an extraction team sent directly by the Table.*

Liaraen saw Nathan first.

Her eyes focused on him. For a full second, she maintained her perfect aristocratic expression. Then, without any of the men holding her noticing, her eyes moistened very slightly. It wasn’t a tear. It was recognition.

*He came. He came. Of course he came.*

The man in the center turned toward where Liaraen was looking.

He saw Nathan.

He raised his eyebrows with controlled surprise.

"Well," he said, in a deep, unhurried voice. "Hunter Voss. In person."

Nathan walked three more steps toward the group.

He stopped approximately fifteen meters from the encirclement.

Soul Sense, already at maximum, registered everything: positions, distances, active Seals, approximate Ranks, firing lines, cover, tactical options. His brain processed the information in less than two seconds.

And then he said, in exactly the same tone he’d used with the guild receptionist on the first day:

"Leave the girl alone."

The man in the center looked at him.

Smiled slightly.

"Or what exactly, Hunter?"

Nathan looked back.

He didn’t respond immediately.

Soul Sense kept feeding him data. The Solrath bearer in the center: A-Rank. The two holding Liaraen: B-Rank. The Velrin bearer: B-Rank. The bearer of the unknown Seal: A-Rank. The three support: D, D, C.

*Eight targets. Three with high Ranks. I’m Level 5 with newly unlocked skills I’ve never tested in real combat against bearers of this level.*

*If I lose this fight, Liaraen goes back in the box. Back to the southern noble. Her life ends in conditions I don’t want to imagine.*

*If I win, I save everything.*

*If I lose, I lose everything.*

*Good.*

"My name is Nathan Voss," Nathan said out loud, looking at the leader. "Hunter of the Greywall Guild. F-Rank. I have approximately two minutes to hear any reasonable offer you have for this to end without me having to do what I’m going to do if you don’t give me a reasonable offer."

The leader looked at him for a second.

Then he laughed. It wasn’t a cruel laugh. It was the specific laugh of someone who had been in their trade long enough to genuinely find the audacity of an F-Rank trying to negotiate entertaining.

"Hunter Voss. You’re more interesting than I expected. I’ll give you a reasonable offer, yes. Turn around. Walk back to Greywall. Forget what you saw today. We forget you were here. The merchandise completes its transfer to the final client, you keep your life, and we all go about our days."

"No."

"That’s not reasonable on your part."

"No, it isn’t." Nathan took one more step toward the group. "But the situation doesn’t allow me to be reasonable."

"Hunter. Look around you. Count the Seals. Calculate the Ranks. You’re alone. You’re F-Rank. This isn’t a fight. It’s a decision to walk out alive or not."

"I know."

"And still?"

"Still."

There was a silence.

The leader looked at him for one more second. And for the first time, the smile faded slightly. Not from fear. From the professional recognition that something about Nathan’s face didn’t match an F-Rank.

*Soul Sense also works both ways when the other person is using it,* Nathan thought. *And this guy clearly has some detection ability. He’s sensing something in me that doesn’t match my official rank.*

"What’s your exact Class, Hunter?" the leader asked.

"That’s not relevant to the conversation."

"I think it is."

"I think it isn’t."

The leader looked at him a moment longer.

Then nodded.

"Fine, Hunter Voss. If you insist on this position, we’re going to have to proceed."

He made a gesture with his left hand.

The six men in the encirclement reorganized into combat formation. The two holding Liaraen lifted her with an efficient movement and put her on her feet, holding her with the same firmness but now prepared to move her quickly. The Velrin bearer drew two short swords. The bearer of the unknown Seal extended his hands. The leader—the Solrath bearer—drew a longsword with its blade wrapped in a controlled flame that appeared as soon as the edge left the sheath.

"Last chance," the leader said.

Nathan looked at Liaraen.

Liaraen looked back.

Then, very slightly, she nodded.

It was permission. It was the most insufferable elven noble he’d ever met telling him, without words, *it’s okay. Whatever you have to do.*

Nathan turned to the leader.

"I’m going to count to three," Nathan said, in the calmest voice he’d used in the entire conversation. "And if Liaraen isn’t free when I finish, I’m going to do something you’re not going to understand until it’s already done."

"Hunter. You’re dying for a girl you barely know."

"One."

"This is statistically unnecessary."

"Two."

The leader raised his sword.

"Three."

Nathan extended both hands.

And activated Death’s Domain for the first time in his life.

---

The sensation was unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

Death’s Domain wasn’t an explosion. It was an expansion. A cold wave, not visible to the eye, but perceptible to any living being within a fifteen-meter radius. The air temperature dropped. The light seemed to darken slightly. The birds in the nearby trees went silent all at once.

And within the domain’s radius, every living being not specifically protected against the skill received a secondary effect that the System’s description had mentioned but Nathan hadn’t processed until this moment.

*Anyone caught within the domain without protective enchantment briefly perceives their own death.*

The six men in the encirclement froze.

Not physically. Their eyes snapped open. Some dropped their weapons. The Velrin bearer fell to his knees. The bearer of the unknown Seal began to tremble. The three supports simply collapsed—alive, but unable to process what their minds had just shown them.

Only the leader remained standing.

But his face lost all color.

And the two men holding Liaraen released her, because their hands stopped responding to their brains.

Liaraen, free, stood in the center of the domain.

Nathan looked at her.

Liaraen looked back at him.

She wasn’t affected.

"Come toward me, Sprout," Nathan said calmly. "Slowly."

Liaraen walked toward him. She passed beside the paralyzed leader. Reached Nathan’s side.

Nathan didn’t look at her yet. His eyes were on the leader.

"You have two options," Nathan said, without raising his voice. "One. You leave. Pick up your men. Walk back to wherever you came from and report to the Table that the operation failed. Two. You continue. And you find out what the skill I just used actually is at ten percent."

The leader stared at him.

His face was still colorless.

"What are you?" he asked, in a voice that was no longer the professional one from two minutes ago.

"I’m an F-Rank Hunter," Nathan said. "That’s all you need to know."

The leader was silent for a moment.

Then he lowered his sword.

"I’m going to pick up my men," he said. "And I’m going to leave."

"Good choice. But on second thought, leave one behind—don’t worry, he won’t die."

"But Hunter Voss. This doesn’t end here. The Table is going to know what happened today. And the Table doesn’t forget."

"I know."

"And they’re going to come specifically for you."

"I know that too."

"And that doesn’t worry you?"

Nathan looked at him for a moment.

"It worries me, honestly, but not today. Today isn’t the day for that."

The leader nodded slowly.

He began lifting the men who had fallen. His movements were slow, controlled—those of someone who had seen something that was going to take quite a while to process internally and knew the moment for processing wasn’t now.

Nathan kept Death’s Domain active for exactly the two minutes the leader needed to gather his team, collect the fallen weapons, and begin withdrawing along the road leading north.

When the eight men were approximately a hundred meters away, Nathan deactivated the skill.

The air temperature returned to normal. The light regained its brightness. The birds, slowly, began to move again in the trees.

Liaraen, beside Nathan, looked at him.

"That skill," she said carefully, "is theologically concerning."

"It is."

"You just made eight high-Rank professionals see their own deaths."

"Apparently I did."

"Did you know it would do that?"

"I’d read it in the skill description."

"Had you tested it?"

"No."

"Is this the first time you’ve used it?"

"Yes."

Liaraen looked at him for a moment.

"Hunter Nathan Voss."

"Yes?"

"When you come to dinner with my father, I ask that you please not mention this specific skill."

"Alright."

"I’m going to invent a different version of events for the official report."

"I appreciate that."

"Roen."

"Yes."

Nathan approached the fallen guide. Soul Sense confirmed that Roen was still alive, but the wound was serious and he was going to need immediate attention. He crouched beside him.

"Roen. Hang on. We’re taking you back to Selene."

"Hunter," Roen said, his voice weak. "The journey."

"The journey gets reorganized. Don’t worry about that now."

"The lady."

"The lady is fine. She’s here."

Liaraen approached. She knelt on the other side of the guide.

"Roen," she said, in a voice that was no longer completely aristocratic. "I’m going to apply what little I know of Yeva’s magic to your wound. It’s not much. But it can slow the bleeding enough to get you to the city."

Roen nodded.

Liaraen placed her hands over the wound. A faint green light began to glow beneath her palms. The Seal of Yeva on her forearm illuminated slightly. The blood escaping from the wound slowed to a slow drip.

"That buys time," Liaraen said. "But it’s not a cure. He needs a real healer."

"We’ll handle that at Selene’s house," Nathan said.

He lifted Roen between the two of them. They carried him to the cart. Liaraen climbed onto the driver’s seat. Nathan sat in the back with Roen propped against his shoulder.

And the cart began to move back toward Greywall.

Toward Selene’s house.

Where Nathan was going to plan what he was going to do with the man they’d left behind.