Gossips filled the room.
"We're supposed to be dead?" someone muttered.
"We didn't even see a single monster in the damn forest…" another added.
A sharper voice cut in, louder than the rest.
"Elder, explain… Why?"
The elder leaned forward, voice slow and heavy.
"The Southern Forest… It's filled with weaklings… Low-level beasts. Even sprouts like you could handle them.
But the deeper you go… the stronger they get."
Tap.
He pressed his cane against the floor, eyes narrowing at the crowd.
"If you came here, then the south gate would've been the only logical path. It sits right at the edge of the southern forest. The other three gates—north, east, and west are far, far from here."
His voice dropped lower.
"And yet… you claim you came from inside the forest."
The room stirred.
Gasps.
Uneasy stares.
The self-proclaimed leader raised his hand, trying to calm the noise.
"But it's true, elder.. We walked for hours to get here," he said firmly.
"Is that so…" the elder muttered.
"The reason I said many of you shouldn't have survived," the elder went on, "is because the deeper you go in the forest the more dangerous it becomes. There should've been colonies of low-level monsters everywhere… and worse, intelligent ones. Monsters with their own society. Their own language. Their own hierarchy."
"And at the very bottom of that hierarchy…"
His voice dropped.
"... the Fog Monsters."
"The lowest of the intelligent monsters, One alone can erase whole colonies of lesser beasts. "They're cunning—too cunning. Able to mimic creatures, lure them into their fog dens… and keep them alive, only to be eaten slowly, like livestock."
The crowd froze.
Murmurs rippled through them.
A guard's hand twitched on his spear.
Even the elder's brows furrowed, lips pressed tight.
The elder sighed, rubbing his temple.
"And their favorite species to mimic… is us. The Sylvrians."
His gaze swept the crowd.
"They target naive fools like you… the ones who just step foot in Sylvaren. One of them would be lurking near the gates, guiding you straight to their little settlements—what they call farms. Then they slowly… whittle your numbers down."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"They love torturing their prey. Sometimes, a single human gets handed to two of those monsters at the same time… each one doing their own kind of torture. That's how precise and cruel they are. Then they deliver what's left to their capital. They make those farms look completely normal—perfect traps."
"The only way out… is to either kill every last one, or hide for three days straight. That's why whenever someone escapes and sees us afterward… they either freak out and panic, or attack us out of pure desperation."
Ahrie's Ent's eyes went wide. He spilled his drink.
"Fuck… for real??"
"That can't be true," someone from the crowd muttered.
"Yeaah… the chief's a good person," another added.
"She even helps us with our skills," a third piped up.
The elder and guards exchanged confused glances.
"Skills? Only the temple can grant skills…" the elder said.
"Arg… this is a headache," the head of the guards muttered.
"Either way… I'm glad you're all safe and haven't caused trouble here. Even if it's late… I welcome you to the Kingdom of Greenveil. This town is called Glimmerfen."
The elder glanced at a guard. "Can you guide them to the Seekers Hall?"
"Yes, elder," he replied.
"Follow him. Register yourself there… then figure out the rest."
The group moved out, heading toward the HQ.
As they trudged toward the HQ, more humans appeared—armors clinking, robes flowing, looking way too serious.
"Hey Kent… are they newbies?" a guy in flashy shiny armor called out.
Kent, the guard leading Ahrie's group, didn't even glance up. "Shut up. I'm working."
"Did they cause trouble? Did I miss some action? Geez… let's drink later," the armored guy muttered, shrugging.
Ahrie and Daiki exchanged a look. Eyes wide. Smirks forming. Shiny armor everywhere. Shinyy.
They all lined up to register.
"I wonder if they recycle armor… like, strip it off the dead and slap it on the next guy." Ahrie muttered.
They both snorted, trying to hold back their giggles.
After a few were done registering, it was finally Ahrie's turn.
"Hi, welcome… y-your armor… are you one of those that came from the fog village?" the receptionist asked nervously.
"Ahh… yes," Ahrie replied.
"Glad you survived. The fog monsters are getting greedier and bolder these past few years…" she said, lowering her voice.
"There's a way to tell the difference between us and them. First—emotion. Our sprouts reflect how we feel. If we're angry—" she demonstrated, her sprout going stiff and sharp— "it looks like this. If we're sad—" the sprout drooped, looking wilted—"it looks gloomy. Their fake sprouts don't do anything. Keep that in mind, okay?" She pouted.
"Just hold these braided roots and you'll get registered."
Ahrie grabbed them. They glowed—and a UI popped up in front of him.
[Congratulations… you can now earn EXP points.]
Ahrie's face twisted in annoyance. You mean we didn't get EXP from that giant fucking chicken we fought for fifty minutes? He cursed in his head.
The receptionist smiled like nothing happened.
"Just so you know… information about Sylvaren is prohibited from being shared outside. If you slip up and mention something to someone who hasn't come through the gates, you'll get punished. The more important the detail, the harsher the punishment. So, be careful."
She slid a small pouch toward him. "Here, take this. A simple starter gift from an old human fellow. A few bronze coins… if you need more, head over there and see if there's a job you can do. Oh, and team up with others… Surviving alone is impossible here. Plenty of people tried. They all died." she said it with a smile.
"Ahh, I see," Ahrie muttered, pocketing the pouch.
He let go of the roots, already turning away.
"So in case you're wonder—"
But Ahrie was gone, walking off, annoyed.
"H-hey, wait!" the receptionist called after him.
The others registered in turn.