Chapter 12: The Silence Between Walls

The jail was carved from old dwarven stone—uneven, damp, and cold enough to bite through cloth. Moss crept along the walls like veins, and the air carried the sour tang of mildew, rust, and something faintly sweet, like wine spilled a century ago. A single drip echoed from the ceiling, steady and relentless, marking time in a place where time had stopped.

Allen sat hunched on the edge of the cot, his elbows digging into his knees, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His foot tapped a frantic rhythm against the floor, not out of impatience, but to remind himself he was still here. Still waiting.

“Three days,” he muttered. “No word. No guards. Nothing.”

The silence swallowed his voice. Mei sat cross-legged nearby, folding scraps of paper into tiny stars. Twenty-three now. Each one a wish. Each one trembling slightly in her hands. When one tore, she didn’t react—just let it fall, a failed prayer among the dust.

“Monica’s strong,” she whispered, not looking up. “She’ll be okay.”

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

Allen didn’t answer. His glare was fixed on the moss-covered floor, as if it might reveal a secret escape. Mei’s words hung in the air like smoke—hopeful, but fading.

Cinnamon chirped once from the corner, then curled tighter into himself, his fur matted and twitching in his sleep. Miyu sat beside Mei, her small hands clutching the hem of her skirt, eyes wide and unblinking. She hadn’t spoken since they were locked up.

In the far corner, Protag-kun scraped spirals into the stone with a broken spoon. The spirals weren’t random—they tightened with each pass, collapsing inward like a black hole. He hadn’t spoken either. Not since the battle. Not since Monica was taken.

Mei tried to hum one of her old songs, but her voice cracked halfway through. She stopped, pressing her lips together, and pulled Miyu closer. The girl leaned into her, silent but trembling.

Allen stood abruptly, boots scraping against the stone. He paced, each step carving a new groove into the floor. “We blow the door. Tonight.”

Mei didn’t look up. “And then what? Run into a city that hates us? The guards saved us from the orcs. The only reason they locked us up was for our safety.”

Allen scoffed. “Safety? They think we summoned the Orc Lord. That Monica’s some kind of witch.”

The silence returned, heavier than before. As Monica was being taken away by the orcs, there were a few that recognized her. Without knowing the complete truth, they quickly made the judgment that she was in league with them.

The drip from the ceiling continued. Steady. Then, Protag-kun spoke—barely a whisper, a rasp against the stone. “Let them hate. It’s easier.”

The spoon paused. The spiral was unfinished.

Allen turned toward the corner, his voice low but sharp. “You don’t care?”

Protag-kun didn’t look up. His thumb kept tracing the spiral, slower now. “I care,” he said. “I just don’t know what it’s worth.”

The words hung in the air like smoke—thin, bitter, and impossible to grasp. No one responded. Even Mei stopped folding stars. The silence returned, not empty, but full of everything they couldn’t say.

Then, a sound broke through the stillness. Not the heavy clank of armored boots, but something softer. Slower. Intentional.

Footsteps.

They echoed down the corridor, each one deliberate, like someone walking through memory. The air shifted—colder, heavier. Mei instinctively pulled Miyu closer. Allen stood, his hand twitching toward his waist, where a weapon used to be. Even Protag-kun paused, the spoon frozen mid-spiral.

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, just to stop her words.

“What was lost can always be rebuilt,” he said, voice rough like stone dragged across wood.

His gaze drifted past Allen and Mei, settling on Protag-kun. A single sweat traced a clean path through the soot on his cheek.

“I was told that you were given three meals a day. Even so you’re not looking too good, kid,” he said. “You’ve got the same pigheaded stubbornness as someone I used to know. My son.”

Protag-kun didn’t move. The spoon was still in his hand, but his grip had loosened. His eyes, once fixed on the stone, slowly lifted to meet the café owner’s.

“That boy. He was a fool,” the man continued. “Strange. A dreamer. People laughed at him. Said he didn’t belong.”

His knuckles tightened around the bars.

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

The café owner didn’t look away. “A dire wolf escaped the beast pens. Went for a child. My son didn’t hesitate. He saved her. And died for it.”

The silence that followed was different. Not heavy. Not empty.

Just still.

Protag-kun let the spoon fall. It clattered against the stone, loud in the quiet. He didn’t pick it up.

The spoon lay where it had fallen, untouched. Protag-kun’s fingers curled loosely in his lap, his gaze still fixed on the spirals etched into the stone. But something had shifted. Not in the room—but in him.

The café owner lingered for a moment longer, his eyes soft with understanding. “Young man,” he said gently, “Can you tell me your real name?”

Time paused. No one moved. The question wasn’t a demand—it was an invitation.

The café owner gave a quiet nod in return, then turned and walked away. His footsteps faded into the corridor, leaving behind a warmth that cut through the damp cold of the cell.

Hours passed. Or maybe just minutes. Time had lost its shape.

Then came the sound of keys. The captain arrived, his face unreadable, his armor polished but impersonal. He didn’t look at them.

“You’ve been cleared,” he said, voice clipped. “Someone spoke for you.”

Allen stood first, blinking against the torchlight. Mei followed, holding Miyu close. Cinnamon hopped onto her shoulder, his tiny body alert. Protag-kun lingered, staring at the spoon. He didn’t pick it up.

The guards were hesitant to say anything as if they swallowed a bitter pill. The five of them stepped out of the cell, but no one spoke. The silence wasn’t oppressive anymore—it was shared. A quiet understanding.

Then as the guard opened the doorway, a heavy gravity fell upon them. The village changed.

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

The city above was no longer familiar. Smoke curled from rooftops. The acrid stench of wet ash and burnt bone hung in the air. Market stalls stood abandoned, their canvas flapping like torn flags. Guards patrolled in tight formations, eyes sharp and suspicious.

A voice cracked from the crowd. “It’s them! The outsiders! They were the ones that brought the monsters!”

Another followed, shrill and broken. “Get out of here, demon!”

A rock flew through the air, striking Protag-kun in the forehead. He staggered, blood streaking down his face. The crowd’s murmurs swelled into a low, angry hum.

The guards moved quickly, forming a barrier with their spears. But the damage was done.

They continued moving until they reached the wreckage of the café. The walls were scorched, the floor littered with ash and shattered glass. Mei knelt beside a half-burnt menu board, brushing soot from faded chalk letters.

"They won't survive another attack 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 caverns, 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 sewage 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 at the edge of the trapdoor, his hand resting on the rusted ring. “What?”

Protag-kun’s eyes lifted, steady now. He looked down at the cracked stone beneath his feet—at the single flower growing impossibly from the pavement. Its petals were pale, trembling in the draft, but alive.

“I want to stay,” he said. “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 replied. “But the café owner… his son… he mattered. And maybe I do too.”

His shoulders, once hunched and withdrawn, straightened. The spoon lay behind him, forgotten. The spirals were unfinished—but they didn’t need to be.

Allen stared at him for a long moment. The anger that had driven him was gone, replaced by something quieter. He didn’t argue. He just nodded.

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 steady. Cinnamon squeaked and nestled into her shoulder, a tiny sentinel against the coming storm.

Allen looked at them all—his strange, mismatched party, now fractured but resolute. He gave a final nod, a silent vow.

“I’ll bring her back.”

Then he turned toward the tunnel.

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

The silence in the passage was thick and cold, broken only by the scrape of his boots against damp stone. The air smelled of wet earth and ancient rot, a stark contrast to the burning city above. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering with each step of his torchlight.

“It’s funny, isn’t it, Monica,” he muttered.

He tried to laugh, but it came out dry. Hollow.

Every turn was a test. The aqueduct walls were slick with moss, the crawlspace tight enough to scrape his shoulders. The wine vault reeked of fermented grapes, the sweetness cloying, disorienting. He pressed forward, each step deliberate, each breath a reminder of why he couldn’t stop.

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.