Both of their eyes were up. They were looking at the man known as the conqueror. His armor didn't clank with every step like others; it was quiet, deliberate—an armor worn by someone used to walking the edge of life and death.
He stopped beside Avilio and Tora, crouching near the fire, hands extended toward the warmth.
"You handled the tension well," Fenrir said without looking at them.
Avilio blinked, unsure if the comment was directed at him.
"I've seen grown warriors lose their minds from the sound of a single Howler's cry," Fenrir continued. "But you—you guys are calm. Not fearless, but focused."
Avilio hesitated, then replied, "I wouldn't call it calm. Just... didn't see panic helping."
Fenrir gave a small, approving nod. "Good answer."
Tora grinned beside Avilio, a little puffed up from being in this legendary hunter's presence.
"You, a Hunter?" Fenrir asked, eyes now glancing to Avilio's chest—where there was no marker emblem.
Avilio shook his head. "Yes."
"Hmm." Fenrir leaned forward and poked at the fire with a half-charred stick. "That sword of yours… it's not common steel."
Avilio stiffened slightly. "Inherited."
"Even better," Fenrir smirked. "Swords with history are dangerous—they don't like being useless. They pull their owners into things."
The words hung oddly in the air, almost like a warning.
Fenrir finally turned his eyes to Avilio, and there was a quiet wisdom behind them, forged from years of survival.
"You've probably felt it by now. The tension. The stares. The unknowns. This world doesn't reward strength alone. It rewards clarity. You need to know what you're walking into... or what's walking into you."
Avilio didn't respond, but Tora's thoughts swirled with recent events—the sword, the Despaired Souls, the buzz about a cult, the strange kaiju in the north.
"I'm not here to lecture," Fenrir said, standing up. "But remember this, both of you—no one survives by accident out here. If you're still alive, it means something inside you is pulling you forward. Figure out what."
He turned to leave but stopped after a few steps.
"Also, get some rest. Tomorrow won't be easier."
Then he disappeared back into the crowd, which had started to quiet again.
Avilio let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. But in that moment, a detail surfaced in Avilio's mind—one he hadn't been consciously looking at during their conversation, but now refused to be ignored.
Fenrir had been deliberately hiding the left side of his neck.
His armor, though sleek and refined, had an unusually high collar on just that side—strategically placed, almost unnatural. Most would've missed it. But Avilio's eyes hadn't.
A scar.
Charred. Twisted. Old, yet harsh—burned deep into the flesh like a brand meant never to fade. Whatever had caused it hadn't just left a mark on his skin—it carried weight. The kind of weight people spend years trying to forget.
Avilio narrowed his eyes slightly.
A scar like that… it wasn't just from battle. It looked like a memory. Or a punishment. Or maybe even... a sign of dishonor.
And Fenrir had gone out of his way to keep it hidden. Avilio didn't speak of it. But the image stayed with him—etched into the back of his mind, waiting to resurface when the time was right.
Tora nudged him lightly. "Dude, Fenrir just dropped philosopher lines on you. That was epic."
"Yeah," Avilio said quietly, "it kind of was."
He leaned back against the shack wall. The warmth from the fire brushed gently against his side, and the night seemed less heavy now. Even the howls had ceased. Only the soft rustle of the forest wind, brushing against the creaking wood of the shack, remained.
Outside, the distant marsh shimmered with a faint mist. Dew clung to the blades of grass and twisted leaves, catching the earliest glimmers of light. The long, oppressive grip of night was finally loosening.
And then it happened.
A golden hue bled across the sky, pushing back the final veil of darkness. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the slats of the shack, falling gently across tired faces, dirt-streaked armor, and blades resting in their sheaths.
One by one, people stirred. Groans replaced snores. Fires hissed as water was poured onto embers. The shack, quiet just a few minutes ago, buzzed once more like a fish market—clattering boots, rustling cloaks, voices rising and falling.
The sun had risen. For now, that was enough.
Avilio stretched, cracking his knuckles and rotating his shoulders. Nearby, Tora rolled his body over the wooden floor like a lazy cat trying to shake off sleep. His bloodshot eyes spoke volumes.
"Didn't sleep?" Avilio asked, watching Tora yawn.
"Barely," Tora mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Those Howler cries stayed in my skull."
But Avilio wasn't focused. His eyes swept the room, carefully observing. He was looking for someone. The orange-marked man was gone.
No trace of Fenrir. No lingering presence. No farewell.
Avilio frowned slightly, not in disappointment, but in curiosity. There was something about that man—his calm, his gaze, the way he walked. He had wanted to ask more. But now, the road was calling.
He adjusted the strap on his sword and nodded to Tora. "Let's move. Day's wasting."
They stepped outside. The marshland air was damp and cool, with a lingering heaviness. But the road ahead was strangely quiet. The signs of battle were there—splashes of black blood, scorched grass—but no monsters.
"Looks like Fenrir cleared the path," Avilio muttered.
"Probably." Tora looked around. "Would've been nice of him to stick around, though."
They followed a winding trail along a narrow ridge. Birds called from distant trees, and the morning light danced over the still pools of swamp water. The land was silent, as if resting after the storm of night.
After a long walk, Tora pulled out a small map, slightly frayed at the edges.
"Normally, we'd head straight north from here to reach the cliffs," he said. "But that route skips the newbie registry."
"Registry?"
"Yeah. It's mandatory if you wanna take official trials. Every region has a few recognized points. You pass a test, get listed in the hunter academy network, and boom—you're certified."
"So?"
"So," Tora continued, folding the map, "we'll take the westbound detour. It's longer, but it'll take us through Sentril. There's a major registry center there—and... you'll see. The town's unique."
They continued walking. The land changed slowly. Marshes gave way to rolling, grassy hills, where tall silver weeds swayed in the wind like ghostly dancers. As the sun climbed higher, the sound of hammering metal began to echo faintly in the distance.
A sharp hiss of steam carried through the breeze. Then, gears turning. Chains rattling.
And then—Sentril.
It appeared like a machine rising from the earth—massive iron gates, copper towers, and thick smoke curling from chimneys. Steam-powered carriages rolled along stone roads. Clockwork birds sat on metal poles, whirring quietly. Tinkerers, merchants, and hunters moved in organized chaos.
Avilio stood at the edge of the hill, taking in the sight.
The sun gleamed off steel rooftops, casting sharp reflections that danced across the paved road ahead. Towers of iron and stone rose around them, humming faintly with energy. Gears turned on balconies, pulleys shifted crates between buildings, and steam curled from pipes nestled in alleyways. The air smelled faintly of oil and metal, with the soft clatter of tools and distant whistles echoing through the streets.
Avilio took a long moment, standing at the threshold, drinking in the sight.
Sentril. A city unlike any he had seen before.
It pulsed with invention and ambition. Where most towns hid behind walls, this one wore its machinery like armor—unapologetically loud, proud, and alive. Strange vehicles darted across the elevated rails above, and spider-like automatons scurried beside delivery carts.
"Welcome to Sentril," Tora said, a little softer now. "Where people never sleep."
Avilio gave a confused look at him.
"I was trying to be philosophical. You know it's always the sound of metals clanking and engines steaming. So people can't have a sound sleep."
"I wasn't confused with your lines. I was confused with your humour level," Avilio added with a subtle smirk.
With a nod between them, they stepped through the gate.
The crowd was dense, the rhythm of the town chaotic but purposeful. Shouts from traders selling mechanical parts mixed with the rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils. Sparks flew from an open workshop as a large automaton flexed its limbs under a tinkerer's supervision.
Avilio moved slowly, observing it all—not just with awe, but with the quiet intensity of someone already measuring what this new place could offer… or hide.
Somewhere ahead, gears were turning which would change history.