Prayer in times of crisis

A Wind Falcon swooped down from the sky, piercing through the clouds, and dived straight toward Borne.

The sound of its flapping wings was loud and powerful.

The warhorse beneath him suddenly leaped to the right.

Borne hadn't even had time to react when he fixed his gaze and saw a Wind Falcon hovering directly in front of him.

Its rapid descent had left deep scratches on the rocky ground.

This particular Wind Falcon was massive in size.

Its head was imposing, with a broad skull held high, and a slight bony protrusion atop its head that seemed like a natural ornament, adding a hint of mystery to its appearance.

Its beak was like a black hook, sharp and curved, with fine wear marks etched across its surface.

Each groove showed the sharpness and hardness developed through countless hunts.

The tip of the beak was sharp enough to tear through flesh easily.

The inside of the beak was a dark color, giving it an even more menacing appearance.

Its eyes were deep and fierce, the pupils jet black like a pair of black holes, radiating a cold, unsettling intensity.

A slight bulge around the eyes served as a protective layer, making its gaze appear even sharper.

The pupils gleamed with a keen light, and each movement revealed its ability to clearly perceive everything around it.

Its wings were wide and powerful, and when spread, each feather showed a gradient from dark to gray.

The feathers were covered with tiny, scale-like textures from the base to the tips, with edges as sharp as blades.

Its talons were curved and razor-sharp, with three deadly claws on each foot.

The inner side was covered with dense ridges and hooked protrusions, allowing the Wind Falcon to grip its prey tightly and tear into their flesh.

The tips of the talons bore traces of dried blood, clear evidence of a recent hunt.

Without a moment's hesitation, Borne drew the bow and arrow he had brought from the army.

Borne pressed his legs tightly against the horse's flanks, urging it to sprint away, desperately trying to put some distance between himself and the Wind Falcon.

Along the way, he discarded the weapons he had seized, focusing solely on survival.

"Damn it, there's no chance to counterattack," he muttered.

The dense foliage repeatedly blocked Borne's line of sight, denying him any opportunity to strike back.

The Wind Falcon calmly soared back into the sky, locking onto its prey once more.

Borne galloped through the mountain, knowing he had to dodge swiftly before each attack from the Wind Falcon and lose it among the trees.

Suddenly, the Wind Falcon dived from the sky, its massive wings whipping up powerful gusts of wind, stinging Borne's face with their force.

A tremendous sense of pressure surged from behind.

Borne instinctively turned his head and saw the Wind Falcon hurtling toward him, its talons gleaming like cold, sharp iron hooks.

He used his bow to block the talons.

The standard-issue bow from the army snapped instantly.

The Wind Falcon's claws dug deep into the flesh of his left shoulder, piercing through his clothes like steel blades, bringing a surge of intense pain.

A searing, tearing sensation radiated from his shoulder as the talons tore through his skin and muscle, blood pouring out and soaking his clothes.

"So fast!" Borne gasped inwardly.

The pain and blood loss caused his vision to blur.

Yet, he gritted his teeth against the agony, forcing himself to maintain the horse's speed to escape the Wind Falcon's attack range as quickly as possible.

He soon sprinted back down the mountain, entering the forest once again.

However, the Wind Falcon did not relent; it spread its wings and launched an even more ferocious assault.

Ahead lay a relatively open area, with signs of trees being damaged—clearly, remnants of the Wind Falcon's previous attacks.

The Wind Falcon flapped its wings, and each swing unleashed a powerful gale, filled with countless tiny, invisible blades.

"Shit!"

Borne gritted his teeth against the pain, maneuvering his warhorse to dodge, but his body was still covered with countless thin, stinging cuts.

The horse, too, bore its share of wounds, letting out a pained, shrill cry.

He bit down hard and pulled out the bow he had taken from the bandits.

The moment they reached the clearing.

Borne twisted his waist and turned, swiftly raising the bow.

The pain in his left shoulder caused beads of sweat to break out on his forehead.

The muscles in his arms tensed, and blood continued to seep from his left shoulder.

The arrow's nock sat firmly on the string, and the bowstring emitted a low, vibrating hum.

His fingertips gripped the nock tightly, steadying the trembling arrow.

He drew the bowstring back, pulling it taut like a full moon, a cold gleam reflecting off its curve.

Drawing the bow and nocking the arrow was completed in a single breath.

Borne held his breath, all distractions vanished in that moment as he focused intently on the Wind Falcon in the sky.

It was as if the entire world was holding its breath, waiting for this one strike.

He had only one chance—if he missed, it would be his end.

In the air, the Wind Falcon's wings were fully extended, ready to strike.

Both sides locked their gaze on their target.

The next instant!

A nearby slender tree and its branches were instantly sliced apart by the ferocious wind.

The Wind Falcon continued to beat its wings, sending countless gusts of wind slicing toward Borne.

Borne's fingers released, and the bowstring snapped with a crisp twang, vibrating sharply.

A sharp whistle pierced the air as if it had been torn apart, the faint howl growing louder.

The arrowhead cut through the air, racing directly toward its target.

In an instant, time seemed to freeze, and every sound and movement centered around that swiftly flying, thin line.

The arrow's tail quivered slightly, racing unhesitatingly toward its airborne target.

The makeshift bow in Borne's hand splintered and broke apart, falling to the ground.

Borne, too, felt his strength drain away, and he collapsed on his horse's back.

Just before his eyes closed, he muttered a final command to his horse through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible.

"Radish, take the narrow path."

He immediately lost consciousness, slumping against the saddle.

The horse, obedient and attentive, swiftly altered its course, galloping down the small path.

Borne had no idea if his arrow had struck the Wind Falcon.

He dreaded knowing.

As Borne fainted, a shrill cry pierced the sky—the Wind Falcon's scream.

The towering oaks and pines intertwined their crowns, almost completely blocking out the sunlight, leaving only a few dappled spots of light scattered on the ground.

The air was thick with the scent of moist earth and decaying leaves, mingling with the slightly sour smell of rotting vegetation.

Borne lay unconscious, mumbling incoherently now and then, his shoulder wound still bleeding, the blood soaking through his clothes and onto the horse, trailing along the ground like a long, thin line of red.

He lay slumped against the horse's back, his body swaying slightly with every movement the horse made.

As the forest grew denser, the trees became thicker, their trunks massive and their leaves forming a layered canopy.

A faint mist enveloped the surroundings, cutting off the sky even further.

The horse glanced upwards now and then, its head turning cautiously through the thick branches, constantly wary of the Wind Falcon's return.

Passing through a low thicket, the horse found a suitable hiding place—a small area surrounded by thick trees and heavy bushes.

Carefully, the horse entered the dense undergrowth.

It stepped lightly, doing its best not to jostle Borne from its back.

After navigating through the dense brush, the horse decided to hide in this secluded hollow.

The surrounding brambles intertwined, forming a thick cover; even the Wind Falcon's sharp eyes would struggle to see through the dense leaves.

The forest was eerily quiet, and time seemed to stand still.

The horse carefully knelt, tilting its body to the side, allowing Borne to slide gently to the ground.

It gently licked Borne's shoulder wound on the left, hoping to provide some relief.

But Borne showed no signs of waking, and his forehead grew increasingly hot.

The horse seemed to realize something and knelt beside him.

It extended its neck toward the small pouch on Borne's belt.

With its teeth, it tore the pouch open, spilling its contents onto the ground.

Biting down on a green pill, the horse crushed it, then used its tongue to apply the paste to Borne's shoulder.

At that moment, the horse knelt before Borne, repeatedly bowing its head to the sky, mimicking a human gesture.

It hoped the mythical gods might save its fallen comrade.

The horse dared not cry too loudly, fearing it might attract other beasts, and tears streamed from its eyes.

All it could do now was pray, hoping the gods would hear its plea.