Rookies

By the time the sun crested high over the trees the next day, Red had completed all twelve extermination quests.

Twelve nests. Cleared.

One hundred and ninety-six goblins.

Four Hobgoblins.

Each goblin nest had fallen with the same quiet, merciless precision.

Red had kept count, not out of pride, but necessity. Every kill was insurance against what they might have become. Every nest burned meant one less horror growing in the dark.

He checked every tunnel, every hole. He found bones, blood, chains—but no survivors. No fresh victims. Just echoes of the ones who hadn't been saved in time.

No theatrics. No wasted time. No survivors.

Red moved like a ghost through the countryside, dismounting only to strike, disappearing before the smoke cleared.

Nest after nest burned behind him.

Every battlefield was checked. Every den was searched.

Not a single victim left to rescue.

Not this time.

No tears. No final requests.

Only silence, and the stench of death.

He stood on the outskirts of the final quest location, a smoldering goblin warren built beneath an abandoned windmill.

Black smoke curled toward the sky, slow and soft.

Red exhaled once.

It was done.

He passed through Sakihana by late afternoon, a small town nestled between riverbeds and green rice fields. No walls. No guards. Just slow-moving people and simpler worries.

There were no nobles here. No guild hall. Just good people, farmers, shopkeepers, and wandering herbalists.

They knew Red. Not by name, but by silhouette.

The quiet man who came after hunts. Who bought in bulk. Who never haggled.

He stopped by the general store.

"Same?" the merchant asked. A woman with greying hair and a sharp sense of unspoken charity.

He nodded.

She began preparing a bulk sack without another word.

Bread. Dried meat. Water flasks. Healing leaves. Herbs. A few potions. Enough for thirty people to survive another week.

Red handed her exact coin and packed the supplies carefully into the Kokoroko's side bags.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked west again, toward home.

The road home was quiet.

He walked beside his Kokoroko, letting the mount rest its legs after the long journey. It nipped lazily at the weeds lining the road, tail swishing, content.

Red didn't rush.

He never did when the work was over.

His eyes wandered to the trees, the way the wind stirred their branches, the faint sound of running water in the distance.

There was peace here.

It was fragile, but real.

By the time he reached the outskirts of his land, dusk had settled like a warm shawl over the forest. The air had cooled, and insects sang their dusk melodies under the tall grass.

His cabin stood just as he left it, humble, still, untouched by the world.

He led the Kokoroko to the stream and let it drink freely. The mount chirped in satisfaction and lay near the flat stone Red had smoothed into a resting spot long ago.

Before entering the house, he moved through the woods.

Quietly. Deliberately.

One by one, he checked every trap, glyph snares, pressure-rigs, alchemical flares. All undisturbed. No tracks. No breaches.

Good.

He returned to the cabin, unbuckled his belt, and slowly peeled off his armor piece by piece. Greaves. Chestplate. Gauntlets. Cloak.

All placed with care beside the door.

The twelve quest sheets he retrieved from his side pouch. Folded, stained faintly with smoke and blood, he laid them flat on the table.

No fanfare.

No reward counted.

Just records of monsters erased.

He walked barefoot to the stream.

The water was cool against his skin as he stepped in.

No words. Just the sound of flowing water and the feeling of old blood washing away from his hands, arms, and chest. His reflection stared up at him, calm, unreadable, eyes tired but unbroken.

Once clean, he returned to Kokoroko.

He knelt beside it, placing a small pile of cut vegetables and grain by its beak. The bird chirped again and began pecking eagerly.

Red patted its neck once, then turned toward the cabin.

Inside, the hearth waited.

Dinner was simple. As always.

He cast a line into the stream, hooked a river fish, and cleaned it without a second thought. A pot of rice warmed over the fire as he seasoned the fish with salt and herbs picked along the riverbank. No extravagance. Just sustenance.

When it was done, he sat alone at his wooden table.

Dinner was simple.

Rice from a tin pot. A fish, speared fresh from the stream, grilled over the hearth. No spices tonight. Just salt. He liked the quiet flavors after a long job.

After eating, he poured the last scoop of coffee grounds into the pot, added water, and placed it over the flame.

The aroma was grounding. Warm. Bitter.

He sat at the table, alone.

Steam curled from his cup as he stared into the quiet.

Twelve quests. Over a hundred lives ended. And still, the world turned.

No one would cheer. No one would know.

But in the slums, someone would eat tonight. Someone would live.

That was enough.

When he sipped it, he closed his eyes.

Just for a moment.

This was the only indulgence he allowed himself.

The stars blinked outside now, scattered across a sky washed clean by dusk. The forest was quiet. No alarms. No cries.

He stretched once, letting his muscles settle after two long days of movement.

Then he walked to his bedroll, wrapped in a linen sheet, and lay down.

His sword rested beside him, within reach.

The cabin creaked softly in the wind.

But Red didn't stir.

His breathing slowed.

And for the first time in two days.

He slept.