Chapter 5

Following the winding, downward river, Silead walked slowly, his steps deliberate.

He stood atop a boulder half-buried in the mud along the riverbank, gazing toward the bend ahead where the water curved around into an open clearing.

There lay a village.

Not ruins, not a battlefield, and not the scorched remains of some forgotten fortress. No—there was smoke rising from chimneys, movement behind fences, houses that still stood.

And yet, Silead had no urge to approach.

Everything he had experienced these past few days had shattered whatever naïve dreams he once held about being transported to another world.

There was no room here for idealism.

“I have to abandon those childish thoughts,” he told himself.

He began to stealthily circle the village’s edge, hoping to glean information from the shadows.

But reality, as always, proved cruel.

He thought he was well-hidden—nestled behind a tangle of tree roots, armor pressed low, only a vague shape lurking in the dark brush.

What he didn’t realize—

While he stared fixedly at a wooden gate near the village fence, a woman fetching water from the river happened to look up and see him.

She was small and thin, clothes damp, feet bare, and two small wooden buckets hanging from her arms.

She had merely looked up to check the path home—and caught, in the edge of her vision, a red mass crouched in the trees. Unmoving. Like a stone—or like a beast ready to pounce.

Sunlight filtered through the trees and struck the lacquered surface of his red armor, glinting with a chilling gleam.

She froze. Nearly dropped her buckets.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t breathe. She just stared.

Was that… a person?

Or something else?

She couldn’t see the face.

Didn’t dare get closer.

But she knew—something was lurking there.

She began to slowly back away, toes brushing the mud silently, fingers clutching the bucket rims, trying not to make a sound. Her breathing grew shallow. Like a small animal trying not to draw the attention of a predator.

Don’t make a sound.

Just keep backing up.

He hasn’t noticed me.

She repeated it like a mantra—until her foot landed on a patch of wet leaves.

Snap.

A sound responded before she could.

A crow hidden in the bushes burst upward, wings tearing through branches with an earsplitting screech.

Flaaap! it took to the skies.

And Silead—

Turned.

His eyes met hers.

Silence.

As if the world itself had frozen.

The woman stood stiff, unmoving, shoulders locked in place.

Her bloodless face stared at the terrifying mask. Eyes wide, lips trembling.

And Silead—

Also froze.

Not from fear.

But because he had no idea what to do.

His mind blanked. All plans for observation, scouting, assessing threats—shattered by that one terrified gaze.

She turned to run.

Heel just beginning to pivot—

The air shifted.

A cold, jagged iron hand clamped down over her mouth from behind.

She didn’t even scream.

Mmph—!

Another arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her clean off the ground like a doll.

Buckets fell. Water splashed.

Her nails clawed at the armored forearm, but the metal was unyielding—biting into her fingers.

"Quiet—no sound," Silead growled, voice low and harsh beside her ear.

The words came muffled through the mask, but there was no mistaking the threat.

There was no time for hesitation.

She had seen him.

She couldn’t be allowed to leave.

He ducked low and moved, brushing through shrubs with inhuman speed—like a predator dragging its prey into the woods.

She flailed helplessly, body limp with terror, ears filled with the rattle of armor and rushing wind.

She thought only one thing:

I’m going to die.

He yanked her deeper into the woods.

She struggled, uselessly. Like paper against stone.

One hand muffled her mouth. The other locked tight around her waist.

He threw her roughly against a mossy tree.

"Shut up. If you want to live, don’t scream."

His voice rasped like a beast from within the helmet.

Her eyes bulged with terror. She shook her head, whimpering behind his hand.

He slowly released her mouth.

Gray eyes glinted from the mask.

"If you scream once, I’ll snap your neck."

She collapsed onto her knees, eyes welling with tears.

"I—I don’t know who you are... please... I won’t tell anyone..."

"Quiet. You answer when I ask."

She nodded frantically.

"Where is this place?"

"Th-this is... Rock Village... under Baron Mikhail’s domain..."

Silead’s gaze sharpened.

"Mikhail?"

"Yes... he’s our lord... sends knights during harvest to collect grain... that’s all I know! I swear!"

"What kingdom?"

"I... don’t know... Baron Mikhail serves Count Vislor... and the Church in the north... they’ve been... fighting..."

"Fighting?"

"Y-yes... the hunters said Lodan City rebelled... the Church is purging heretics... even nobles must choose sides or else..."

Her voice faded to a whisper.

Silead didn’t answer. He stood slowly.

Church. Purge. Heretics. Border wars...

This world was anything but peaceful.

He loo

ked down at her trembling form.

"Are there priests in the village?"

"N-no... none for years... not even blessings..."

"Anyone who can read?"

"Uh... the elder... village chief’s father... studied in the city a year... says he can read a little..."

He let go.

She collapsed, thought she was going to die.

But then—

Silead hand returned.

That woman flinched.

But Silead dropped something cold into her palm.

A silver coin.

"...Take it. Go home."

His tone was flat, as if none of this had happened.

He gave her one last glance, then muttered:

"But I’ll verify what you said. Don’t let anything slip."

Then Silead turned and disappeared into the forest shadows.

Dusk fell, like a silent curtain slowly being drawn

The setting sun cast its final rays through the torn clouds at the edge of the sky

John gazed at the distant town, its outline slowly swallowed by the dark

He knew places like that would never let strangers in at night

Patrols didn’t trust outsiders
And guards who took bribes wouldn’t take them this late

The fire crackled softly

John deftly pitched a rough tent, dragged over some dry branches, and sat by the campfire roasting a strip of dried meat he’d pulled from his pack

He chewed quickly,Yuri sat beside him, not asking for food

Firelight flickered in his eyes
So did the hunched figure of his father

“You take the first watch”
John wiped his hands and tossed out the order without hesitation, crawling into the tent right after

No discussion
Not even a glance

Yuri sat quietly at the edge of the fire
The night wind carried the scent of wild grass and the damp rot of carrion, making his eyelids twitch with fatigue

Soon, faint snores came from the tent
Heavy, unguarded

When the moon rose, Yuri was still sitting there

He’d been staring at the tent for a long time

No one knew what he was thinking

Inside the tent, the snores paused briefly
Then came a rustle, a turn, and the snoring resumed

It pulled his mind back
He sat there by the fire
Dawn was close

Morning light filtered through the thinning clouds, barely illuminating the road at the foot of the hill

In the distance came the sound of a wagon rolling over gravel
Roosters crowed
Dogs barked

John crawled out of the tent, dusted off his clothes, glanced at him, and said simply:

“Let’s go. Time to enter the city”

He slung the pack over his back
Didn’t look back
And started walking toward the gates

Yuri followed silently

The city gates creaked open, the heavy wooden bar dragging a harsh scrape across the ground.

Two guards stood at the entrance, clad in worn leather armor, blades at their hips, their expressions dull and mechanical—stone statues that could barely be bothered to blink.

They didn’t speak.
Only held out their hands, palms up—an old, familiar gesture of silent transaction.

John halted, lifted his coat, and fished out a few copper coins from his belt. He slapped them into the guard’s open hand.

The guard weighed them in his palm, as if assessing their value—or perhaps whether to feel insulted.

One grunted and looked away. The other yawned and waved a lazy hand:

"Go on. Don’t cause trouble."

Faded notices clung to the weathered wood near the gate. Most were too smudged to read, but a few bold characters still lingered: "WANTED," "DESERTER," "HERETIC."

One poster was new. The ink had barely dried, yet someone had already smeared a dirty thumb across the portrait’s face.

Yuri stared at it for a moment, but John tugged his arm.

"Don’t look at that crap. The more you stare, the more trouble it brings."

The clamor of the city drowned out footsteps, blurring their presence amid the crowd.

John stood at a street corner, glancing left and right. Then he turned abruptly to Yuri:

"I need to trade some things. Don’t cause trouble. Stay here, nearby. Wait for me."

He patted Yuri’s shoulder—firm but not forceful, half a reminder, half a warning.

"You hear me?"

Yuri nodded without a word, eyes low, face unreadable.

"Good," John said with a narrow-eyed grin.

Before Yuri could reply, John had already vanished into the crowd.

Yuri lingered for a moment, then turned and quietly slipped into a narrow alleyway.

He walked with purpose, without looking back. His steps grew more certain, as if this moment had played out in his mind countless times.

At last, he stopped in front of a magical trinket shop.

The sign above bore faded arcane patterns. A crooked lantern swung overhead, sputtering to life with dim, flickering light.

He pushed open the door. A bell gave a faint ring.

Inside, the air smelled of herbs and grease. Shelves were cluttered with strange jars—some even emitted faint smoke.

Behind the counter sat an old man with a monocle, hair white, skin wrinkled. He was leafing through a yellowed tome.

He looked up, and the moment his eyes landed on Yuri, they froze.

"...Kid. What are you doing here?"

Yuri said nothing.

He reached into the inner lining of his coat and pulled out the red shard of metal he’d hidden away.

It looked like some fusion of metal and stone—its texture strange, its color eerie.

He gently placed it on the counter.

The old man squinted, set his book aside, and leaned in.

His calloused fingers lifted the shard. He inspected it through his monocle.

For a brief instant, his pupils contracted. Something greedy flickered in his gaze.

Then, just as quickly, it vanished—replaced by the mask of a bored old shopkeeper.

He clicked his tongue and set the shard back on the counter.

"Where’d you find this junk?" he muttered, tone tinged with disdain. "Looks impressive, but it’s just a dyed-out scrap of old conduit metal. Phased out before the Northern Wars. Too dirty to even melt down."

Yuri said nothing, but his eyes didn’t leave the shard.

"Tell you what," the old man said with a sigh, playing the generous fool, "you’re young, probably broke. I’ll give you five copper coins. Call it pity. I like a good laugh."

He slid a small pouch across the counter, eyes never leaving Yuri’s face.

Yuri frowned. He didn’t take the money right away.

He scratched at the shard with a fingernail, voice low:

"This thing... really worthless?"

"Believe what you want," the old man said, sounding annoyed now. "Go show it to ten other shops. Most won’t even bother to glance at it."

He paused, then added lazily:

"You’re lucky I can at least recognize it. Someone else would’ve tossed it in the trash."

The silence lingered.

Yuri hesitated, unsure—but at last, his hand reached for the pouch.

The old man’s eyes gleamed.

His thumb moved with practiced precision.

In a blink, the red shard vanished into his sleeve like a magician’s trick.

"Deal," he said smoothly.

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