Following a brutal, bloody battle, a sense of sudden release after extreme tension pervaded the camp.
Like drawn bowstrings abruptly relieved of their strain, the rangers’ taut shoulders gradually relaxed, and their rapid breathing settled back into a steady rhythm.
A campfire was lit in the central clearing.
This was no formal regulation, but an old habit Hawksbill had carried over from his younger days on the battlefield.
Li Fan arrived late.
The camp priest had cast holy light over the spear graze on his flank and applied a cooling herbal salve, taking barely ten minutes in all.
Yet by the time he reached the campfire, most had already taken their seats.
Hawksbill sat closest to the fire, massive as an iron tower.
In his thick, broad hand, he held a cup of steaming mead without taking a single sip, his gaze locked in a trance on the dancing heart of the flames.
Ailong sat in the shadows to his left.
The veteran, who usually stood straight as a pine, had uncharacteristically stretched his legs out tonight.
His back remained upright, yet carried a rare ease.
Firas sat at the edge of the firelight, head lowered in concentration as he tuned his bowstring.
He plucked it occasionally, brow furrowing slightly as he discerned the faintest deviation in pitch before making delicate adjustments.
Li Fan quietly walked to the fire and sat cross-legged.
Hawksbill did not turn to look at him, his eyes remaining fixed on the leaping flames.
His voice dropped even lower than usual, thick with an indelible weight of years.
“Twenty years ago, we ran into a massive infiltration by the Amani trolls as well.” This was no conversational opening, but the instructor initiating a solitary recollection.
“After that bloody battle, five of our comrades remained in those woods forever.” He paused for a long while, as if struggling to swallow something bitter.
“One of them was a brother I’d partnered with for over a decade.” The campfire crackled softly as the wood fibers burst in the intense heat.
A gust of cold wind swept in from the depths of the northern foothills, bending the orange-red tongues of flame to one side before they surged upward again, casting a warm glow over everyone’s faces.
No one sitting around the fire spoke to interrupt.
Hawksbill finally raised his cup, threw his head back for a deep gulp, and slammed it down heavily.
“Today, the tactical coordination between those two squads was far better than our bunch of hotheads back then.
Especially the left flank…” His voice trailed off slightly, carrying deep approval.
“That near-meatgrinder crossfire tactic—no one back then could have ever imagined it.” He looked at no one and named no names.
Having spoken his piece, he lapsed into total silence, his deep-set eyes returning to the firelight.
The night deepened, the chill setting in.
Firas finally finished re-stringing the repaired longbow.
He gave it a satisfied pluck, the crisp twang resonating in the night air.
Resting the longbow across his knees, his gaze drifted in the firelight for a moment before he abruptly turned to Li Fan.
“I want to know, what did you usually hunt back in Lordaeron?” Li Fan turned, somewhat surprised that this perpetually arrogant elf would initiate such a topic.
“Mostly commercial game to make a living.
Snow foxes, elk, the occasional stray brown bear—mainly supplying pelts to the market.” Li Fan pondered for a moment, his eyes darkening.
“I also took care of lethal trouble for border villages, like frenzied wild oxen.
Those weren’t for money, just lending a hand.
Sometimes the villagers would offer a hot meal; sometimes there wasn’t even food to be had.” “In such a desolate backcountry, without any arcane energy to draw upon, how did you hunt those beasts?” Pure curiosity shone in Firas’s eyes.
“Hunt them just like a true hunter would.” Looking into the leaping flames, Li Fan spoke calmly.
“There are no fancy shortcuts.
Only endless waiting, unyielding judgment, closing in at near-suicidal range, and finally, ending it with a single blade.” Firas froze.
Li Fan shifted his gaze from the campfire to look straight into Firas’s eyes, voicing a harsh truth without hesitation: “If Quel’Thalas ever completely loses the Sunwell and the protection of arcane magic one day…
your elaborate martial arts will turn into scrap paper.” Firas fell completely silent.
He did not take offense; earnest contemplation flickered in his eyes.
As a warrior, he was re-evaluating an entirely different law of survival.
“Let’s hope that day never comes,” Li Fan said, casually withdrawing his gaze.
“Yet if that day truly comes, you hold the answer to survival.” Firas’s voice was remarkably steady, carrying a piercing clarity.
“Whereas I…
do not.” As the night grew darker, Hawksbill and Firas rose and departed one after the other.
By the spacious campfire, only Ailong and Li Fan remained.
The veteran set his empty cup onto a stone ledge, still lingering in place with his legs casually outstretched.
Crisp footsteps came from the western corridor.
Alleria had just finished the heavy task of compiling battle reports.
A document was tucked beneath her arm out of habit.
Approaching the warm campfire, she came to an abrupt halt, standing quietly in the night.
The orange firelight cast diagonally across her face from below.
The soft interplay of light and shadow smoothed away the sharp, lethal edge she carried as ranger captain by day, lending her exquisite features a rare touch of gentleness and exhaustion.
She stood quietly for a moment, as if savoring this brief respite of peace.
Then, she gracefully knelt and sat down, leaning back against a half-height boulder and drawing her long legs in slightly.
Ailong glanced at her without a word, treating her as nothing more than an ordinary comrade.
Li Fan pulled a piece of dry ration from his tactical pouch and offered it to her.
Alleria looked down at the coarse flatbread, surprise flickering in her ice-blue eyes.
Pausing for half a second, she reached out and took it.
She said no words of thanks, and he offered no polite pleasantries.
This unspoken understanding flowed quietly through the night.
Ailong stood up, methodically adjusted his gear, and spoke two deep words to Li Fan: “Good night.” The veteran turned and left.
By the campfire, only the two of them remained.
The flames gradually dimmed in the night breeze, the circle of light narrowing bit by bit.
Their elongated shadows overlapped on the ground, swaying ever so slowly with the dying embers, wrapped in an indescribable stillness.
“I was the one who wrote the report on the interlocking suppression you led on the left flank today,” Alleria suddenly broke the silence.
“But I didn’t include the spear graze on your flank.
It doesn’t affect the final mission rating, so there was no need to leave it in the archives to invite gossip.” “Understood,” Li Fan replied mildly.
“Keep this in mind, though.” She turned, her eyes burning as she fixed them on him.
“Next time, never leave enemy spear throwers such a lethal angle again.” “Understood.” Li Fan let out a helpless sigh.
She rose, tucked the document firmly back beneath her arm, and turned toward the corridor.
Li Fan sat alone beside the dying campfire.
The once-blazing fire now held only a faint, dull red glow at its center.
He slowly stood up and dusted off his clothes.
Only the final three days remained of the thirty-day observation period.
The entire camp maintained a tacit silence regarding the countdown.
Yet just earlier, Ailong had pulled him aside in private, quietly pressing a confidential performance record of all his missions over the past month into his hand.
At the time, Ailong had left him with only a single weighty remark: “Keep it safe.
During the final evaluation, it might come in handy.”