The border forest stretched endlessly along the northern fringes of the Wild Beast Zone, its canopy thick and oppressive under the afternoon sun.

Here, where the Eldoria Empire's reach barely touched, survival meant bending to the rules of the strong.

The small elven village of Silmaren existed as a fragile thread caught between worlds—surrounded on all sides by the orcish settlements of the Grak'thar clan.

In the shadowed alley between two crumbling wooden structures, a young elf man pressed his back against the rough bark wall, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

His slender frame trembled as three orcish women closed in, their muscular forms blocking any escape route.

"Look at this pretty thing," one of them growled, her tusked grin wide as her thick fingers reached out to trace the outline of his penis through his simple brown robe. "Barely anything there. Like a damn twig."

"Puny little thing," another laughed, her calloused hand groping him without hesitation, squeezing his balls through the fabric, making him tremble in pain. "What's the point of equipment you can't even use properly, eh?"

The elf's face burned crimson, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he tried to shrink further into the wall.

His hands came up weakly, trying to push them away, but the gesture was pathetic against their strength.

"Stop... please," he whispered, voice cracking.

"Aww, he's begging," the third orc woman cooed mockingly, grabbing the collar of his robe. The fabric tore slightly as she pulled, exposing pale skin. "Let's see if the rest of him is just as disappointing. Come on, show us—"

"Remove your hands from him. Now."

The command cut through the air like an arrow, sharp and deadly.

All three orcs turned to see a woman standing at the mouth of the alley, her posture relaxed but her eyes cold as winter frost.

She was elven, older than the boy, with silver-blonde hair tied back in a warrior's braid and a bow slung across her back.

Despite being smaller than the orcs, there was something in her presence that made them hesitate.

"Is this your pet, Sylvane?" the lead orc woman asked, though her hand loosened on the boy's torn robe.

"He's my nephew," Sylvane replied evenly, taking a step forward. Her hand rested casually on the knife at her hip. "And I suggest you remember who's been teaching you lot how to string a bow without shooting your own feet. Unless you'd prefer I stop the lessons and let you continue embarrassing yourselves in the forest hunts?"

The orcs exchanged glances, irritation flickering across their faces. The leader spat to the side, releasing the elf boy with a rough shove that sent him stumbling.

"Tch. Fine. Keep your little pretty boy on a tighter leash, then. Wouldn't want something to happen to him when you're not around." She sneered, leaning close to Sylvane's face. "Remember, elf—you're only valuable here as long as you're useful. The moment you stop teaching us, there's nothing protecting this pathetic village of yours."

"Duly noted," Sylvane said without flinching. "Now get back to your camp. I'm sure there's plenty of ale waiting for you to drown yourselves in."

The three orcish women laughed coarsely, shoving past her as they left the alley. Their heavy footsteps faded into the distance, followed by crude jokes and raucous laughter.

The moment they were gone, Sylvane turned to her nephew.

His hands shook as he tried to hold together the torn fabric of his robe, tears streaming silently down his face.

His jaw clenched tight, grinding his teeth against the humiliation burning through him.

"Aunt Sylvane, I—" His voice broke.

"Don't," she said softly, moving to his side and placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "Let's get you back first."

"I'm sorry," he choked out, bowing his head low even as his body trembled. The tears came harder now, hot and bitter. "I'm so sorry. I'm weak. I couldn't... I can't even protect myself. You have to keep saving me. I'm useless—"

"Stop." Sylvane's voice was gentle but firm. She waited until he looked up at her, his eyes red and swollen. "It's fine. You're alive. That's what matters. Now come. Let's go home."

She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him out of the alley and through the winding path toward the village center.

He kept his head down, unable to meet the eyes of anyone they passed.

Silmaren revealed itself as they walked—a collection of modest dwellings built into the great trees, connected by rope bridges and wooden platforms.

But there was no mistaking the village's decline.

Where once there might have been vibrant life, now only the remnants remained. Old elven women sat outside their homes, their weathered faces etched with resignation as they mended clothes or sorted herbs.

A few young elf men, frail and timid, carried water from the central well, their movements quick and nervous, always glancing over their shoulders.

No warriors. No hunters. Just the old, the weak, and the frightened.

The village square was little more than a clearing with a small shrine, its stone surface cracked and overrun with moss.

A handful of children played nearby, their laughter subdued, as if they'd learned early that too much joy attracted the wrong kind of attention.

"Sylvane's back," one old woman murmured as they passed.

"With the boy again," another whispered. "Poor child."

The nephew's fists clenched tighter at his sides, but he said nothing. What was there to say? They all knew.

He was always the center of bullying just because his mother was once village chief and his aunt was the one teaching the orcs to use bows, letting them take their frustration out on him.

They walked in silence until they reached the far edge of the village, where a massive ancient tree stood apart from the others.

Its trunk was easily twenty feet wide, gnarled and twisted with age, its roots spreading like veins through the earth.

A doorway had been carved into the base, smooth and worn from centuries of use.

Sylvane stopped outside the door, her hand still on her nephew's shoulder.

"Go," she said quietly. "Take your mother's blessing."

He nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. With shaking hands, he pushed open the door.

Inside, the air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of white lilies.

The main chamber had been hollowed out with care, its walls smooth and lined with carved symbols of protection and peace.

Soft light filtered through openings high above, casting gentle patterns across the wooden floor.

And there, in the center of the room on a bed draped in pale linens, lay his mother.

She was surrounded by white flowers—hundreds of them, carefully placed and tended.

His mother lay perfectly still, her hands folded over her chest.

Her face was serene, beautiful even in its emptiness.

Her skin held a faint glow, preservation magic keeping her form exactly as it had been. But her chest did not rise. Her eyes did not flutter. She did not breathe, yet she was not dead—suspended in that terrible space between life and death, unreachable.

"Mother... I don't think I will be able to endure this much longer."

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