Dawning the new robes Paiona had kindly donated to us, Elias, Aeloria, and I had finally shed the last scraps of Dracovenia's chains. No more slave tunics, no branding that screamed "property." From this point onward, we were humble travelers looking to understand Sylvanic culture. It was strange how much lighter fabric could make you feel. My body was the same—scarred, beaten, and still recovering—but I felt less like prey.
"That village was a refreshing change of events, don't you think?" I asked as we hurried along the dirt path stretching eastward. The earth was packed hard beneath our boots, scattered with roots that caught my foot every other step. "This world has been all danger and death thus far—I honestly wasn't expecting any tranquility after my introduction."
Elias smirked, his usual stiff demeanor loosened by the long march. "Aeloria and I haven't been so hostile. We even helped you escape a daunting fate. What do you mean you haven't experienced tranquility?" His tone was teasing, but his eyes flickered with amusement. He was relaxed around us now. Was that trust?
"You are right though," Elias continued, his studious air returning. "Most villages are like that—small, hospitable, self-sustaining. With no proper system, they bloom and fade like seasons."
His words pulled me back to Earth—startups, mom-and-pop shops with no scaling plan. They burned bright, then collapsed when the bigger fish came around. Same thing here, I guessed. Worlds apart, yet the same principles of survival.
"Also, your mana has grown, Reed—along with your presence. Perhaps due to your absorption of that Knight Chiara's mana and memories."
I frowned. "And how does that affect our time in that village?"
"People sense strength, even ignorant folk," Elias said matter-of-factly. "It's likely Paiona played nice to avoid any trouble for her village. The presence of the strong demands respect… or fear."
Aeloria added with a half-smile, "When I first met you, your presence was tiny, erratic. Like a candle flame. Now it has the tone of a trained knight, heavy and defined. Not subtle, Reed."
Great. I basically had a glowing "kick me" sign that screamed potential threat. That was bound to cause trouble later. Still, I could see their point—Aeloria had nearly crushed me with her aura the first time we met.
By the fifth day of our march, provisions were running low. Elias, who had taken to sketching a map from memory, promised we'd arrive soon. "Soon" was all I got. Helpful as ever.
To keep my brain from rotting, I cracked open the book Paisos had given me: The Tales of Voz. The Olden Gods. This world apparently worshipped deities like relics of forgotten empires. Voz—the master of gods—was said to have created humanity from an insatiable urge to fashion a being that could rival divine power. Omnipotent, untouchable. Challenging him meant "inconceivable loss."
The myths pulled me into thought. Aurius's face surfaced in my mind. He had named my absorption skill Leech, and since then, I'd had no issues with memory. Was naming abilities another way to empower them? He gave off the vibe of someone… more than human. Entity-esque. I should revisit him eventually. But first, Masva.
By sunset, Masva's gates loomed into view—towering stone carved with faintly glowing runes. Relief washed over me. Civilization at last. Then another thought hit me.
"Hey guys," I said, unable to resist. "Do they take credit cards here?"
Both Aeloria and Elias blinked, confused. I smirked. "Kidding. But seriously—we don't have any money, do we? How are we supposed to eat or sleep?"
Aeloria patted a pouch at her hip. "Don't worry. I've coin from my days as a knight. Enough for now until we begin earning."
Smart. She came prepared. Elias and I? Not so much. Prisoners didn't carry wallets.
At the gates, two guards in light tunics waved travelers through. No identification checks, no stamps or papers. Just questions: Who were we, what was our business? We gave aliases and claimed to be travelers seeking Sylvanic teachings. That seemed enough. We were waved in.
And then Masva hit me like a festival.
Stone streets buzzed with traders hawking fabrics shimmering faintly with Vis. Blades etched with runes glimmered under lantern light. Herbs sparked with faint glows like Paiona's stock. Taverns spilled raucous laughter into the streets. Children darted between stalls. A manor loomed in the distance, seat of local power.
It was nothing compared to the towns of the good old USA. But after prisons, shackles, and constant bloodshed? It was a goddamn paradise.
"I thought this place was supposed to be some monk-town," I muttered. "Robes, meditation, no fun allowed. Not… this."
Elias tucked his journal into his robe. "Further east, you'll find that strictness. Masva is a hub—a bridge between Sylvanic belief and the wider world. Trade, taverns, training halls. This is the Order's gateway."
Aeloria cut in, decisive as always. "First, lodging. Then a tavern. Taverns are the heart of a town—food, drink, and most importantly, information."
Sounded like a plan. We wove through crowds of monks in loose robes, demi-humans with scaled tails, and beastfolk with ears that twitched at every sound. This was more diversity than I'd seen anywhere else since arriving. Dracovenia had been cages. This felt free.
We settled at The Amethyst's Charm, an inn glowing with lanterns powered by Vis. Shadows danced across rounded tables. It wasn't luxury, but compared to prison strawbeds, it was heaven. We paid for a single room with two beds—Elias volunteering to take a sleeping bag—and stashed our belongings.
Aeloria clasped her hands. "Now, the tavern. If we're lucky, we'll hear word of the dojo Paiona spoke of." Her eyes glittered. She was more excited than I'd ever seen her.
"Sounds good," I said. "Elias?"
"Let us tread with caution," he replied. "If Dracovenia's news has spread, Aeloria is marked. That could make us targets."
He wasn't wrong. Which meant discretion was survival. With our hoods back up, we melted into Masva's nighttime crowd, moving toward the noise, music, and firelight that marked the town's busiest tavern.
The tavern we chose was called Velbrant, and it announced itself long before we reached it. A chorus of drunken laughter, a fiddle straining against the chaos, and the unmistakable stench of alcohol-soaked planks bled into the street.
"This seems lively enough," Aeloria murmured, her hood drawn low but her golden eyes still catching the firelight.
Lively was an understatement. When we stepped through the warped wooden door, the air slapped me in the face. Thick with smoke, sweat, and the sour tang of spilled ale. A bard howled a half-forgotten ballad, his lute missing a string but no one caring. Servers darted through the chaos with platters of foaming mugs, dodging grasping hands and drunken sways like trained duelists.
No one even turned their heads when we entered. That was… strange. Back in Dracovenia, walking into any room was like stepping onto a stage. Here, we were invisible. Which was perfect.
We slipped to a rectangular table tucked just beyond the bar. Elias raised a hand with far too much refinement and said, "Three ales, please."
The serving woman squinted at him, as if she'd never heard that tone in this place before. She dropped three mugs down with enough force to spill half their contents and gave him a look that said don't test me.
"Elias," I muttered under my breath. "You've got to work on your delivery. Maybe add a little growl, sound less like a lecture hall."
He blinked at me, then nodded as though I'd just given him the formula to fire. "Dear me, you are right, Reed. I will adjust."
Aeloria snorted into her mug. "You two are unbelievable."
I took a sip of the ale. Bitter, flat and barely drinkable. People here seemed to love it though, slamming mugs and roaring like it was the nectar of gods. I swallowed with effort. "This is disgraceful."
"Drink it anyway," Aeloria said, already halfway through hers.
While we pretended to enjoy ourselves, we listened. The best part about taverns was you didn't need to ask questions—other people answered them for you.
"That damned Esvian," a burly man two tables over groaned. "I can never seem to best him in duel."
His interlocutor burst into laughter. "Of course not! He's the head of the dojo. While you're here rotting your liver, he's training!"
The first man glowered, then joined in the laughter anyway.
Esvian. That was the name. Paiona had been right—Masva's dojo was tied to someone significant. If drunks were
complaining about him, he was worth finding.
I leaned back, debating how to approach. If I went directly, I risked sounding like an outsider sniffing too close. If I didn't, we might miss our chance. I went for something in between.
"Excuse me," I said, leaning toward their table. "Could you point me toward Esvian's dojo? I've come here hoping to train, maybe even become a knight someday."
Both men stared at me for a long beat. Then they laughed. Not friendly laughter—mocking, derisive.
"Do you hear this kid?" one said, pounding the table hard enough to rattle mugs. "Thinks he can just walk into Masva and join Esvian."
"Maybe he should start by learning manners," the other sneered, standing up and cracking his knuckles.
Their eyes slid to Aeloria. One of them grinned, showing gaps in his teeth. "We'll forgive him if he loans us the lady for the night."
Aeloria's mug hit the table, hard. For a second, I thought she was about to drive her fist through their skulls. Instead, she smiled. The kind of smile that could cut glass.
"Well," she said sweetly, "if you two would like to get me out of here, I'm all for it. There's just one catch." She leaned forward, golden eyes locking them in place. "First, you guide us to Esvian's dojo. Deal?"
The men exchanged looks, smirks spreading. "That's easy enough for a good time. Follow us."
Idiots.
We followed them out, slipping through the tavern door back into the cool night. That was when my eyes caught something pinned to the wall near the exit: a bounty board.
I froze.
Among the faded parchments was one fresh and bold—an uncolored sketch of a figure in armor, helmet obscuring the face. The text beneath read:
10,000 gold coins – The Shackled Beast. Wanted for treason against Dracovenia.
My gut twisted. Aeloria. Even in vague outline, it was her.
I forced myself to keep walking. Couldn't draw attention. Once we were outside and trailing behind the drunks, I muttered to my companions, "She's wanted. Ten thousand gold. Helmet sketch, your title written clear as day."
Elias didn't even flinch. "We suspected as much."
Aeloria's smile didn't fade, but her jaw tightened. "A helmeted drawing won't give us away. Not yet."
Not yet. But how long before word spread? Before someone connected her face to the title of Shackled Beast?
We trailed the drunkards deeper into Masva, weaving through streets still lit by lanterns. Eventually, one of them hiccupped and pointed at a building ahead. Wide double doors stood beneath a sign etched with clean Sylvanic script: Esvian's Dojo. The building glowed faintly from within, light spilling onto the street like a beacon.
"There ya go," the drunk slurred. "Best dojo in Masva."
"Now," the other added with a leer, "about that deal—"
Before he could finish, Aeloria tilted her head toward an alley. "This way, boys. I'll make it worth your while."
They followed her without hesitation, drunk and blinded by lust. She vanished with them into the shadows. Elias and I stayed put, exchanging a look.
Minutes later, footsteps approached. Only one set. Aeloria reappeared, brushing her hands together and dangling a heavy pouch that clinked with coin.
"They were weak," she said with a shrug. "Knights of Dracovenia might have been a challenge. These two? Pathetic."
"You robbed them too?" I asked.
"Consider it repayment for their manners." Her grin was wicked.
Elias sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe this is our strategy."
But I couldn't argue. We now had coin, and a dojo waiting in front of us. The lanterns burned steady, voices echoing faintly from within.
"It's late," Elias said. "Perhaps we should return tomorrow."
I shook my head, adrenaline humming. "We've come this far. And it's open. If Esvian is as serious as they say, he won't turn away seekers of strength."
Aeloria smirked. "Finally, some initiative."
I stepped forward, pushing the dojo doors open. Light spilled out, warm and inviting, and with it came the sound of fists striking wood, the rhythm of combat.
We had arrived.