Forest Keeper

The Ardar Forest was no place for quiet lives.

Monsters and bandits swarmed its vast depths. Patrols did sweep through from time to time—the border was near—but none of them pushed into the deep thickets.

Anyone with sense skirted the forest along the narrow southern stretch, the part shaped like a hammer's haft. A man only had one life, after all.

The man in question had lived in that dangerous forest anyway. He was a commoner, but he held a title: Forest Keeper.

Truth be told, he had never done much actual keeping.

The world was hard. People died without pause, and everyone stumbled forward blind, groping for a future they could never quite see. Raising a family in any kind of peace was next to impossible, so the Keeper had learned to avoid risk. He let most of a keeper's duties slide.

Sheltering refugees fell under the same logic.

The slash-and-burn farmers who came to him needed somewhere to hide and food for empty bellies. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut, and they could survive. It wasn't pure goodwill—he took a portion of their harvest as the price of silence, and the arrangement suited him.

He was a Forest Keeper. He knew which ground was safe and which was not. There was no real trouble.

Of course, if the Duke of Hilsinger's men ever caught on, things would go badly. But they never ventured into the Ardar Forest to investigate. They knew the woods were deadly. They would show up, ask the necessary questions, and leave. So the Forest Keeper kept his hidden farmers and skimmed his profit.

It was a decent stretch of time. There were small gains, even if the whole business was illegal, and his sons and daughters loved playing with the farmers' children.

So the Forest Keeper let himself believe it would last forever.

But there were too many farmers to stay hidden for long. Sightings inevitably trickled out. Trade between the Kingdom of Bida, the Kallus Empire, and the Mountain Kingdom had thinned, but it hadn't vanished—and that was the trouble.

The farmers never noticed, but the people who spotted them went to the lord and collected a bounty.

Eventually the lord's soldiers came. They cut across the Ardar Forest, rooted out the farmers, and delivered punishment. The lord's agent seized illegally grown narcotic plants from some, jailed the ringleaders. Countless others were flogged. A few died.

The Forest Keeper watched the whole tragedy from a short distance away.

That distance bred a misunderstanding. The farmers decided he was the one who had informed on them.

After the agent left, they seized the Forest Keeper. Enraged and grieving, they beat his son. The boy couldn't endure it. He died, and his corpse was strung up from the tallest tree in the Ardar Forest.

A mother shrieked. A father wept. Amid the wailing, the daughter followed. Then the daughter and the wife hung from the branches.

Writhing in spiritual agony, the Forest Keeper demanded to know why. They condemned him in answer.

"None of this would have happened if you hadn't squealed. People are dead because of you! It's all your fault!"

Then they hanged him too—strung him up high on that vast tree alongside his family.

As the rope tightened and his life ebbed, the Forest Keeper heard a voice.

It was too beautiful to be human, yet utterly devoid of life. A voice offering him power.

The words were incomprehensible. The tone was cold, mechanical, merciless. But its intent was simple, and what it asked of him was simple.

An evil god whispered, and the man threw away his soul without hesitation—for revenge.

And with that mechanical voice still echoing inside him, he became a Priest of the Predator.

The first thing the new priest did was slaughter every last farmer with his body of steel.

After that, a tree in the Ardar Forest bloomed with dozens of strangled corpses.

*

"It's a little uncomfortable. I can't seem to settle my nerves..."

"Just wear it. If you get hurt now, there's no undoing it."

At Aslan's reproach, Ereta pouted and answered, "All right."

The black habit she'd worn for years was now nothing but tattered rags that no longer functioned as clothing. The rest of the party was in the same state. Everyone except Fay had to buy new garments, cloaks, and armor.

Even aside from clothing, they needed plenty. No food, no basic relief supplies, barely any survival gear worth the name. They needed to resupply.

So Aslan led them to Erastide—still within the ducal domain, but far from the main quest's reach.

Standing in the market, Aslan felt the trip had been worth it. He singled out a serviceable leather breastplate and a padded gambeson from a stall, paid a few silver coins. Not a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bad price.

I can't afford to pass up even a small edge. You never know when things will go wrong.

If spending money could prevent an otherwise inevitable death, he would spend it gladly. Dying with coins still in your pouch was meaningless. Aslan wasn't the type of gamer who hoarded potions all the way to the final boss and then stared at the ending screen. He calculated, allocated, and spent aggressively the moment a risk appeared on the horizon.

So when Ereta muttered with a sulky expression, "It's not pretty at all," Aslan ignored her and strapped the leather breastplate onto her body. Her well-rounded chest gave the armor a slightly pronounced silhouette.

"Ugh, it's stuffy."

"Bear it. If a little stuffiness can save your life, that's a bargain."

"Well, that's true, but... it's not pretty."

"Nobody turns ugly just because their clothes aren't pretty. You've got a pretty face to begin with, so it hardly matters."

Ereta caught the words slipped in between his scolding. She stared at him, eyes wide, breath caught. The expression on her face looked almost shy.

"Just now..."

Aslan pretended not to notice the emotion flickering through her pink eyes and said, "If you really can't stand it, buy a cloak and wrap it over. Covering it up should help."

"...All right."

Ereta smiled faintly and hummed to herself as she picked out a cloak.

"How's this? Pretty?"

She asked it pointedly. Aslan didn't flinch at the direct question; he just nodded.

"It suits you. Looks pretty."

Ereta twirled in her cloak like a fledgling mercenary—leather trousers, a linen shirt, a leather breastplate over it, and a cloak on top. The result balanced practicality with something almost stylish.

Compared to the other two companions, she looked relatively presentable, and Aslan was satisfied.

Ereta took his assessment happily. She grinned with a touch of smugness and wrapped her arms around him. The stiff leather of their breastplates scraped together, and she buried her face under his chin, rubbing her cheek against his chest.

"Since I'm wearing new clothes, let me borrow a little of your scent."

"Sure. Do what you want."

His hand rose reflexively to stroke her hair, then stopped in midair. He let her press her nose to his chest and breathe in while he scanned the surroundings.

The passersby were varied—mercenaries, merchants, guards who studied them with sharp eyes. The heavy security was practically a testament to Erastide's high level of public order. Aslan was thinking it was exactly what you'd expect from the city responsible for the Duchy of Hilsinger's granary when two farmers paused at a fruit stall, and their voices reached him.

"You hear? The slash-and-burn ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠farmers in the Ardar Forest—all of 'em vanished."

"Slash-and-burn farmers? Those rotten bastards?"

"Yeah, those ones. Gone, every last one, or so they say."

"Probably fled to the Frontier Margraviate or the Mountain Kingdom, don't you think? They already got punished hard once. Even they'd have the sense to save face and run."

"That's what I'd figure. Still, that many people disappearing all at once—rumor has it the Duke himself paid a visit..."

The back-and-forth sounded like idle chatter.

Except for the words "Ardar Forest."

Aslan's brow furrowed.

Slash-and-burn farmers in the Ardar Forest? How?

The Ardar Forest was no place to settle. It was vast, dense, crawling with monsters—hardly land where people could live for long. Regular patrols had to purge it just to keep the area passable.

It was strange, yet the two farmers talked as if those farmers' existence was established fact. Rumors like that didn't appear out of nothing, and the mention of punishments suggested something had indeed happened.

The strangest part, though, was the end of the rumor: fleeing to the Mountain Kingdom or the Frontier Margraviate. Impossible.

The Frontier Margrave Aslan knew wasn't the forgiving type when it came to border intrusions. The Mountain Kingdom shunned outsiders. There was no real chance the farmers had decamped to another country.

Aslan gently pried Ereta away from his chest—she had been pressing her cheek there, breathing in a dazed, happy rhythm—and walked toward the farmers.

"...so I'm saying, the man's daughter, well... at the mill... gah!"

"Lord, you startled me! Wh-what is it? Who're you?"

"That farmer story you were just telling. I've got a few questions."

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠farmers were so startled by Aslan's sudden appearance that they dropped the apple they'd been sharing. It rolled through the dirt, soaking up muddy water.

Aslan glanced at the fruit, then fished two silver coins from his pouch.

"Mind telling me again from the start?"

*

On a map, the Ardar Forest looked like an enormous hammer.

The southern part—the handle—was narrow, so most people used that route to pass through to other regions. To avoid the forest entirely, the only alternative was a long detour north into the permafrost, so merchants usually hurried through the southern stretch with an escort.

Crossing the permafrost was no easy journey. It was common to die or be injured along the way.

Those who lacked the preparations for the permafrost but had reasons to avoid the southern route—or those who were simply confident in their skills—took the northern route instead, through the hammer-head of the forest, heading for the Mountain Kingdom.

Aslan's group fell into that category. The shortest path to the Mountain Kingdom ran straight through the hammer-head, and he was always confident in his skills.

"So we're going through the forest," Aslan explained.

Angie and Ereta both looked slightly sulky—or outright pouty. Angie stuck out her lower lip and muttered, "If we were heading to the Mountain Kingdom, you could've said so. I thought we were going back to the Duke."

"Sorry. It came to me in a flash. Should've told you sooner."

It really had come in a flash, and everyone had been asleep when it did, so that wasn't a lie. Aslan offered his belated apology, and Angie scratched her cheek, planted her hands on her hips, and declared magnanimously, "You apologized, so I'll let it go."

"If you give me a hug, I'll let it go too."

Ereta, clearly seeing an opening, made her demand without hesitation. Angie let out a blank "Ah." Ereta shot her a see-what-I-can-do smile and walked up to Aslan.

He gave an awkward grin and opened his arms. Ereta slipped into them and nestled against him, rubbing her face into his chest and breathing in his scent. By now, the gesture felt familiar.

With Ereta still clinging to him, Aslan said, "The forest is wide, so crossing will take time. But there's no need to worry. We've got a forest expert with us."

"Leave it to Fay!"

Fay declared it with a clear, bright nod, and soon the party entered the woods.

The Ardar Forest was a classic conifer wood. Needle-like leaves grew in countless spikes, breaking the sunlight into tiny flecks scattered across the ground. The trees were thick and plentiful, and every so often the cold wind from the permafrost slipped between them.

As that chill stirred the fallen needles and shook the branches, Aslan spotted a village through the trunks.

"Aslan! There's a village!"

"Village" was generous. Most of the structures weren't even log cabins—barely frames of rough timber with branches and leaves hastily piled on top. They laid bare a life of crushing poverty. A refuge for people who had lived worse than animals. In Aslan's eyes, this was the land of the rumored slash-and-burn farmers.

The party spread out to search. Everything they saw looked faded, not long abandoned.

"Fay, circle around. Let me know if you find anything."

"On it!"

Fay sprang lightly from tree to tree and vanished into the distance. Aslan, meanwhile, picked out traces right away. Signs of combat—utterly one-sided combat.

Some plows and farming tools were laid out in neat rows, but others were broken and scattered across the dirt. Spatters of blood marked the ground. Aslan swept his gaze over the signs and moved deeper into the settlement. A growing sense of revulsion crept over him.

At first he'd assumed monsters or bandits, but there were no weapons besides the shattered farm tools. No monster carcasses, no distinct feeding marks. The village was clean of bodies, as if a single overwhelming force had vaporized or abducted everyone.

The feeling was familiar—intimately, unpleasantly familiar. Aslan's face twisted in distaste, then hardened.

At the outermost edge of the village, he found a split in the crude palisade. The cut was unmistakable: a slash from a superheated blade. In this world, there was only one kind of creature that carried such a weapon.

A priest.

A Warrior Monk? Or maybe...

Aslan's hand was moving toward the longsword at his hip when Fay landed beside him in a neat somersault. She reported what she'd seen, and Aslan set off through the trees with her, face set. Angie and Ereta drew their weapons and followed, taut with tension.

Not far from the farmers' settlement—less than five minutes on foot—the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠path Fay led them down ended at a colossal old tree.

The tree stood easily twenty meters tall, and its branches were heavy with human bodies hanging like strange fruit. They were decayed, but the wire nooses around their necks held them fast; none had fallen even in their rotting state. Dozens of corpses. The sight was dizzying just to look up at.

Aslan dragged his gaze downward and found what sat beneath the ancient trunk.

A body of steel. Joints of steel.

The figure had the mechanical, futuristic outline of something you might call a robot, yet it was dressed incongruously in a linen shirt and trousers.

A Priest of the Predator.