Chapter 12: The Silence Between Walls

The cell was carved from old dwarven stone—uneven, damp, and cold enough to bite through cloth. Moss crept along the cracks like sickly green veins. The air smelled of mildew, rust, and a lingering, faint sweetness of spilled wine from a century ago. The only sound was the incessant drip of water from a crack in the ceiling, each drop a tiny, mocking countdown.

Allen sat on the edge of the cot, a coiled spring of frustration. His knuckles were white where they gripped his knees, and his foot tapped a rapid, impatient rhythm against the stone floor. He wasn't just staring at the ground; he was glaring at it, as if the mossy veins held the secrets of their escape.

"Three days. No word," he said, his voice a low, ragged whisper. "Damn it. Damn it. Damn it all to hell."

Mei's fingers moved with a practiced, almost desperate grace, folding scraps of paper into tiny stars. She'd made twenty so far, each one a perfect, desperate wish. But with every star, her hands trembled a little more. When one of the delicate points tore, she let out a small, shuddering breath, her composure cracking. She didn’t look at the crumpled paper, letting it fall to the ground like a final, failed plea.

"Monica’s strong," she murmured, her eyes distant. "Believe in her."

"She’s alone," Allen snapped, the words a raw wound. "And we’re rotting in here while the city blames us for everything."

The silence returned, heavier than before. Cinnamon chirped once from the corner, then curled tighter, his fur matted and his tail twitching in a nervous sleep.

Protag-kun sat in the far corner, hunched over, his hands scraping spirals into the stone with a broken spoon. They weren't just random lines; they were getting tighter with every turn, collapsing in on themselves. He hadn't spoken since they were locked up.

Mei tried to hum one of her old idol songs, but her voice cracked halfway through, and she stopped, pulling Miyu closer. The girl clung to her sleeve, eyes wide and silent, a reflection of the unspoken fear in the room.

Allen stood suddenly, pacing. His boots scraped against the stone in a frantic, scraping rhythm that wore a fresh groove into the floor. “We blow the door. Tonight.”

Mei looked up, her eyes dull. “And then what? Run into a city that hates us? The guards here are the ones who saved us, only to lock us away. The whispers outside say we're a curse."

"They hate what they don’t understand," Allen muttered. "They think we summoned the Orc Lord. That Monica’s some kind of witch."

Protag-kun's voice, when it came, was so quiet it was barely a sound, a rasp against the stone. "Let them hate. It's easier."

Allen turned to him, his frustration boiling over. "You don’t care?"

Protag-kun didn't look up, his thumb still tracing the cold spirals. "I care. I just don't know what it's worth."

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of unspoken arguments. Outside the cell, a distinct new sound filled the air—not the heavy clank of guards, but something slower.

Softer.

Intentional.

The air felt cold, and the sound of footsteps grew louder, closer, echoing in the tunnel, until a figure stepped into view.

The sound of footsteps broke the silence—not the heavy clank of guards, but something slower, softer, and more deliberate, with a distinct, shuffling gait. It echoed down the damp corridor.

“This way,” a soldier directed the person as he moved forward.

Allen stood, his body instinctively tensing, a hand instinctively moving toward his waist where a weapon would have been. Mei pulled Miyu close, her body a shield. Even Protag-kun, a ghost in the corner, paused mid-scratch, the broken spoon frozen against the stone.

A figure stepped into view, framed by the flickering torchlight. It wasn't a guard; it was the café owner. His apron was torn and stained with soot, and one of his sleeves hung loose, scorched at the edge. He didn't speak. He didn't blink. He just stood there, his weary eyes taking in the damp cell and the haggard faces behind the bars.

Mei rose, bowing low. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. “Your café… we didn’t mean to—”

He raised a hand, not to strike, but just to stop her words.

"What was lost can always be rebuilt," the owner said.

His gaze drifted past Allen and Mei, settling on Protag-kun. A single tear, clean against the soot on his cheek, traced a path down to his chin.

“You remind me of someone,” he said, his voice rough like stone scraping against wood. “My son.”

Protag-kun froze. The spoon was a cold weight in his hand, his thumb still tracing a half-finished spiral. His gaze, which had been fixed on the wall, slowly lifted to the café owner's face. The man's words weren't a story; they were a mirror, and Protag-kun saw a reflection of a life he had never lived, a pain he had never known.

“He was a fool,” the owner continued, the words filled with a deep, aching sadness. “Strange. A dreamer. People laughed at him. Said he was soft. Said he didn’t belong.” The man's knuckles were white where they gripped the bars.

Allen stepped forward, cautious. “What happened to him?”

“That useless idiot,” The owner didn't look away from Protag-kun. "A dire wolf escaped from the beast pens. It went for a child. My son didn't hesitate. He saved her. And died for it.”

The spoon slipped from Protag-kun's numb fingers, clattering loudly against the stone floor. His entire body trembled, his shoulders slumping with a mix of shared sorrow and painful recognition.

The café owner just stood there for a moment, his gaze filled with a gentle understanding. "Protag-kun," he said, his voice a quiet invitation. "Can you tell me your real name?"

Time felt as though it stood at a standstill. He simply nodded, a silent acknowledgement of the trust Protag-kun had given him, then turned and walked away, his soft footsteps receding into the darkness, leaving a warmth that cut through the damp cold of the cell.

Hours later, the captain arrived. He didn’t look at them, his face a mask of official disapproval. He just unlocked the cell. “You’ve been cleared,” he said, his voice clipped. "Someone spoke for you."

Allen stepped out first, blinking against the torchlight. Mei followed, holding Miyu close. Protag-kun lingered for a moment, staring at the spoon on the floor. He didn’t pick it up. Cinnamon squeaked and hopped onto Mei’s shoulder, a tiny sentinel against the unknown.

They didn’t speak as they left the cell. They didn’t need to. The silence wasn't heavy or oppressive anymore; it was a quiet, shared understanding.

"Is this the same place?" Mei was in complete shock, her face turning pale.

The moment they were released, the air outside the cell changed, but not for the better. The city above had changed. A faint, acrid smell of wet ash and burnt bone hung in the air, a different kind of decay than the prison. Smoke still curled from the rooftops. The market stalls were abandoned, their canvas flapping in the wind like defeated flags. Guards patrolled in tight, suspicious formations, their eyes darting toward every shadow.

A man's voice croaked from the edge of the crowd, a sound like dried leaves scraping stone. "It's them! The bastards that came from the outside! They brought the monsters!"

"Get out of here, demon!" an old woman screamed, her voice cracking with fury and grief.

A rock sailed through the air, hitting Protag-kun in the forehead with a sickening thud. Blood immediately welled up and ran down his face, a crimson streak against the soot and grime. The crowd’s low murmuring began to build, a low, guttural hum that sounded like a coming storm. But the other guards in the patrol quickly moved to block them, their spears held ready.

The group stood in the wreckage of the café, released but not welcomed. The walls were scorched, the floor littered with broken glass and ash. Mei knelt beside a half-burnt menu board, brushing soot from the faded chalk letters of a special that would never be served.

"They won't make it once the orcs come back," she whispered, her voice heavy with a grim realization. "Is this going to be the end of the village?"

Cinnamon chirped softly, nudging a cracked teacup with his nose, a small and fragile sign of life in the midst of ruin.

Allen, his body still aching from the previous battle, paced near the counter, scanning the wreckage for any sign of a way forward. "We need to move. If Monica's being held near the beast pens, we can reach her through the old canal tunnels."

Mei nodded, unfolding a map she'd received from the Captain of the prison guards. "Three turns past the aqueduct, then a climb through the wine vault. It's tight, but it'll get us there." Allen turned to the others. "Let's go."

But Protag-kun didn't move.

"I'm not going," he said quietly.

Allen stopped, turning back with a look of disbelief. "What?" he asked, already halfway to the trapdoor.

Protag-kun's eyes, filled with a newfound resolve, finally met theirs. He looked at a single flower, impossibly, growing from a crack in the pavement near his feet. "I want to stay. I want to defend the city."

Mei blinked, her voice a soft echo of their shared disbelief. "You hate this place."

"I hated myself in this place," he said. "But the café owner… his son… he was like me. And he mattered." Protag-kun's shoulders, which had been hunched with years of self-imposed isolation, visibly relaxed. He didn’t just get trust; he got a silent promise.

Allen stared at him for a long moment, the angry young man from the cell replaced with a more understanding friend. He didn't argue. He just nodded. "Good luck."

Mei stepped forward. "We'll stay too. The city needs someone who believes in it."

Miyu clutched her mother's hand, her eyes wide but determined. Cinnamon squeaked and hopped onto her shoulder, a tiny sentinel in the face of a great challenge.

Allen looked at them all—his strange, mismatched party, now fractured and forging new paths. He gave a final, tight nod, a silent vow that he would return. Then he turned toward the tunnel. "I'll bring her back," he said.

With that, they split. Above, the city prepared for war. Below, Allen descended into the dark, a single hero in a world that didn't want him.

The silence in the tunnel was thick and cold, broken only by the sharp, rhythmic scrape of Allen's boots on the damp stone. The air smelled of wet earth and ancient rot, a stark contrast to the burning city above. He followed the map Mei had given him, navigating the tight, claustrophobic passages. The torch he carried flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that made the walls seem to move, the darkness a living, breathing thing pressing in on him.

“It’s funny, isn’t it Monica,” Allen said, the words echoing hollowly.

He tried to laugh, but the sound was strained and dry. Every turn was a test, a new labyrinthine puzzle he had to solve. The slimy, green moss on the aqueduct walls slicked his hands as he crawled through a narrow opening. The air in the wine vault was thick with the sickly sweet smell of fermented grapes, a cloying scent that made him feel disoriented.

The anger and rage that had consumed him in the cell had been replaced by a quiet, determined focus, but underneath, a tremor of fear vibrated through him with every distant sound. He had to remind himself: he wasn't just fighting for survival anymore; he was fighting for his friends, for their safety, and for Monica's life. He wasn't running anymore.

"Otakus somehow have taken over the world," Allen couldn’t help but laugh. 

As he reached the end of the tunnel, he could hear it. A low, guttural growl that vibrated through the very stone beneath his feet. He saw it too: fresh claw marks scraped into the walls, a path of jagged lines leading to a faint glimmer of light ahead. The scent of blood was in the air, a metallic, coppery smell that made his stomach churn.

"Monica, please be patient."

He had to hurry. He was alone, but for the first time in a long time, he felt a strange sense of peace. He wasn't running anymore.

Author's Note: We are getting close to the end. Four more chapters to go. For the next week I will be extremely busy so I may not be able to release quicker than I would hope to.