"Hey, Art. Did you apologize to Celeste or not?"
Zyon, walking just half a step behind, leaned closer until his voice became a hushed whisper brushing against Art’s ear.
Art just lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug, as though the question carried no weight at all. "I’d rather not talk about that, Zyon. Really. That’s between me and Celeste. If you could, just ignore it. Let us be as we are."
His tone was clipped, distant, and especially curt.
"Haah..." Zyon exhaled loudly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Whatever. Not like you’d listen to me anyway. Forget it."
"Ahmmm," Art hummed in agreement, dismissive as ever.
Silence stretched for a few beats, only the sound of their boots against the earth echoing through the path. Eventually, Zyon broke it again. "How many days are left until we return? Or visit the Northern Continent?"
Art lifted his eyes lazily, as if calculating bored him. "It’s been... around nine days since we arrived here. So, at max, thirty more days. My father will handle it when the time comes. When it’s time, it’s time." His voice carried no particular investment, almost curt in its detachment.
Zyon tilted his head, then hesitated before speaking again. "Art, if you don’t mind... can I ask a question?"
The words had barely left his lips before Art cut him down flat. "Don’t. I can already sense it’ll be something stupid, something I don’t want to answer."
Zyon’s lips parted, then closed again. He groaned, dragging his hand down his face with exaggerated annoyance. "Aaahhh... fine. Whatever."
Art’s lips twitched. A soft smile spread across his face. It had been days, years, since Zyon had let slip his child-like side. That familiar whine, that sulking grumble... it almost made Art nostalgic.
"You grew up too fast... Zyon," Art murmured under his breath, a confession he hadn’t meant to voice aloud. He thought his words would dissolve unheard.
"All of us did," Zyon replied softly, his voice stripped of bravado, carrying only weariness. "One way or another... all of us grew a little too fast."
The sadness in his tone was subtle, but it clung to every syllable. Art felt it sink into his bones.
’Nobles...’ Art thought grimly. ’Aren’t they always considered evil tyrants? Paragons of corruption. Devoured by greed so thoroughly that morality and ethics turn into jokes for their dinner tables. People chasing money, land, influence—never satisfied. And in a way, I’m not so different from them...’
His jaw clenched, but he forced himself to admit the distinction. ’Yet there is a difference. I don’t crave money. I don’t crave power. I don’t crave wealth, luxury, or any of those hollow prizes. At least... that’s what I tell myself.’
"Ahahaha," Art suddenly broke into laughter. A chuckle at first, then a low ripple of amusement that came out of nowhere, startling even himself.
Zyon stopped mid-step, narrowing his eyes. "What happened now?" His face scrunched, confusion written clear as daylight.
"Nothing," Art said quickly, shaking his head, though the corner of his lips betrayed him with a smile that refused to vanish.
Zyon crossed his arms. "Weirdo."
"Heyyy." Art groaned, feigning offense. His annoyance was half real, half mock. But his thoughts quickly drifted back inward, pulled into that spiral again.
’I don’t have greed for money, wealth, power, or anything materialistic... ha. Seriously? Thinking like that makes me sound like one of those spoiled rich brats who stand on their mountains of gold and say ’money doesn’t matter.’’
"Pfft—!" He couldn’t stop it. The laughter burst out of him again, shaking his shoulders this time.
Zyon stopped dead in his tracks, staring at him like he had grown horns. "Bro! Seriously! What’s the joke? Tell me! I want to laugh too! It’s been gloomy as hell these days—don’t hog the fun for yourself."
Waving his hand like he was shooing away a fly, Art tried to compose himself, though his grin was impossible to hide. "It’s nothing funny. Just me being weird, don’t worry about it—pffft!!"
"This guy!!" Zyon threw his hands up in defeat, roaring at no one in particular as he stomped straight ahead, muttering curses under his breath.
Art watched him, lips curved in a smile that was both lighthearted and strangely melancholic.
After the little back-and-forth banter between Zyon and Art, the atmosphere slowly shifted. The playful mockery dimmed into a silence that carried a heavier edge, their expressions hardening as they finally turned serious. Both of them began actively searching the barren wasteland for prey worth the effort.
The Deathland was never empty. It was swarming with creatures.
Dissect Scorpions: always in groups of five or more, never alone. Each of them ranked ★★★★. At first glance, they resembled ordinary scorpions, but their entire bodies were grotesquely carved apart, dissected into segments that floated slightly apart yet moved in perfect, horrific coordination—as if their flesh had been cut but never truly killed. They clicked their pincers like bones clattering against each other, swarming and latching onto prey before tearing it apart joint by joint.
Icicle Rats: ugly, bloated rodents with bodies large enough to rival small dogs. Their hides were cracked, and jagged ice shards jutted through their skin as if their own bodies rejected them. They ranked the same as the Dissect Scorpions, ★★★★, but unlike the scorpions, these vermin gnawed relentlessly, frost trailing wherever they scurried.
Then came the Doomsday Camels. Rank ★★★★★. Abominations draped in skin that shimmered like sand, their bodies painted with illusions of skies and horizons. But the moment one locked eyes with them—abyssal pits stared back, hollow and infinite. Staring too long into those eyes was said to dry a man’s soul until even his corpse crumbled into dust.
Deathworms: massive cylindrical horrors that were never truly alone, rarely seen in groups unless it was for breeding. They carried a rank of ★★★★★★. Their burrowing tremors shook the ground like earthquakes.
And towering above them all—Sand Globes. Rank ★★★★★★★★. Gigantic spheres of swirling sandstorms, moving like sentient maelstroms with no beginning and no end. They swallowed landscapes whole. To most, they weren’t monsters, but natural disasters. Nothing short of calamity given form.
There were other, smaller creatures, crawling nuisances not worth naming. Their strength was abysmal, the sort that didn’t even serve as proper training material.
"So," Lilith’s voice pierced the silence, cheerful in tone but gratingly out of place. She practically skipped as she forced herself between Zyon and Art, who were both walking with deep concentration. "What are we hunting today, boys!!"
Art cut her a fleeting glance. A complete and utter dismissal.
Lilith flinched at the casual cruelty. She almost instinctively wanted to press him, maybe poke at him until he reacted.
But then the vivid memory replayed in her head: the sight of Art casually, mercilessly slapping the life out of Celeste, leaving her sprawled. Lilith swallowed hard and decided she didn’t have the gall to tempt fate again.
So, instead, she coughed, awkward and forced. "Ahm! Zyon!" Her tone shifted, a nervous laugh covering the stumble. "I was asking you... yeah, you. I was totally asking you. So, what are we hunting, boy...s..."
"Oh yeah?" Art’s eyes cut toward her. "Boys, huh? Did you just say ’boys’? Because last I checked—" he gestured toward Zyon lazily, "—there’s only one. Singular. Zyon is just Zyon."
Lilith blinked, thrown off but recovering quickly. "It was a spasm. Nothing else." She puffed her chest out as if her conviction alone could make her words true.
"Oh?" Art’s lips curled in mock surprise, eyes widening like a bad actor. He wanted to clap, genuinely, because her blunt response was entertaining. He almost did—but then caught himself.
Praising her would only give her more courage. And Lilith with more courage was a nightmare he had no interest in living through.
"Yes!" Lilith doubled down without hesitation, as if she had just won an argument. "Exactly. So, Zyon, what are we hunting today? Because I’m telling you, the Deathworms are a hassle. They’re too unpredictable. Shouldn’t we change targets?"
Zyon finally spoke, his voice calm but firm as he shook his head. "No. Every monster is unpredictable in one way or another. That’s just how fights work. You never truly know what your opponent will do next."
"Of course she wouldn’t get it." Art’s voice cut in like venom. "Because she’s a moron."
Lilith’s brows twitched, her entire body trembling as anger boiled beneath her skin. But then, like a curse, the memory flashed again, the slap, Celeste crumbling to the ground, Art’s cruel indifference. Her anger sputtered out, reduced to a simmer.
"Art." Zyon’s voice sharpened, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his friend.
"Fine," Art raised both hands as if in surrender, though his smirk betrayed the gesture. "I was just being a little playful. She’s a good little doll for anger release."
"Seriously? A doll? That’s so messed up..." Lilith’s voice cracked, and her bravado slipped into something closer to hurt. "I’m your friend."
"Oh, yeah? I know." Art leaned forward, mocking sympathy lacing his voice. "That’s why you work as a stress relief for me. A friend, sure but also a stress ball in disguise."
His smile was wicked, exaggeratedly mimicking Lilith’s tone and expressions until it was a cruel parody of her.