Chapter 9 One Week
1401 Words
Two hours later, the mountain still lay buried beneath a thick blanket of white. Although the storm had passed, winter continued to rule the Northern Territories with an iron grip.
Sunlight poured across the snow-covered landscape, reflecting off the frozen ground with almost blinding intensity, while every breath turned to mist and every gust of wind carried a sharp bite that cut through layers of clothing.
Two figures moved steadily through the wilderness—Seraphel and Fenrik. They had been walking for what felt like forever. At first, Seraphel had assumed she couldn't have wandered far from familiar territory when the demonic bear chased her, but she had been very wrong.
The forest around them looked nothing like the woods near the mountain estate. The trees were larger, older, and denser, with ancient trunks towering overhead like frozen giants whose snow-covered branches blocked much of the sunlight.
Without Fenrik guiding her, she would still be wandering aimlessly, possibly until spring. She glanced sideways at him. The Northerner walked calmly through the deep snow, and his injured leg no longer appeared as severe as before.
After awakening her Divine Gift, Seraphel had used a portion of her newfound power to cleanse some of the cursed energy embedded in the wound—not enough to heal it completely, but enough for him to move normally.
The experience had been strange. When she channeled her power, she felt two opposing energies flowing together—one warm and one cold, one gentle and one fierce.
The dual sensation reminded her of the black-and-white realm she had witnessed during her awakening. Fenrik hadn't commented on it, but she had noticed the way his golden eyes silently studied her, calculating and assessing. He clearly knew her Divine Gift was unusual.
Eventually, they reached the crest of a snowy hill. Seraphel looked down and froze as recognition struck her. Relief flooded through her body.
Below them sat a small village nestled in a sheltered valley, with smoke rising from dozens of chimneys, children's footprints crisscrossing the snowy paths, and wooden houses clustered together against the cold.
It was the village closest to the mountain estate—the one she and Elara occasionally visited for supplies.
Home.
A genuine smile spread across her face as she turned toward Fenrik. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "I really appreciate it."
After all, he could have abandoned her at the cave or simply pointed in a direction and left. Instead, he had guided her through dangerous terrain for two full hours despite his injuries.
Fenrik opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, Seraphel had already turned toward the village. She only managed a single step before a hand grabbed her arm firmly. Fenrik pulled her backward—straight into his chest.
Seraphel froze. Her heart skipped, then forgot how to function. She looked up, which turned out to be a terrible mistake.
Fenrik was standing extremely close, close enough for her to clearly see those absurd golden eyes, the faint scar near his jaw, and once again realize just how unfairly handsome he was. Her brain promptly stopped working.
Then Fenrik spoke a single word. "Run."
Seraphel blinked. "What—"
A sharp whistle sliced through the sky. She looked up instinctively and her eyes widened. Arrows—dozens, perhaps hundreds—rained down like a storm of death, completely blocking the sunlight for a brief moment and darkening the world. Fear exploded through her chest.
Before she could react, Fenrik moved. One arm wrapped around her waist, and the next instant the world blurred as they vanished.
Arrows slammed into the ground where they had been standing, thudding heavily while the frozen earth erupted beneath the impacts.
Fenrik leapt through the forest with terrifying speed, using branches as footholds and tree trunks as pathways. He moved so smoothly it felt less like running and more like flying.
Seraphel clung tightly to his robes as the wind roared in her ears. Behind them came shouts, commands, and the sound of many footsteps—cultivators.
She risked a glance backward. Dozens of dark figures flooded into the clearing and spread out with military precision. These were no bandits or hunters; they were professionals.
Fenrik kept moving, and only after putting significant distance between them did he finally stop.
He landed atop a massive branch high within an ancient pine tree, where snow-covered branches concealed them from view, and carefully set her down.
Below, the cultivators gathered. A tall man with a scarred face stepped forward and raised a hand, bringing instant silence.
"Listen carefully," he said, his voice carrying through the frozen forest. "The top priority is her." He produced a rolled portrait, opened it, and Seraphel's blood turned cold as her own face stared back at her.
"Her name is Seraphel Solvaine," the scarred man continued. "We have one week to eliminate her before the Solvaine Clan arrives to retrieve her."
The cultivators nodded in understanding. The leader pointed toward the village below. "Silence the villagers. No witnesses. Make it look like a beast attack."
Then he pointed toward the forest. "Two of you—follow the fleeing cultivator and the girl. Kill them both."
Two figures immediately broke away and rushed into the trees, heading straight toward their hiding place.
Beside her, Fenrik's hand moved toward the wooden sword box strapped across his back, but before he could draw a weapon, something moved.
A shadow. Fast—far too fast.
A figure appeared between the pursuing cultivators. Green eyes glowed brightly beneath the trees.
Seraphel's breath caught.
She knew those eyes.
It was the man who had held a knife to her throat—the bloody stranger she and Elara had left behind. He stood motionless, smiling coldly and predatorily.
Then he moved. The forest blurred with a sharp slicing sound. The two cultivators froze for a moment before their heads slid from their shoulders.
Blood erupted as their bodies collapsed. Two instant, effortless deaths. The green-eyed man never even looked behind him before melting back into the shadows, gone as though he had never existed.
Seraphel stared, her mind struggling to process what she had just witnessed.
Meanwhile, Fenrik was already moving again. Several minutes later, they landed in another section of the forest far from the clearing. This time, no pursuit followed.
Seraphel's feet touched the ground and she swayed slightly as painful memories surfaced. Suddenly everything made sense—the mercenaries, the deadline, the village.
This had happened before, or close enough. In her previous life, her mother had hired assassins quietly and secretly because Aveline had failed to awaken an Immortal Function.
If Seraphel awakened one instead, dangerous questions would arise that could threaten everything Bertrice Solvaine wanted. So Seraphel had to disappear permanently.
In her previous life, she hadn't been present when the mercenaries arrived. She had already left the estate full of foolish hope, believing her family finally wanted her.
Instead, she had unknowingly left Elara behind, and Elara had died.
The entire village had been slaughtered—every man, woman, and child—and the mercenaries had blamed it on demonic beasts. A perfect crime with no consequences for her mother.
Seraphel clenched her fists.
Not this time.
Never again.
Her eyes snapped toward Fenrik. "Elara," she said, panic surging through her. "My maid is still there." She took a step forward. "I have to go."
"You can't go back," Fenrik replied calmly. "They're already heading toward the village."
Seraphel's chest tightened. "Then what am I supposed to do? Leave her there? Let her die?"
For a moment, silence lingered between them. Then Fenrik looked at her—really looked at her. Those golden eyes remained unreadable until suddenly he smiled.
Not his usual faint smirk, but a real smile that reached his eyes—warm, dangerous, and confident.
"I didn't say that." Fenrik rested one hand on the wooden sword box strapped to his back as a chilling pressure rolled off him, the pressure of someone completely unconcerned by dozens of cultivators hunting him.
Someone who viewed danger as a mere inconvenience rather than a threat. His smile widened slightly. "I said you can't go back alone."
For the first time since seeing the mercenaries, hope flickered inside Seraphel's chest.
And somewhere deep within the forest, hidden among the shadows, emerald eyes opened—waiting, watching, and ready to kill.
- Writer
