Narchis had kept his eyes shut for a long time, bracing himself for the agony of death. But when no pain arrived, confusion stirred. He cracked his eyes open—and to his astonishment, the monstrous creature before him was dead.

  Strangely, the beast's body was tightly entangled by thick, vine-like roots.

  They were bizarrely twisted, unnaturally large—but unmistakably roots. Narchis was certain of what he saw. The creature was wrapped up like a rice dumpling, but it hadn't died from the roots. It had been killed by two human soldiers—one had driven a sword through its chest, the other had pierced its gut.

  Even the monster’s dense muscle couldn’t withstand forged steel.

  Yet, as Narchis gazed at those roots, a strange sense of kinship welled up inside him.

  Unable to resist, he reached out and touched them.

  The instant his hand neared, a green glow radiated from his palm. A mysterious force surged within him—he could feel it coursing through his body, linking him to the roots, as if they were an extension of himself.

  It was as if he could control them.

  “What is this…? Is this my power? Is this the ability I've been granted—control over roots?”

  His joy was quickly tempered by a flicker of anxiety.

  “Did something… possess me?”

  Just then, a sudden shout rang in his ears—he couldn’t understand the words, but urgency blazed in the tone.

  Before Narchis could even turn his head, a massive hand seized him by the collar and yanked him backward with brutal force.

  The world spun.

  When the motion stopped, he was lying flat on the ground.

  “Wait—I’m not dead?”

  Feeling around frantically, he realized he was mostly unharmed—except for his aching backside.

  It was a soldier—a human—who had dragged him away.

  “Maybe humans aren’t all cold after all,” Narchis murmured, lifting his head in gratitude.

  And then his eyes widened in horror.

  The very soldier who had saved him—had his head smashed open by a monster’s club.

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  The warrior hadn't raised his shield in time. The force of the blow was colossal. His skull shattered like a watermelon under a hammer, spilling red, white, and unidentifiable colors across the battlefield.

  Blood—or brain matter—splattered onto Narchis’s face and dripped down his forehead.

  He was frozen.

  This wasn’t some CGI effect on a screen. This was real.

  A man had just been killed before his eyes, skull caved in, armor dented like paper.

  Screams and clashing steel filled the air. No one retreated. That soldier wasn’t the only one to die.

  All around, soldiers were falling. Even with their coordinated formation and superior gear, they struggled to withstand the monsters’ raw power.

  To Narchis’s left, a soldier raised his shield, but the monster’s club shattered it and sent him flying, his fate sealed mid-air.

  To his right, another soldier stabbed his sword into a monster’s gut—only to be struck in the chest by a dying blow. His torso caved in, and bloody chunks of organ spilled from his mouth.

  Though the human army fought valiantly, it took four or five of them to bring down a single monster.

  And even that was only possible because of the supporting archers behind them.

  Now that the archers were closer to the front lines, their arrows had grown more lethal. At first, they barely pierced the skin. Now, they sank deep enough to injure vital organs.

  “How… how can this be happening?” Narchis muttered, eyes glassy. “This place—this really isn’t Earth…”

  The brutal slaughter. The madness of close combat. His mind was going blank.

  Voices cried out around him—someone was screaming something nearby. As Narchis turned his head in a daze, another powerful hand grabbed his arm and hurled him backward once again.

  The moment he landed, a club smashed down where he had just been.

  It drove halfway into the ground, its force shaking nearby stones. If he’d been a second slower, he’d have been pulp.

  That razor-thin moment between life and death rattled him to the core.

  And yet, paradoxically, he felt alive.

  He couldn’t stand, his legs were jelly, but he scrambled backwards with all four limbs, crawling frantically like a panicked insect.

  In the face of death, he realized how desperately he wanted to live.

  He kept his eyes open, wide and unblinking. He watched everything unfold before him.

  He couldn’t look away.

  Even though he wanted to, some instinct, some terror, forced him to keep watching.

  His mind was seized by fear—so absolute that it gripped his entire soul.

  His mouth opened, but only meaningless sounds escaped. He couldn’t form words.

  And then—he noticed something.

  More and more monsters were charging in his direction.

  Not just running—focusing. They were fixated on him.

  The killing intent they exuded was tangible, like cold iron pressing into his chest.

  Only now did Narchis realize: killing intent was real.

  It wasn’t a metaphor, it wasn’t fiction—it was something you could feel.

  The more they stared at him, the more his body locked up. His movements slowed, as if ice was spreading through his limbs, freezing him from the inside out.

  It felt like he was standing naked in a blizzard.

  All around him, human soldiers threw themselves into the fray. Shields broke, bodies fell, but still they charged. Even knowing death awaited, they pushed forward—to carve flesh from the monsters, even at the cost of their lives.

  “Why… Why are they protecting me?” Narchis whispered.

  He met the eyes of a dying soldier. There was something in them—hope.

  Something passed between them in that instant. He couldn’t say what it was. Maybe he imagined it.

  But somehow, he understood.

  They were protecting him.

  Why?

  Before he could answer, a shout rang out from the rear.

  A figure burst forward on horseback—gleaming armor, regal posture.

  A knight.

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