The Suckers Are Finally Here!

Miles returned from the surrounding knightly estates with firewood on his back and a sack of charcoal embers in his arms.

No one cared what exactly he was carrying, because everyone knew the purple-haired young man had excellent swordsmanship, and deaths were nothing unusual in the hills.

To the west of the settlement stood a rickety hut made of grass and branches, his current home. Its former owner had been an old Mountain Folk hunter missing a leg. During a great hunt, he had been attacked by a Magic Beast bear and shot through his companion's ankle, using him to delay the beast so he could survive.

For attacking his companion, the tribe had chopped off one of his legs and cast him beyond the mountains to fend for himself. Yet with archery skilled enough to strike birds in flight or pierce a man's throat, he had struggled on until the eve of this winter.

After his death, Miles had won the right to live in the hut with his sword.

During the struggle, he had killed three Western Border men who were also refugees and had intended to seize Cynthia to threaten him. He had not softened in the slightest just because they were "fellow countrymen."

And the display of power had worked well.

"Brother?"

The moment he entered the hut, the man heard the weak voice of a girl. The light-orange-haired girl was tending the Spark inside.

When she saw Miles return, she turned and smiled. "The fire didn't go out. The water in the kettle beside it is warm. Hurry and drink some."

"You take a sip first. Don't catch a chill." Miles bent down and hugged Cynthia, then began adding kindling to the nearly extinguished ashes in the stove. "No one came by, right?"

"No." The