“Don’t get cocky,” I warn as the two of us move through the brush. My voice is low, even. “We’re still early in the hunting ground. These were scouts. Strays. The real threats nest deeper.”
Kit gives me a crooked smile, one fang barely visible. “I’m not cocky,” she whispers, eyes scanning ahead. “I’m just... finally having fun.”
I don’t argue. I can feel it too—the shift. The coordination. The flow of combat tightening between us. She moves like smoke between branches. I ground the fights—holding line, taking hits, blasting open space with thunder and arc.
Over the next few hours, the pair of us take down three more Bushmen—two standard types, and one larger variant, thick with twisting bark plating across its chest. It hisses like a kettle as it launches a Volley of Thorns from its shoulders in a brutal fan, shattering bark and spearing a squirrel mid-leap behind my shoulder.
That one nearly takes Kit’s shoulder if she doesn’t roll under my Shield at the last second. The thorns splinter against the arcane shimmer.
She gasps against the tree trunk, blinking. “That would’ve hurt.”
“Sure does!”
I advance as she flanks. An Eldritch Strike bursts from my spear into the creature’s chest—sizzling the bark apart long enough for her to leap onto its back and drive both daggers in behind the neck. The creature writhes once, then slumps.
She drops to the earth, panting. “Okay… okay… that one sucked.”
I nod. “Still breathing though.”
“And still not cocky,” she mutters, brushing leaves off her back. “Just alert.”
The forest quiets again. We both crouch for a moment in the stillness, catching our breath, ears open.
Kit turns her head toward the denser trees beyond.
“I think we’re close to where they’re nesting. There’s a smell. Not rot exactly... but wet bark and bitterness. You know what I mean?”
I do.
She draws one of her elvish daggers and says in a more serious tone, “You take point for now. If we find more of the thorn-launchers, I want them focused on your shield, not my face.”
I give her a look. “Now you’re learning.”
Together, we move deeper—careful, silent, deadly.
The deeper forest is unnaturally still—no birdsong, no wind. Just the wet slap of moss underfoot and the distant creak of bark twisting on its own.
I motion to Kit, and she slows to a crouch, eyes narrowing.
Then I see it: a shallow clearing choked with vine, the center sagging inward like a nest or den. Bushmen husks lie torn or rotting along the edge—mossy bones tangled in their roots. And at the center, a massive one, easily twice my size. Its arms are thick, more tree than flesh, with thorn nodules pulsing across its back.
“Elder?” Kit whispers, her voice shushed but excited. “That’s one?”
It stirs.
Bark creaks as the massive torso slowly turns toward us.
I hesitate, but I can see the look in Kit’s eyes.
She wants it.
Wants to test us.
I step into the clearing, spear leveled, calling lightning down my arm. The moment my boots hit the edge of the ring, the Elder Bushman screeches—a dry, ripping sound like bark being peeled—and launches a Volley of Thorns in every direction.
“Down!” I shout.
Kit vanishes into the underbrush.
I raise my shield. The thorns clang and tear across the metal, two slamming into my pauldron with bone-deep bruises behind them. I stagger forward, then shout as Thunderwave blasts forward. The shockwave shatters saplings and forces the creature back—but it recovers fast.
It lunges.
I lock its arm-vines on my spear shaft, holding it off as bark splits open around its ribs. Kit appears in a blur, Soulfire Veilstrike flaring violet as she drives her blades deep into the Elder’s flank—cutting clean past its wooden armor.
The beast howls and backhands her with a vine limb. She tumbles hard, skidding through moss.
When she rises again, blood streaks across her cheek.
But I am ready.
I pull my spear close, invoke Eldritch Strike, and jam it up under the creature’s chin—a bolt arcing through the Elder’s form like a struck tree. Its limbs spasm, then it crumples, steaming.
Silence returns.
Kit stands shakily, wiping her mouth. “That... was less fun.”
I don’t answer immediately—just catch my breath.
Silence.
Breathing.
A glance to make sure Kit is okay.
I then move toward the center of the nest where something glints faintly beneath roots and black loam.
Carefully, I pry it free: a small iron box, half-rotted but still sealed.
Inside: a stash of coins, silver and coppers …and a dwarven goblet.
Kit whistles low. “Well, I guess they eat people... or rob them.”
I turn the goblet in my hand. “Probably both.”
Kit exhales, looking around the dead nest. “Let’s not push our luck.”
I nod. “Back to camp. We’ve earned a fire and something hot to eat.”
I grip the dwarven goblet tight, ready to leave the clearing when the ground trembles beneath my boots.
The Elder Bushman, thought to be crushed and still, shudders violently.
Its cracked bark skin splits open as glowing green sap bleeds from the wounds.
With a guttural roar, it Regenerates. Vines knit flesh back together like thread weaving a tapestry.
Suddenly, the air thickens with the rustling of swarming vines.
From the shadows, a pair of Bushmen emerge—thorn-laden monstrosities—surrounding me and Kit.
“Thought it was dead!?” I mutter grimly.
Kit draws her daggers, eyes blazing. “Well, this looks bad!”
The clearing is no longer a nest—it is a trap.
We both steel ourselves as the monstrous horde closes in, thorns ready to strike.
The Elder Bushman’s wounds knit themselves together faster than I can track, green sap oozing and steaming. Beside it, two towering thorn-launching elites swirl their massive arms, sending deadly volleys of razor-sharp spikes hissing toward us.
Kit darts like a shadow through the underbrush—her daggers flashing in wild arcs, each strike precise and deadly. She weaves between sprays of thorns—Echo Step—vanishing only to reappear behind her targets, Spirit Blades glowing violet as she strikes, slicing through the thick bark armor. Yet even her relentless assault barely slows the hulking foes.
I plant my feet, shield raised, and unleash Thunderwave after Thunderwave, the shockwaves crashing like storms, knocking the towering beasts off balance—trees shuddering and leaves swirling in a whirlwind of raw power. Each blast gives Kit a breath to strike, but the enemies recover fast, relentless as the forest itself.
The battle is punishing.
I feel scratches along my arms where thorns find gaps in my armor. Kit’s breathing grows ragged, but her eyes burn with fierce determination. We both know this fight is more than just survival—it is about proving our place in a world that wants us broken.
The Elder Bushman rises again, almost impossibly, unyielding.
I glance at my HUD. My mana pool is nearly dry—but through the bond I can still draw a sliver from Kit.
“No choice,” I mutter. With a surge of raw power, I force the last of my mana—and a sliver of Kit’s through the Harem Bond—into an overcharged Arc-Lightning.
The spell doesn’t leap between targets this time. It gathers at the tip of my spear in a blinding storm of blue-white light before erupting forward like a lightning bolt, tearing through the canopy and slamming into the Elder Bushman’s chest with a thunder-crack that shakes the clearing.
The creature howls in fury and pain—its limbs spasming violently before it collapses into the earth, twitching no more.
The thorn-launching beasts falter, stunned and vulnerable.
Kit seizes the moment, lunging with a final series of strikes that shatter their defenses and bring them down.
The forest grows still.
Kit’s dagger falls from her hand with a soft thud in the moss.
“Did we just…?” she gasps.
I let out a long breath, my spear sinking into the earth as I lean on it for support.
“Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “We made it.”
For a moment neither of us moves.
The clearing is wrecked—splintered bark, smoking vines, and the charred remains of the Elder Bushman sprawled across the roots of its nest.
Then my legs give out.
I drop to one knee, the world tilting slightly as the last of the stormlight fades from my veins.
Mana drain hits like a hammer.
Kit is beside me instantly.
“Hey—hey!” she says, catching my shoulder. “Easy, giant.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, though my voice sounds distant even to me.
That is when something catches my eye.
Amid the tangled roots of the Elder’s nest, something glints in the dim forest light.
Silver.
Something we must have missed earlier—loot from the Elder.
I push myself forward and brush aside a coil of dead vines.
A delicate locket lies half-buried in the loam, its surface etched with swirling arcane runes that pulse faintly with cold blue light.
Kit crouches beside me, ears twitching.
“Looks rare,” she whispers.
“Yeah… rare loot,” I say quietly. “I’ve never seen one drop before.”
I lift it carefully. Even through the grime and sap I can feel the faint hum of magic.
Whatever it is, it isn’t ordinary loot.
Not something Bushmen should have… or something they should be guarding.
I slip the locket into my pouch.
“We’ll figure it out later.”
Kit nods, though her gaze lingers on the ruined nest.
“Later sounds good.”
I push myself upright again, though my legs protest the effort.
“Let’s get out of here.”
The walk back through the forest is slow.
Every step feels heavier than the last, and the farther we move out of the hunting ground toward the safe zone, the more the adrenaline drains away.
By the time we reach the small clearing we both know as safe ground near the road, I can barely keep my footing.
I collapse onto the moss with a groan.
Kit kneels beside me, pulling out a waterskin and pressing it into my hands.
“Drink.”
I obey.
Only then do I notice the dark stain spreading across her side.
Blood.
“Kit,” I say sharply.
She tries to wave it off.
“It’s nothing—”
“It’s not nothing.”
A thorn has punched clean through the leather at her ribs. The wound isn’t deep, but it is bleeding steadily.
“I can cast Cure Light Wounds,” I say.
Kit shakes her head immediately.
“Your mana’s almost empty, isn’t it? If you push it now you’ll risk Mana Burn, right? You said that was bad.”
I meet her eyes.
“I’m not leaving you to bleed all night.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment.
Then she sighs.
“Fine. But if you pass out, I’m dragging you back to town.”
“Deal.”
I close my eyes and reach deep for the last spark of magic still burning in my chest.
It comes slowly.
Weak.
But enough.
Cure Light Wounds.
Soft golden light spills from my fingertips as the spell takes hold. The glow wraps around her side, knitting torn flesh and sealing the bleeding wound.
Kit exhales softly as the pain fades.
“Okay,” she admits. “That helped.”
“Good.”
For a while neither of us speaks.
We pitch the small travel tent with clumsy, exhausted hands and gather just enough wood to coax a modest fire to life.
Honestly, she does most of the work. I nearly pass out.
Soon the clearing fills with the gentle crackle of flames.
Night settles over the forest.
The fire’s warm glow flickers softly through the tent’s fabric as Kit and I share a simple meal of travel rations. Our bodies ache from battle, but the quiet comfort of being together eases the pain.
We lie down side by side, instinctively curling into each other’s warmth. The Harem-Bed ability hums quietly between us.
Apparently it doesn’t require an actual bed—just closeness… and trust.
[Harem-Bed: Enhanced Mana Regeneration]
Mana begins to seep back into my veins, a soothing tide that promises strength for the days ahead. The surge grows with every tender touch, every soft smile.
We exchange a tired, knowing smirk.
“Maybe we’ll save the more-than-snuggling for when we’re not this wiped,” I joke quietly.
Kit chuckles, a gentle purr in her voice.
Wrapped in each other’s arms and the quiet magic of our bond, we drift into a deep, healing sleep.