Chapter 6

“Deal.”

The pouch landed with a soft thud, a crisp jingle of copper coins ringing out.

The old man’s fingers moved too fast. Almost at the exact moment Yuri reached for the pouch, the shard of red metal vanished into the folds of his wide sleeve—like a magician slipping an object into shadow.

Yuri’s pupils contracted sharply.

He had seen it—
It wasn’t an accident. Not a slip, not a fall. The movement was deliberate. Every flex of knuckle, wrist, and sleeve fold worked together seamlessly, like a trick practiced countless times.

A tightness gripped his chest.

He had been cheated.

Not a suspicion. A certainty.

And yet, he could say nothing.

His throat burned dry, as if filled with sand and gravel. His hand froze on the coin pouch, fingers trembling.

If he spoke up, the old man needed only a casual, dismissive “Child, what nonsense are you babbling?” to turn his accusation into a joke.

He was a ragged, penniless boy. The other was a merchant who had run a magic shop in this city for decades. No one would believe him.

“Take the money, and get lost.”
The old man’s tone was cheerful, but his eyes in the shadow glinted sharp as needles.

Yuri’s fingers clenched tighter, gripping the pouch as if it were the last scrap of dignity he had left.

He wanted to draw his blade, to lunge forward and snatch back the shard.
But his mind flashed with an image—guards bursting in, his father’s cold gaze, his own body thrown into a cesspit to rot.

His breath hitched.

In the end, he only lowered his head, silent.

The bell chimed again.

Yuri pushed open the door and stepped out of the herb-scented shop.

Before the echo faded, the light at the doorway vanished.

The old man’s smile slipped away instantly.

He lowered his gaze, carefully retrieving the red shard from his sleeve. He placed it in his palm, tilting it beneath the dim lantern light.

Its surface shimmered with an eerie glow, as though it breathed, pulsing with a heat that stirred the blood.

“Heh... what a treasure.”
The old man narrowed his eyes, fingertips brushing along its edge, whispering with a barely contained fervor.

Then he reached beneath the counter, drawing out a dark red magic crystal. Inside it flickered faint points of light, like fireflies trapped in glass.

Holding his breath, the old man crushed the crystal between his fingers.

Crack—

The crystal shattered, and in that instant a ghostly blue light burst from the cracks, condensing in the air into a faint, glowing sigil.

Moments later, the sigil twisted and took form—a hazy human figure.
It was a middle-aged man in a butler’s formal attire, his expression severe, his eyes carrying a cold, condescending authority.

“You disturb me—what is it that’s so urgent?”
The phantom’s voice rumbled, distant, as if echoing through water.

The old man bent low, face deferential, though excitement flickered hot in his eyes.
“Honored butler, I believe you will find this of great interest.”

He raised the red shard before the apparition.

Even through the medium of magical communication, the air seemed to grow heavier at once.

The butler frowned slightly, curiosity slipping into his tone.
“...What is this?”

“Material,” the old man whispered, as though sharing a forbidden secret. “A rare material beyond measure. I dare say it could serve as the very core of an unbreakable armor. Perhaps even... give rise to a power far surpassing ordinary magical items.”

His cracked lips trembled as he spoke faster, greed tainting every word.
“I cannot process it. But the Baron, surely, can. And what’s more... it turned up in the hands of some little brat. You understand what I mean, don’t you?”

The phantom was silent for a few seconds, as if weighing the words.

Then the butler’s voice returned, cold and decisive:
“Very well. Guard it well. I will send men to assess its value personally. As for the boy...”

“I’ll keep watch,” the old man said with an icy smile. “Don’t worry. He won’t escape.”

The glow flickered and faded. The phantom dissolved, leaving only the broken half of the crystal clattering across the counter.

The old man lowered his gaze to the shard in his hand. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and in his eyes greed wrestled with a creeping madness.

“Ah... priceless...”

—

Yuri walked with his head down, fingers clenched so tightly around the small pouch that his knuckles had gone white.

He moved silently through the crowded street, returning to the gate. There, by a weathered post, he leaned and waited.

The market noise swelled around him—shouts, hoofbeats, barking dogs—but his chest felt nailed shut, heavy and suffocating.

Time dragged. The sky darkened, shadows of the gate merging into dusk.

Just as panic began to creep in, he saw a staggering figure—

John.

His steps faltered, his mouth bloodied, his shirt collar torn as though dragged through an alley and cast out.

Yuri’s chest tightened. He rushed forward to catch him.
“Father—”

But John shoved him back with sudden force.
“Get away!”

Yuri stumbled, nearly falling. He looked up, only to see his father’s bloodshot eyes blazing with shame and rage—the look of a beast driven to the brink.

John spat blood onto the dirt, his voice hoarse and venomous:
“Damn it! How many years have I given this rotten barony our grain, our livestock?!”

He gasped for breath, his fist pounding the gatepost until splinters flew.
“And now? In this cursed place I can’t even barter for a roof! Those bastard merchants—cold as stone, mocking me, extorting me, throwing me out!”

He turned, staggering, as though he might bite through the very walls themselves.
“To hell with the Baron! To hell with the House of Raymond! They’ve been bleeding us dry for years, and now they won’t even spare the scraps!”

His fist hammered against his chest as though he could beat the suffocating rage out of it, breath rasping like a bellows.
“And that damn merchant... damn him! Cheat me, beat me? One day—I’ll see his whole family—”

The words caught in his throat. His face flushed, and he broke into a violent cough, collapsing against the wall, shoulders jerking with weakness and pain.

Yuri froze, panic gripping him. Those curses—stones cast into black water, rippling out into dangerous circles.
This was the Baron’s land. To speak such words here... if someone overheard—

He jerked his head around, heart pounding.

And indeed—

From the corner of the street came the heavy tramp of iron boots. Several armored guards marched forth, long spears in hand, faces hard and cold.

“Who dares speak such treason here?”

Their eyes locked on John, slumped against the wall.

The next moment, the shaft of a spear slammed down.

Thud!

John let out a muffled groan as the blow forced him to one knee, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.
Before he could even resist, fists and boots rained down on him, dull thuds echoing with every strike.

“How dare you insult the Baron? Courting death!”

They pinned him to the ground, beating him mercilessly. His already battered body was soon reduced to a bloody, mangled mess.

Yuri’s pupils contracted sharply. His feet shuffled back a step on their own.

Two of the guards had already fixed their eyes on him. They approached slowly, with cold, mocking expressions.

“This brat’s with him too.”

Yuri’s breathing quickened. His throat tightened, fists clenched—but his body refused to move.

Just as one of those coarse hands was about to seize his shoulder—

“Please wait.”

A calm yet commanding voice suddenly cut in, freezing the air around them.

A figure approached from the far end of the street. From the very first word, tension filled the space.

“I am the steward of Lord Fausto Ricci.”

He stepped before the guards, bowing slightly. Though his tone was even, it carried the cutting sharpness of authority.
“This matter—allow us to handle it. Rest assured, the Baron will be given a satisfactory explanation.”

The guards exchanged looks, frowning. They were about to protest, when the steward, without a flicker of expression, slipped a heavy pouch from his sleeve and pressed it into the captain’s palm.

The weight of it settled the moment.

The captain’s expression softened. His fingers closed around the pouch. With a cold snort, he waved his hand.
“Hmph... if Ricci’s people are taking charge, then so be it. Don’t waste time.”

At once, the guards stepped back, withdrawing from the matter.

The steward turned, his eyes briefly sweeping over John—bloody and unconscious on the ground—before landing on Yuri, pale and frozen where he stood.

“Take them.”

At his command, two attendants moved forward, hauling John up. Another placed a firm hand on Yuri’s shoulder, pinning him in place—and struck his jaw for good measure.

Yuri froze, mind blank, his body stiff as they dragged him away...

When he regained awareness, he was surrounded by pitch-black darkness.

The air was damp, thick with the stench of rotting wood and rusted iron. The ceiling hung low, stone walls weeping with moisture, the floor littered with straw long since rotted to black.

He struggled upright, limbs numb, jaw aching faintly. The iron door slammed shut with a metallic clang, the echo rolling through the cramped space.

He was locked in an underground cell.

No daylight. No sense of time. Only the occasional drip of water through cracks above, each drop striking the stone floor like the ticking of a grim countdown.

He didn’t know where his father John was being held. He didn’t even know why he had been kept.

All he knew was the sound of footsteps outside, heavy and deliberate, making his heart pound harder each time. He had no idea how long he’d been there...

—

Beyond the village, the forest rustled, leaves whispering in the wind.

Silead was still there.

He hadn’t moved.
On one hand, he needed to keep observing the village. On the other, he had no clear purpose at all.

“Go back...?”

The thought drifted through his mind. But when he imagined “the world he came from,” his chest felt hollow.

There was nothing worth clinging to.

He sat blankly at the tree roots, edges of his armor dirtied, fingers absently rubbing a strip of rough bark.

“So... what am I even doing this for?”

His mind drifted into a void, as though all weight had been pulled from his body.

Then—

“You... you’re still here?”

A trembling female voice startled him. Silead turned sharply toward the sound.

Not far away stood the woman he had once seized.

She stood by a low thicket, clutching the collar of her roughspun clothes with both hands. Fear still lingered in her eyes—but she hadn’t run.

Silead frowned faintly.
—How had she found him?
And more importantly... why had she dared to come?

The air grew strangely still.

As he waited for her to speak, the woman suddenly drew a deep breath, as though steeling herself, and said in a rush:

“I... my name is Agnes. Nice to meet you.”

Silead blinked, taken aback.

But Agnes didn’t stop. Her words tumbled out quickly, as if afraid he would cut her off if she slowed down.
“I like sweets—um, honey bread. My favorite color is blue. My hobby... singing, I guess, but only by the river, just to myself. My interest? Uh... I like to sketch things, though I’m not very good.”

She pressed her lips together, eyes flickering nervously over him, forcing herself to stay steady. Finally, she added:

“And... I didn’t tell anyone about you.”

Her breathing was quick and uneven, hands still clenched white on her collar, like she was ready to bolt at any second.

Silead stared at her, stunned.
He had never imagined that the woman once too terrified to breathe would now approach him of her own will—speaking words that sounded like something only “friends” would say.

For a moment, Cyrid couldn’t even tell what this woman was trying to do.

He stared at her, utterly baffled.
He never imagined that the woman once too terrified to breathe in his presence would now approach him of her own will—and even say things that sounded like idle chatter between friends.

For a moment, he truly couldn’t figure out what she wanted.

Just as he was about to speak, Agnes beat him to it. Her voice was hesitant, halting, but she forced the words out anyway:

“Um… do you still have any money?”

Silead froze.

Agnes instantly bit her lip, as if realizing how abrupt she sounded, but pressed on with obvious reluctance:
“I know… it’s sudden, but I… I really need money. Could you… maybe lend me some?”

The air went dead silent.

Silead’s brow twitched. Behind the mask, his expression was nearly “speechless.”

Seeing his reaction, Agnes thought he was refusing. Her eyes flickered, and she hurriedly backpedaled:
“Uh… it doesn’t have to be much! Really, not much! A silver coin would be too much—maybe… just one or two coppers? That would be fine. Just… think of it as helping me out?”

Silead was stunned.
His mind scrambled to make sense of this bizarre logic, but after circling once, he could only reach one conclusion—this woman wasn’t normal.

So he said nothing. He simply turned around—
and ran.

Yes, cleanly and decisively, without looking back.

Agnes blinked, startled, then pouted and muttered under her breath:
“What’s wrong with him? Doesn’t he know how to talk to people at all?”

The days passed, one after another.

No matter how many times Silead changed where he rested—avoiding the village entrance, even hiding near the riverbank or in abandoned sheds—Agnes always managed to appear when he least expected it.

Sometimes she came with a bucket of water, sitting down nearby “by chance.”
Sometimes she carried a basket of weeds, pretending to just be “passing through.”
Other times, she simply walked straight up, sat down on the grass, and talked freely about her life—whether or not Silead said a single word in reply.

“…It’s been three years now.”
Agnes twisted a blade of grass between her fingers, sighing. “Three bad harvests in a row. The first year was a natural disaster, the second year we had pests, and this year’s even worse—there’s nothing left at home.”

Silead said nothing. He only turned his head slightly, gray eyes peering at her through the slit of his mask.

She didn’t mind. It was like she was talking to herself.
“Everything we could sell is long gone… in the end, we had to borrow money from Fausto Ricci.”

Her voice faltered when she said that name, and her gaze flickered with something complicated.

“The money wasn’t for us to spend—it was to pay back the grain we owed.”

She gave a bitter smile and lifted her eyes.
“You probably don’t understand what it’s like for us farmers. If we can’t deliver grain, we can’t stay in the village. We borrow money to make up the quota—just so we can keep surviving.”

A faint crease appeared between Silead’s brows.

“And now?” Agnes spread her hands, her tone tinged with helplessness.
“Now everyone knows we owe Fausto money. People avoid us like the plague, afraid to get dragged down. Walking through the village, it’s like we’re cursed—everyone stares like we carry a disease.”

She lowered her voice.
“My parents… they plan to sell me.”

The air fell silent. Only the rustle of wind in the grass remained.

Silead sat there, armor catching the dim light, his gaze unreadable.
But at last, he understood.

He sat unmoving, the metal of his armor reflecting the fading glow, his gray eyes steady behind the mask.

Inwardly, one thought surfaced:

—What a cliché.
Debt, social scorn, parents ready to sell their daughter. In the trashy novels of his past life, this was the stalest of tropes.

But now, it wasn’t just a story.
It was reality—Agnes’s reality.

His chest tightened faintly, but he made no move.
Cold. Detached. He had no intention of interfering.He himself doesn’t even know where he is going, so why should he help her?

Agnes finished speaking, then cast him a furtive glance out of the corner of her eye.
She had expected… something. Even a simple question, even a sigh.

But all she saw was that motionless figure.
Cold metal. Silent eyes. As if he hadn’t heard a thing.

Her heart sank, pressed down by something merciless and heavy.

After a long silence, she bit her lip, lowered her head, and clenched the fabric of her clothes.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, turned away.

The grass rustled as she stepped through it, footsteps fading into the distance.

She didn’t speak again.
Her back looked small, hunched, lonely.

Silead remained where he was, as if nothing had happened at all.

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