Under the open blue sky, the sun blazed down with a harsh, almost metallic glare. The air carried a strange mix of freshness and an unsettling, cold stillness.
It was obvious—a long night had passed, and morning had finally arrived. As Roddur slowly opened his eyes, he realized he had been unconscious the entire night.
Every muscle in his body felt stiff, and a dull throbbing pounded inside his head.
When his vision cleared, a small village came into view, nestled right at the edge of a dense forest. The place was called Eldenridge—a name that sounded like it had been plucked from an ancient legend or a lost map.
The village wasn't large, but it carried an air of mystery and a heavy, unspoken gloom.
The first thing Roddur noticed was the people. Men, women, even children—each had thick iron shackles binding their wrists, ankles, and necks. They wore ragged, faded clothes that might have been clean long ago.
Their faces showed no emotion, their eyes empty and lifeless, as though they had long abandoned any hope of survival. This was not a single isolated scene; similar sights were scattered across the village.
A short distance away, several armed guards stood watch, clutching long spears and rusted swords. Their gaze never wavered from the captives, ready to punish at the slightest movement.
The houses in Eldenridge resembled old European-style buildings—stone and timber walls, slanted roofs with faded tiles, broken window frames, and deep cracks in the walls. Many roofs had collapsed, and in some places, black scorch marks hinted at fires from months past.
Children sat on bare earth, playing with pebbles, but there was no joy in their eyes—it wasn't play, merely a mechanical way to pass time.
The air carried the scent of smoke and old timber, telling Roddur that fear, not happiness, was the true resident of this village.
Observing everything, Roddur's thoughts sharpened—this must be the bandits' base, perhaps even their main headquarters.
His feet were still bound tightly, his hands tied behind his back, and his steps were slow from both exhaustion and restraint.
Suddenly, a rough shove from behind pushed him forward.
A gruff voice growled, "Why are you walking so slow? Move!"
Roddur nearly lost his balance but managed to steady himself. He turned slightly, but his eyes kept searching for Ken. No matter where he looked, Ken was nowhere to be seen.
Gathering courage, Roddur asked the man walking beside him, "Where's Ken?"
"Hm? What are you saying?" Anandrio asked with a slight frown.
"My friend Ken—I can't see him. Where is he?" Roddur repeated.
Anandrio replied casually, "Ken… the boy who was with you? He had a lot of injuries last night, so we kept him in the medical room."
Hearing this, a slow sigh of relief escaped Roddur's lips. At least his friend was safe.
Step by step, they moved forward until they reached the front of a large, worn-down building—one that might hold an even more terrifying truth inside.
While Roddur stood before the largest and most decrepit house of the village, at that very moment, Ken lay inside a small wooden room on the other side of Eldenridge.
His body was wrapped in white bandages, thick medicine smeared over every wound. The bed beneath him was simple—stuffed with straw and cotton, laid directly over the earthen floor.
The room was silent, as though time itself had paused. Light slipped in through cracks in the wooden walls, and golden beams of sunlight filtered through an old European-style window, gently falling upon Ken's face.
His unconscious body twitched as his finger moved ever so slightly. Then, slowly, his eyes fluttered open.
At first, everything appeared blurred, shrouded in a haze of half-light and shadow. A dull ache pulsed in his head, as if his mind was struggling to recall something hidden beneath a fog. He slowly turned his head to look around.
And there, by his side, sat a girl. Her clothes were old, torn, and dirt-stained, yet her long, loose hair framed her face, her eyes stretched sharp and deep, and her features carried a strange calm. Her body was thin, frail even, but her beauty glimmered faintly—like a fragile light in a village drowned in darkness.
When she noticed Ken was awake, she leaned slightly closer.
Her voice was soft, carrying a quiet relief. "It's good to see you're awake. Are you feeling alright?"
Ken remained silent for a moment. His throat was dry, words refusing to form.
At last, he whispered, "Where… is this place?"
"Eldenridge," she replied firmly, though her tone carried exhaustion. Then she added, "When they brought you here yesterday, you were in terrible condition, covered in wounds."
Ken closed his eyes, trying to remember. But a sharp pain rose in his head, and only fragments came back—shadows of men dragging him, chains clinking, his body broken. Among those fractured images, one face appeared again and again—Roddur.
His breathing grew heavier, body trembling under the strain of memory. The girl quickly leaned forward, her thin hand gently pressing against his forehead as if to calm him.
Her voice was soothing, "Please… stay calm. You'll be alright."
But Ken's mind refused to stop. He struggled to piece everything together. The girl fetched a wooden cup of water and held it carefully to his lips. Cool water slid down his throat, and the fire in his head slowly eased.
Gradually, the fragments aligned. He remembered meeting a boy named Roddur in the forest.
Walking together along the roadside. And then—ambush. A swarm of bandits. Shackles. Pain. The moment they were both dragged away into captivity.
As the memory snapped back, Ken's eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat. He realized escape would not be simple.
Ken lay still for a while, eyes closed. Though the pain in his body had dulled, the restlessness inside his chest only grew heavier.
The silence around him was broken only by the faint creak of the wooden door and the muffled voices of guards outside. And in that silence, he realized—if he did nothing now, he might never see Roddur again.
Slowly, he pushed himself up from the bed. The straw beneath him crackled. His body trembled, the dried blood on his bandages pulling at his skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the world swaying before his eyes.
"What are you doing?"—a voice broke out from his side, filled with alarm and concern. The girl quickly reached forward, trying to steady him. "You're not healed yet. You can't stand it!"
Ken ignored her pleas. Gritting his teeth, he tried to rise, whispering, "I can't stay here… I have to go. Roddur… I must save him."
The girl leaned closer, her voice pleading. "Stop! If you go outside now, they'll catch you again. They won't spare you this time. Please… wait for the right moment."
But Ken's eyes burned with unyielding determination. He pushed himself off the bed, only to stumble. His body lurched forward, about to fall—when the girl caught him in her arms, holding him from crashing to the ground.
"I warned you!" her voice trembled with both anger and fear. "You're not healed yet. Why are you destroying yourself like this?"
Ken's breath came heavy, but his voice was cold and firm. "I can't listen to anyone. If I fail to save Roddur, then lying here is no different than death."
The girl fell silent. Her eyes flickered with helplessness. She glanced at the door, where the shadow of the guards shifted restlessly. Escape seemed impossible.
Ken, too, stared at the door for a long moment. Then, with quiet humility in his voice, he turned to her. "Will you help me? I can't do this alone."
She froze. Her eyes widened with shock, then clouded with hesitation—fear, pain, and something unspoken hiding in her gaze. At last, in a whisper so faint it barely reached him, she said, "I'm a prisoner too… I have no strength, no freedom. I want to help you… but how can I?"
A heavy silence fell over the room. From outside came the sound of footsteps, then fading quiet again.
In that silence, two souls stood together—bound by fate, both trapped, yet unknowingly leaning toward the same uncertain path.