As he advanced through the thick vegetation, following the uneven trail of blood that dipped into the earth, Joel couldn't help but replay the confrontation that had occurred just moments before. Every step he took, every leaf he parted, was accompanied by an almost automatic analysis, as if his mind needed to piece together what had happened before moving on.

  The five men had fought well. Too well for mere common bandits. Judging by the way they moved, their coordination, and the resilience they displayed even in the face of such a clear power imbalance, Joel had no doubt: they were mystical warriors. If he had to classify them based on the information he had gathered since arriving in Gaea, he would easily place them at level one: Apprentices, as they were known locally.

  Only the leader clearly stood out from the rest. Not only for his initial composure, but also for the way he handled his weapons and, above all, for his reaction time. Joel couldn't say for sure whether that man belonged to a higher level or was simply an exceptionally talented apprentice, but it was clear that he was no ordinary fighter.

  So far, Joel had managed to gather fairly general information about the first five levels of the mystic path, a classification widely accepted in Dirmistan:

  — Level 1: Apprentice.

  — Level 2: Adept.

  — Level 3: Expert.

  — Level 4: Master.

  — Level 5: Grand Master.

  Beyond the names, details were scarce. However, one thing was repeated in all the explanations: the first three levels signified only the beginning of the warrior's path. From a mystic perspective, it was a progressive accumulation of physical enhancements—strength, speed, stamina, perception—very similar to those of mages, though on a much larger scale.

  Only from the Master level onward were mystic warriors able to manifest their power beyond their own bodies, giving rise to truly supernatural techniques.

  The group of five had demonstrated impeccable swordsmanship. Their stances, cuts, and transitions were clean, efficient, and refined by years of training. In purely technical terms, Joel couldn't deny that their level was comparable to his own.

  The fundamental difference wasn't in technique. The difference was in everything else. Joel had been faster, stronger, and more precise on a much greater scale from their perspective. So much so, that for much of the fight he'd been forced to hold back, deliberately reducing his speed and strength just to be able to clearly observe how they fought, how they reacted, and how they moved when pressured.

  His introspection was abruptly shattered when the trail of blood came to a sudden end. Joel stopped dead in his tracks, his senses instantly sharpening. The jagged marks he'd followed through the undergrowth vanished at the foot of a sturdy tree, where a small crimson pool soaked the brown earth, like an open wound in the ground.

  He didn't move any further. He stood several meters away, watching intently. It was then that he noticed something strange. The blood kept increasing. It wasn't dripping from a branch or running down the trunk. It was simply… appearing. Tiny drops rose in the air, invisible until the moment they touched the ground and joined the existing puddle, as if the space itself were bleeding.

  Joel squinted. He couldn't see a thing, but his ears clearly picked up a sound he couldn't ignore: a rough, labored breath, punctuated by a wet gurgle. Slow, painful, and undeniably human.

  "There you are," he thought, his lips still.

  He didn't have time to dwell on that certainty. His body reacted before his mind. Instinct compelled him to move violently to the side just as an arrow sliced ??through the air where his chest had been an instant before. The movement was so abrupt that the unconscious body he carried fell heavily to the ground, kicking up leaves and dust.

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  Joel was already drawing his revolver. Two shots shattered the silence of the forest, aimed precisely at the tree trunk. The first struck the wood. The second produced a different, dull sound, accompanied by a wet crack.

  A groan of pain escaped the empty air, and the invisibility shattered like a poorly sustained illusion.

  The figure of a man began to slowly emerge, as if someone were lifting a veil. He appeared sitting on the ground, his back against the tree trunk, desperately struggling to keep the air in his lungs. His breathing was a chaotic series of short, bubbling gasps.

  He wore a white hooded cloak that completely covered his body. A cloth mask concealed his face, but the original white was irrevocably ruined, soaked in red. Blood stained the fabric at chest level, on one leg, and now also on one arm, which trembled weakly as he dropped a crossbow to the ground.

  Joel observed the scene coldly, holstered his weapon, and began walking slowly toward him. The man tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond. One of his hands pressed desperately against the chest wound, as if trying to hold back the inevitable. The mask was darkened around the mouth, wet with thick blood.

  A punctured lung, Joel diagnosed instantly. Each breath likely filled his lungs with fluid. He didn't have much time left.

  Joel didn't hesitate for a moment. With the same mechanical efficiency he had shown minutes before, he lunged at the man covered by the white cloak before he could react. A sharp crack broke the silence of the forest as the first wrist gave way under the pressure. Then came the other. The legs followed the same fate, twisted at impossible angles, accompanied by muffled moans that filtered through the blood-soaked mask.

  Unlike the previous man, Joel's jawbone remained intact.

  "You damned bastard…!" the man growled with difficulty, his voice trembling and filled with hatred. The mask concealed his face, but it couldn't hide the raw pain reflected in every syllable.

  Joel observed him from above, his expression completely neutral, as if evaluating a defective object and not a shattered human being.

  "I didn't start this," he replied firmly, without a trace of emotion. "If you want to live, I recommend you shut up and focus on breathing. You just have to hold on a little longer… and maybe I can save you."

  Without waiting for a response, Joel lifted him with one hand and settled him onto one shoulder, ignoring the spasms and the dead weight of the wounded body. Then he turned and picked up the other man, whose body lay where he had fallen moments before, unconscious and completely helpless.

  With both men carried like mere bundles, Joel stood upright for a moment, assessing the direction and the terrain. Then, without further delay, he broke into a run.

  The forest became a green and brown blur as he moved forward at a speed impossible for any ordinary human. Each stride was precise, controlled, designed not to aggravate his "passengers'" wounds more than necessary, though the priority remained clear: to reach the shelter quickly.

  Joel took less than half an hour to return to the shelter. He traveled along paths only he knew, until he reached a secondary entrance carefully concealed among the rock and vegetation, a secret passage he shared only with Nana. From there, he went directly to his laboratory, completely avoiding the common areas.

  Upon crossing the threshold, he was greeted by Nana's impassive presence, standing erect like a vigilant statue, and by Connor, who sat with absolute tranquility, absorbed in his usual reading, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening.

  "Were you hunting?" Connor asked without raising his voice, barely lifting an eyebrow as he noticed the two bodies on Joel's shoulders.

  “I was supposed to be the prey,” Joel replied curtly, as he casually dropped the two unconscious bodies onto the lab floor. The thud echoed with a hollow, heavy sound.

  “Nana,” he added immediately, “keep them alive. I need to interrogate them.”

  Connor calmly closed the book and surveyed the men's condition: mangled hands and feet, bodies covered in dried blood and dirt.

  "I see you learned something from Adam," he remarked with a sneer, somewhere between irony and disapproval.

  Joel slumped into a nearby chair, stretching his shoulders slightly, as if fatigue were only now beginning to creep in.

  "I was doing that before it became popular," Joel replied with a lopsided grin.

  As they spoke, the laboratory floor opened with a soft, organic creak. Several wooden tentacles slowly emerged, coiling around the bodies and dragging them effortlessly to a deeper area of ??the facility, where Nana could work undisturbed.

  Joel watched the scene for a few seconds, then conjured a can of soda with a lazy gesture. The metallic sound of it being opened broke the silence and he drank it in one gulp, as if he needed to quench a great thirst.

  Finally, he looked up at Nana, his relaxed expression completely gone.

  "I think the current situation warrants me being a bit more proactive."

  "Did you encounter any dangers?" the statue asked, her voice cold and devoid of any emotional inflection.

  "Too many," Joel replied bluntly. "The place is incredibly beautiful, but it's riddled with dangerous variables. Conflicts between nations, poorly contained political tensions… and this last encounter makes it clear that I'm finding it difficult not to attract attention."

  Connor watched him closely, resting an elbow on the table. "Your face doesn't suggest you're too worried."

  Joel let out a low, genuine laugh. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of anticipation and determination.

  "Because I'm not," he said finally. "These kinds of situations… are the perfect opportunity to do a lot of things without anyone watching too closely."

  He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Many things that could mean an excellent investment for the future.”