Chapter 8: Accident

Cosette tilted her head in puzzlement and peered through the bushes ahead. A clear lake glimmered not far away, moonlight rippling across the water like a dream of mirrored flowers.

But the shore was marred by discordant sights that ruined the beauty.

Several slanted tents of branches and hides ringed the lake—a crude camp.

A handful of beastman scouts sat around a fire, expertly skinning prey or maintaining weapons and armor.

“Beastmen!”

Cosette hissed through gritted teeth, face darkening, eyes blazing with killing intent.

“Calm down!”

At Alicia’s sharp reminder, Cosette caught herself, took a deep breath to steady.

Walt, lagging behind, curiously peeked when the two stopped.

His face drained white.

A seasoned merchant, Walt had sharp eyes.

The camp was small but clearly a supply point—few guards now, but a main force surely nearby.

“What now? Detour?” Walt whispered.

Alicia pondered.

Only a few scouts—with her strength, wiping them was easy, but…

She instinctively scanned surroundings.

In-game, she’d raze the camp for EXP and mats.

But this was reality—three people, Cosette a non-combat priest, Walt dead weight.

Better avoid trouble.

Decision made, Alicia signaled detour, turned another way.

No need to risk shortcut.

Cosette and Walt exchanged glances, followed.

But fate mocks caution.

Crack.

Walt’s foot snapped a dry branch as he turned—heavy thud to the ground.

The noise instantly alerted the camp.

Wolves and riders charged.

Plan ruined—Alicia raised hand.

Stellar grit shot like meteors, piercing a scout’s throat before he could sound the horn.

She’d seen Walt wobble—knew trouble.

Game tropes trained her to preempt.

Hornist down, [Magic Sword · True World] summoned.

She slithered among beastmen like a viper—massive magic-infused spatial slashes felling scouts instantly.

But scouts weren’t pushovers.

Seeing comrades die on approach, they pulled range—arrows, javelins harassed.

Alicia noted their moves, relieved.

Wolves fast—if they fled for reinforcements, she’d have to bolt.

No mass fight risk—cleanup simple.

Distant shots bounced off her magic shield; beastmen unfazed, watched for openings.

Alicia picked next target—lunged.

Scout reacted, countered—but Alicia anticipated.

Magic arrow struck wolf.

Sword flipped, white edge slid under ribs.

Blood mist burst.

Dismounted scout saw only gleaming blade.

Spatial slash!

[True World] pierced chainmail effortlessly, tore him apart.

Howl of pain—he flew, crashed into sapling, crumpled.

Half-body a clean gash—white bone, slow-spilling organs.

Gruesome—Alicia paused mid-follow-up.

All-ages game had sanitized gore; data, not visceral.

Camp battle had similar, but peace-era upbringing—she couldn’t acclimate fast.

Another horrific death broke the last two scouts.

They fled, discarding gear, ignoring wounded comrade—terrified.

“Escape! Just escape!”

Thud!

They slammed an invisible wall.

“Merciful Ancestor, shield Your children… Stollek (Holy Wall)!”

Dazed scouts heard Cosette’s clear chant—pale-gold barrier pinned them.

Before reaction, a page hammer loomed.

“Aaah!!!”

Shriek faded—last scout’s head pulped.

Alicia sighed, sheathed weapon.

She’d underestimated hatred’s explosive power.