The Nesfundur walked down the village's main road with a mix of excitement, determination, and purpose, oblivious at first to the wary eyes of villagers cleaning up the rubble left by the attack. But soon, the crowd behind him grew larger, their expressions darkening. Some villagers grabbed farming tools and anything that could serve as a weapon. The cheerful crowd from that morning had transformed into a menacing mob.
Raising his hands in calm, the Nesfundur spoke smoothly, "What is the meaning of this… lovely crowd, hmm? If you forgot me since this morning, allow me to reintroduce myself." He bowed theatrically, miming the tip of a hat. "I am the famous Francisco De La Martinez."
"SHUT YOUR TRAP, DEMON!" a villager shouted. "Let's KILL HIM!"
"Yeah! He probably brought the Gultonk here, killed our knights to leave us defenseless!"
Without hesitation, Francisco broke into a run, weaving through alleyways not yet blocked by debris. He darted between stacks of boxes and stray objects, memories flashing of other angry crowds in the Umar kingdom. This wasn't new to him, but the villagers' fury surprised him—he'd expected it sooner.
Casting a quick form-changing spell, he concealed his handsome Nesfundur features, taking on the guise of a wounded villager resembling a tavern patron. Following what remained of the village signs, he found a modest temple—not grand by Umar standards, but better built than most village structures. Marble and faded golden paint adorned its trim.
Inside, few wounded lay in quiet rows. Normally a good sign, but now a haunting one: those present had clearly been there since before the attack. Francisco changed back to his true form and quietly slipped toward the back, where he suspected the young knight might be.
Peeking around a closed door, he found Clayton resting on a makeshift cot inside a cramped closet. Francisco stepped in and bowed, earning confused looks from Clayton and the cleric. "I apologize for the intrusion, I am—"
"I know who you are, Nesfundur," Clayton interrupted.
"Oh? You've heard of me?" Francisco smiled, twirling an imaginary mustache. "I didn't realize my name traveled so far—"
"Not by fame," Clayton cut in again. "But by investigation. We keep tabs on newcomers, especially from rival kingdoms."
The cleric rushed to his feet. "You should rest more. Your wounds may be healed, but your body needs time."
Clayton slowly fastened his bent and cracked armor, then faced Francisco. "Your tale should be told throughout the lands. It would fill the hearts of your countrymen."
Francisco smiled wider as he strolled through the tight space. "I could tell it for you—all you'd need to do is tell me what happened, and I'd make you famous: the Hero Knight of Blue Stream Village. Everyone would know your name—"
Clayton's hand shot out, grabbing Francisco by the neck and leaning close. "There is nothing to praise or boast about here except a warning of the lurking dangers. Death isn't a story for glory or grandeur. I have no quarrel with you or your kin, Nesfundur, but sneaking in like this shows me the villagers don't trust you. Leave. I do not want more death tonight."
Slightly taken aback, Francisco stammered, "You're making a habit of interrupting me."
He chuckled awkwardly. "I think we're going to be… fantastic friends."
Clayton released him and stepped out into the main hall, stopping to ask the cleric, "Where are the wounded? The survivors?"
The cleric's voice cracked with grief. "There were none but you, and the three men in the front row."
Clayton's pace quickened with anger as he passed the three bodies, knowing he was the sole survivor.
Back at the tavern, Diomede sat by the fire, methodically cleaning his greatsword as Kira began to speak. "My father has called the clan leaders to send ambassadors to ask for aid," she said, her voice steady but heavy with worry.
Diomede raised an eyebrow. "The Boarkar asking for help? That's… new."
Kira nodded. "The Dead Lands are invading. The Blood Tusks have been rampaging across Alberain, killing anyone and anything in their way. They're ruining any chance for peace between our peoples."
Her jaw tightened as she stared into the flickering flames, a lone tear escaping down her cheek. Diomede carefully slid his sword back into its sheath and placed a firm, steady hand on her shoulder. She tensed for a moment before relaxing slightly under the unexpected comfort.
"Why come all the way to Umar, and alone?" Diomede asked softly.
"I wasn't alone at first," Kira said, voice low. "Twenty loyal warriors traveled with me. But monsters and men hunted us down. The Lords of Lagoona tracked us like beasts and slaughtered the rest. If not for their sacrifice, I wouldn't be here."
Diomede shook his head, suppressing a grin as he pictured the massive War Chief Blood Tusk stomping through forests like a grumpy bear looking for his runaway daughter. "So let me get this straight. You left without your father's blessing, took twenty warriors on a suicide mission across hostile lands… and now you expect me to believe he's not hunting you down with a pack of bloodhounds and some very angry cousins?"
Kira's green face flushed a deep red, but she didn't smile. "Yes."
Diomede chuckled, "I'd pay good coin to see that."
She shot him a glare but didn't deny it.
Kira pulled out a rolled parchment and handed it over. "This is a letter from Orcsha to my father. He's settled somewhere in Umar's lands where no one thinks to look."
Diomede unfolded it and scanned the faded writing. "Orcsha's alive?"
She nodded. "If I can bring him back, it'll boost morale and help push back the Dead Lands."
Diomede rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "And how did you convince your father to send you on this trip? Surely, he's got other warriors who could do the job without turning the family reunion into a reality show."
Kira's gaze dropped. "He didn't. He never gave permission. He thought it was a terrible idea."
Diomede leaned back, smiling at the thought of an old War Chief muttering curses and probably trying to recruit a dozen guards just to drag her home. "Family drama… always entertaining."
Kira sighed. "That's one way to put it."
Diomede stood and flopped onto his bed, letting out a long sigh. After a moment of silence, he muttered, "Alright. I'll take you to find Orcsha. But after that? You're on your own."
Kira blinked, surprised. "You're… helping me?"
Diomede shrugged. "Curiosity's got the better of me. Besides, coming across someone like you shows I am the mercy of the gods, as always."
Kira stood, determination mixing with a shadow of suspicion in her eyes. She glanced back at him and he caught the flicker: Why is this human helping me? What does he want?
Her hand hovered near her sword, ready to strike if needed. But the thought of killing him now and wandering alone through hostile lands made her relax. For now.
Kira made her way to her room, locking the door behind her. Passing an open doorway, she caught the cold gaze of the woman from the bar — the one with the greataxe — who said nothing but watched her silently. A large shadow lingered behind her.
Kira shivered and bolted her door, settling onto the soft bed. The softness was strange to her but she found herself drifting quickly into a deep sleep.
Outside, the quiet night was broken by the sound of horses pounding through the village streets. Twenty-five riders entered, armor gleaming with rank and achievement. The last, cloaked in shadow, wore a solid black helmet trimmed in silver with a plume of red.
The others dismounted and stood at attention as the leader lifted his head, sniffed the air, and commanded in a deep, emotionless voice, "Find them… now."