"Who are you calling Baboon?"
The monkey-looking man grumbled, fur twitching in irritation.
"Sorry, sorry," Maloch said quickly, scratching his head as he leaned over the counter. Omen stood behind him, glancing around. The shop was cluttered with every kind of junk—swords, shovels, rope, animal bones, and even a few pickaxes hanging from the ceiling. The air reeked of smoke, iron, and moldy herbs.
"Don't call me Baboon again, or I won't buy your stuff," the monkey-faced man snapped, picking up the weird plant Maloch had placed on the table.
"This thing will be two silver."
The shopkeeper tossed the plant into a drawer and slid two tiny, dented coins across the counter.
"Alright, young master, we're done," Maloch said, turning around with a proud smile.
Omen blinked slowly. They waited hours in line… for two silver.
He said nothing, but the quiet tension in his shoulders said plenty.
He wanted to crush Maloch's head through the floorboards—but now wasn't the time. He didn't even know the local rules yet.
Outside, the sky had turned darker. The air was thick with the smell of wet wood and burning sap. Lanterns flickered along the road, throwing long, uneven shadows across the street.
"Where do we stay?" Omen asked, his voice low and steady.
"Ah! There's an inn nearby for travelers like us," Maloch said, pointing toward a crooked side street.
It didn't take long to find the inn—a building that looked like it had survived three fires and one earthquake. The sign above it swayed dangerously in the wind.
"This here is cheap," Maloch said, rubbing his nose proudly.
Omen stared at it. "Yeah… it looks cheap enough to kill us in our sleep."
Before they could go inside, shouting erupted nearby.
"YOU TOOK MY LOGS, YOU THIEVING RATS!"
The narrow street ahead exploded with noise—two gangs of lumbermen were fighting, swinging axes and chains at each other.
Mud splashed, barrels broke, and one man's arm flew into a pile of wood chips.
Omen stopped walking. His red eyes gleamed faintly behind the mask as he watched from the shadows.
"Lumber gangs," Maloch said, crossing his arms as if it were normal. "Blue Scarves and Bark Rats. They fight every night over who gets to chop the north trees. First time seeing a lumber war, Young Master?"
Omen didn't reply. His gaze stayed fixed on the chaos—broken teeth, flashing blades, shouts, and laughter.
The entire street looked feral, desperate, and animal.
He quietly turned away.
"Let's go. This place is loud and stupid."
"Cheap too!" Maloch added helpfully.
Omen's head twitched. "...Not the compliment you think it is."
They slipped away from the noise, walking down a quieter path that led toward the edge of town. The air grew colder and quieter, and the smell of pine replaced the stench of sweat and ale.
At the outskirts, a few scattered cabins stood beneath the looming red moon. Smoke rose from their chimneys, but most looked abandoned.
"There," Maloch pointed. "Cabin rentals for drifters. Costs less than the inn, and no one asks who you killed last week."
"Good," Omen said. "I'm tired of people asking questions."
They found an empty cabin—half-rotten walls, a single small window, and a stone fireplace that hadn't been cleaned in months. Still, it was dry and hidden from the main road.
Inside, Maloch threw himself onto a pile of straw and groaned. "See? Cozy!"
Omen closed the door quietly and sat down beside the fireplace. The wood creaked under his weight. Outside, the faint echoes of the town carried through the night—laughter, shouts, and the rhythmic sound of axes far away.
For the first time since entering Wooden Log Town, Omen allowed himself to exhale.
The cabin was filthy, dark, and cold—but it was quiet.
That was enough.
The fire had burned down to faint orange coals.
The cabin was silent except for the wind pressing against the walls.
Omen lay still on the floor beside the dead fire, eyes half open, watching smoke drift lazily toward the cracked ceiling.
Maloch's breathing filled the room—uneven, heavy, annoying.
Omen turned his head slightly. Outside the narrow window, the red moon hung low, pale light slipping through the cracks in the wood.
His eyelids felt heavy. The silence wrapped around him like a blanket.
Then—a sound.
Soft.
Like wood shifting.
The door latch moved.
Omen's fingers twitched. His thoughts sharpened—was that wind?
The air changed. Cold.
Something entered.
He didn't see it, only felt it—afaint, invisible pressure.
The air thickened; even Maloch's snoring stopped.
Omen tried to rise, but his body didn't obey. His heartbeat slowed, like someone pressed a hand over his chest.
A flicker of red passed his eyes—or maybe he imagined it.
His vision dimmed.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
The smell of iron touched his nose.
Then—nothing.
The last thing he saw was the dim light of the dying fire curling into smoke.
It folded over his sight.
and everything went black.