Riven had never expected luck like this to come his way. His heart pounded so hard it felt as though it might break free from his chest. His hands still trembled slightly as he stared at the sword, as if he could not quite believe the thing before him was real. His eyes gleamed, catching faint reflections of moonlight that slipped through gaps in the clouds.

If he sold this sword, added it to the pile of weapons he had gathered tonight, and combined that with the few coins he and Melly had painstakingly saved over the years, perhaps they could stop.

No more stepping into battlefields filled with corpses and cold winds. No more breathing air heavy with the reek of blood and rotting flesh. No more nights haunted by the thought that tomorrow he might never return home.

His mind ran wild, painting visions of the future. Melly’s face came to him, smiling softly, free from hunger and worry. For a brief moment, warmth spread in his chest. Hope swelled there, rekindling something that had almost been extinguished over the years. His eyes shone differently that night—not only with gloom or despair, but with light… hope, ambition, and faintly, the glimmer of a madness beginning to grow.

‘I’m rich,’ he whispered once more inside his head. The words echoed, loud and triumphant, drowning out every sound of the night.

Riven bit his lower lip until it nearly bled. Quickly, he crouched down, his thin yet deft hands reaching for a torn piece of cloth from a nearby corpse. His fingers brushed the scorched edges of the fabric, sticky with dried blood. The stench of iron stung his nose, but he made no complaint.

With swift movements, he wrapped the sword. He pulled the cloth tight, looping it over and over until the blade was fully hidden. His fingers worked with care, pressing and tucking as though handling a fragile masterpiece.

When he was sure no gleam of metal or suspicious outline remained, he tied the bundle to his waist with an old leather strap. His hands trembled once, but when the knot tightened, he exhaled deeply, satisfied, and let his ragged cloak fall over it.

He paused. Tilting his head upward, he looked at the sky. The night had grown utterly dark. A pale moon drifted behind the clouds like the weary eye of a god tired of watching human tragedy. The wind swept cold across the grass, making the wild stalks sway. From far away came the long, piercing howl of a beast—wolf, perhaps, or something far worse. Yet for the first time that night, Riven felt no fear. Only resolve.

His gaze shifted back to the corpses around him. His face hardened once more. The light of hope dimmed in his eyes, sharpening into focus. His hands moved again, busy scavenging, pulling whatever might hold value from one body after another.

At last, when both arms were full, he decided it was time to leave. Riven seized the large cloth bundle of loot, slinging it across his back even as the weight made him stagger. His breath came heavy, but his lips curled into a thin smile. Not a smile of joy, but one of determination. He began the climb toward the hill where Melly was waiting.

Each step dragged, not with doubt, but with the weight of the sack gnawing at his shoulders. His thin frame swayed, yet he did not falter. Not tonight. Tonight, his body and mind were carried by newfound fire. Still, every sense remained alert.

He moved cautiously, placing each step so as not to crack a branch or strike loose metal that might ring in the silence. His breath was controlled, his face taut, cold sweat dripping from his temples despite the night air cutting deep into his bones.

Then, beneath the faint glow of the moon, Riven froze.

His eyes narrowed. There was someone ahead of him, not too far. A grown man. Broad-shouldered. He was reaching into a corpse, pulling something loose. From that distance, Riven could see it clearly: the gleam of a large shield lifted from the hands of a dead soldier.

Riven held his breath at once. His heart thundered again. Tension carved across his face. His brows furrowed, his jaw clenched.

‘Damn it,’ he cursed inwardly.

The man was clearly a scavenger. Just like him. But his presence was a problem. He stood directly in Riven’s path back to the hill.

Riven sank lower, hiding behind a mound of corpses. He slowed his breathing, keeping his eyes fixed on the man’s every move.

Carefully, Riven chose to retreat. He stepped backward, slow and deliberate, trying to circle around, searching for another route that would take him back to the hill without crossing paths with the scavenger. His body moved soundlessly, a shadow slipping between ruins and the dead.

But suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck bristled at a faint sound.

Something was there. He could feel it.

Slowly, he turned his head. His chest tightened, every muscle tensed. He realized… someone, or perhaps several people, were following him.

Riven held his breath, forcing his steps to remain steady though his skin prickled cold. He didn’t know how many stalked him. One? Two? More? The thought spun wildly in his head, a sick churn in his gut.

He kept his face calm, as though unaware of anything. Yet his heartbeat thundered louder, pounding in his ears.

‘Since when did they notice me?’ he thought. His gaze flicked toward the dark line of trees skirting the battlefield. Perhaps that scavenger he had seen wasn’t alone. Perhaps he was part of a group, and the rest had spotted him.

Riven swallowed hard, his throat dry as sand. He weighed his options. ‘Do I have to abandon all this loot?’ he thought bitterly. This was the fruit of his risk, his struggle for life among corpses and beasts. If he left it, all would be wasted. Yet if he clung to it, he might be caught or killed.

His teeth clenched, jaw tightening until his cheeks strained. His pace quickened without him realizing, and then—under the pale glow of the moon—his eyes caught sight of a shattered war wagon lying beside a massive crater.

He stopped abruptly. His shoulders heaved as he shrugged the heavy bundle from his back, dropping the sack of scavenged weapons to the dusty ground with a muffled thud.

His breath was ragged, but his gaze was sharp. Only the sword at his waist remained, the most valuable, and the easiest to wield should the need arise.

“To hell with it,” he whispered under his breath, bitter venom in his tone.

Then he ran.

Every muscle tightened as his legs carried him forward, lighter now but burning with urgency. His body leaned into the sprint, steps forced light to muffle sound. His eyes darted, scanning left and right for gaps, for cover among the broken field. His ragged cloak whipped faintly behind him, caught in the night wind.

He controlled his breath, in and out, keeping it steady. His heart hammered harder than ever, but he mastered it.

Riven pressed on, running through the battlefield shadows. His face was dark, but his eyes burned with cold, unshakable resolve.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep