As promised, they ventured deeper into the forest.
Sophia's brows furrowed in confusion.
"I'm supposed to be the one training... John's only here to protect me... What kind of game is this supposed to be?"
Before she could make sense of it all, Hardy and John had already vanished into the shadows between the trees.
Brian turned to her, expression unreadable. "Would you prefer to start the training now or wait for John to return?"
"If you choose the former, we'll head to a relatively safe area. If the latter, we wait here. Twenty minutes."
Without a second thought, Sophia replied, "The latter."
Throughout everything, Brian only managed to keep her on edge. But John—John gave her a sense of calm.
She didn't trust Brian to protect her. Not even slightly.
All she could do now was hope that John would return soon.
Brian didn't look surprised by her choice. In fact, it seemed like he expected it. He said nothing, made no move to hurry her along. He simply waited.
Meanwhile, deep within the forest...
The air was thick with tension. The canopy above muffled sound, casting shadows between the towering trees. All around them, the remains of slain wolves littered the underbrush—cold, lifeless bodies sprawled and bloodied.
In the distance, guttural growls echoed ominously.
Suddenly, they were surrounded.
Eyes glowing in the darkness. Dozens of Zephyr Wolves slowly closing in.
Hardy's eyes gleamed with excitement.
"The hunt begins."
He shot forward with a grin, his movements swift and practiced. His pouch opened, and he began to hurl explosive talismans, decimating the wolves one by one.
"One!"
"Two!"
"Three!"
It was clear Hardy was no stranger to this kind of combat. Each strike was clean, deliberate. Efficient. He fought like a man who'd done this a thousand times before.
All the while, he kept glancing at John—watching him just as intently as he watched the wolves.
The beasts, startled by their ferocity, began to retreat. But Hardy wasn't done.
Just then, Hardy shouted, "John, catch!"
He flung a sword toward him with startling force.
Under normal circumstances, someone would instinctively catch it.
But John had seen through him from the start.
He never trusted Hardy. Not from the beginning.
Everything that happened that day only solidified his suspicion. The banquet, the apology—it was all a performance. A layered deception.
John had agreed to this "game" not to train—but to see what Hardy was plotting.
They'd both been watching each other, silently, playing a psychological war.
So when the sword came flying, John pretended to reach for it—just slow enough to avoid suspicion.
And right then, Hardy struck himself.
Thud!
Blood splattered as he staggered back, clutching his chest.
"John!" he roared, voice laced with anguish. "I treated you like a brother, and this is how you repay me?! You tried to kill me!"
He tore at his own robes, ripping them apart and staggering out of the woods, pretending to flee in fear—his body trembling as if he'd barely escaped a deadly betrayal.
Watching him go, John finally understood the full picture.
So that was the plan.
Hardy wasn't trying to kill him directly. No—he wanted to frame him first.
The entire fight, the sword, the performance—it was all just to give Hardy a reason.
A justifiable excuse to make John's death acceptable in the eyes of the others.
And once that reason existed, no one would question it.
John gazed down at the sword in his hand, the so-called "Wintry Moon Blade." A blade meant to be the planted evidence of betrayal.
He smirked, spinning it between his fingers.
"Game on."
And with that, he walked away—calm, unbothered, a predator in the trees.
Near the gate of the hunting ground…
Two people were already arguing, voices raised and echoing across the clearing.
"It's impossible that John did this!" Sophia shouted.
But Hardy was already in full performance mode.
"Oh, really? Then how do you explain this?" He pointed to the gash on his chest, still bleeding, still raw. "He tried to kill me!"
Sophia didn't flinch. "That doesn't make sense! If he were going to kill you, why would he do it in such an obvious way? He'd be the first suspect!"
Indeed—there had only been two people out there.
The logic didn't add up.
John had nothing to gain from such a reckless attack. Not to mention, if he truly wanted Hardy dead, a mere stab wound wouldn't have stopped him.
Besides, not even the Wintry Moon Blade could protect him from the wrath of Robert Tennat.
It just wasn't plausible.
Hardy sneered, venom in his voice. "Maybe he was seduced by the sword's value. Or maybe…" he smirked, eyes narrowing at Sophia, "you're not in a position to judge anything."
Was it a lie?
Of course it was.
But in the grand scheme of things...
Did it even matter?
No.
The goal wasn't truth. The goal was justification.
All Hardy needed was a reason—any reason—to make what came next seem righteous.
Once the story was told, it would become the truth.
And in the eyes of those who mattered...
John Lopez would be a traitor.
And Hardy Tennat? The victim.
No one would question it.
Not once.