The morning sun hung warm and gentle, casting soft gold across the tiled rooftops. A light breeze stirred the hanging laundry, carrying with it the faint scent of wildflowers from the distant hills. The streets of the village bustled with quiet routine—merchants calling softly, mothers sweeping doorsteps, children chasing one another between stalls. The town felt peaceful, like a place forgotten by war and untouched by distant chaos.
And in that calm… Xiao Ping watched, clutching her little cloth pouch, her small heart caught between curiosity and exhaustion.
Xiao Ping moved more slowly than the other children, her thin arms swinging weakly at her sides, her steps uneven. Her little body had been fading for months, gripped by a wasting sickness that stole her appetite and strength, leaving her bones sharp beneath skin grown pale and fragile. Her mother had taken her to every doctor in town, begging for remedies, but each visit ended the same—shrugging shoulders or sky-high demands she could never afford. She had offered labor, promised payments, even knelt before them, but the doors had been closed on her cries.
And every week, her daughter had worsened.
Ping had grown used to the ache in her limbs, the lightheadedness, the empty hollow feeling in her chest. But today… Today, curiosity made her bold. She followed the silver-haired strangers, even as her breath grew shallow and her knees wobbled.
She didn't see where she was going until she stumbled forward, colliding with a tall figure. She looked up quickly, bracing for scolding—only to meet the calm, steady gaze of a Selvaris man.
He was dressed, his deep green garments slightly loose, as though hastily borrowed or not tailored to his broad frame. His silver hair flowed loosely, his pale green eyes watching her with quiet understanding—not pity, but gentle recognition, as though he'd seen such suffering before.
His fingers rested lightly on her shoulder, his other hand hovering over her chest. Ping's legs trembled, her breath catching. She felt the lightest pull—a gentle warmth, like standing beneath the first spring sunlight after a long winter.
Soft green light coiled around his fingertips, soaking into her skin, quiet and patient. Her breath eased. Her limbs steadied. The weight in her body seemed to lift, the fog in her mind clearing. She stood taller, blinking in astonishment.
Her mother had seen the whole thing, running from the stall with panic carved across her face. She froze in her tracks, her heart lurching as she watched her little girl standing without swaying, her cheeks pink with life for the first time in months.
Ping, bright-eyed, reached into her cloth pouch, pulling out a crumpled dumpling, slightly cold but full of love.
"You helped me… now you should have this," she said with a proud little grin. "Mama says dumplings make you strong!"
The Selvaris man took the dumpling with a soft laugh, bowing his head in thanks. Her mother swallowed hard, overcome by the bitter memory of every door slammed shut, and the miracle offered by a stranger in simple robes, asking for nothing in return.
She wiped her tears away with shaky hands. Thank you, thank you…" she whispered, though she knew he wouldn't understand.
But as her daughter beamed up at the tall warrior, the mother thought to herself,
Perhaps kindness spoke its own language… and the stars had finally sent someone to listen.
By midday, the Selvaris were quietly moving among the village streets, carrying out their tasks with disciplined calm. They asked for nothing, demanded nothing, yet through small, respectful gestures, they began to soften the wary glances.
At the village well, two elders struggled to haul up a heavy water bucket, the frayed rope digging into their palms. A Selvaris warrior, tall and broad-shouldered, stepped forward without hesitation. With silent respect, he gripped the rope and pulled, raising the entire bucket with steady ease and pouring its contents into their jars. The elders gave a surprised nod of gratitude, which the warrior returned with a hand placed lightly over his chest before continuing his way.
Further along, near the bustling market stalls, an old merchant's cart lay overturned, its contents scattered in the soft earth. A young Selvaris soldier, dressed in crisp white garments with sleeves neatly rolled, approached in calm, unhurried steps.
Without fanfare, he bent down, lifted the aged merchant gently to his feet, and righted the cart in one clean, effortless motion. With steady hands, he gathered the fallen produce, brushing off the dirt with care before placing each item back in place.
The elder watched in stunned silence; his words momentarily caught in his throat. When he finally managed a grateful bow, the soldier returned it with a simple nod—no boast, no flourish, only quiet honor in action—before turning silently back to his duties, leaving behind a small moment of dignity that required no words at all.
At the woodcutter's yard, a young widow struggled to carry bundles of firewood back to her home. A passing Selvaris warrior noticed, immediately stepping in to relieve her of the burden. He had the wood in respectful silence, walking behind her until reaching her door. When she tried to offer him money or water, he politely declined, placing his fist to his heart in a gesture of respect, before turning away without seeking thanks.
Even the children, usually restless and noisy, watched from a respectful distance, whispering to each other about the tall, strange warriors who moved with calm strength, not arrogance, who helped without asking, and carried themselves with quiet authority.
Solan, seated beneath a shaded tree, attracted a growing circle of children. His white garments were clean yet straightforward, and his fingers moved swiftly across parchment with a Silver Reed Pen. One by one, he sketched portraits of the children, not as they appeared, but as little heroes—cloaks billowing, wooden swords raised high, standing tall against imagined beasts.
When he finished each drawing, he handed it to the children with a quiet nod and a rare, gentle laugh, as though encouraging them to see themselves as more than simple villagers. The children clutched the drawings with broad smiles, some running to show their parents, others standing taller, chests puffed with pride.
At the other end of the market, Garrik stood like a boulder, arms crossed as he observed a food stall. His reputation had preceded him, and people gave him a wide berth—until a determined four-year-old boy marched straight up to him, arms crossed in perfect imitation, chin tilted defiantly upward.
For a moment, the entire market seemed to hold its breath as Garrik looked down at the child, expression like carved stone. The boy didn't budge.
Then Garrik's brow twitched. Slowly, he mirrored the child's stance, folding his arms and lowering his head slightly, entering a silent stand-off of stubborn willpower.
A nearby Selvaris warrior, observing the scene, half-smiled, arms relaxed at his side. He shook his head slightly and muttered under his breath, "Courage comes in all sizes, it seems."
The boy's mother rushed forward, apologizing in a flurry, but Garrik waved her off, finally letting a brief, rare smile crack through his hard exterior. He uncrossed his arms, crouched slightly, and gave the boy a slight, respectful nod, as if acknowledging a worthy challenger. The boy grinned widely and bolted back to his friends, victorious in his own way.
Garrik allowed a rare smile to surface, his voice quiet but firm: "The heart of a warrior needs no age."
From doorways and windows, the villagers watched in silence, their fear slowly giving way to respect. The Selvaris had come as strangers, but through their small, honorable deeds, they began to be seen as men of principle, carrying with them the weight of forgotten traditions—strength guided by restraint, and power tempered by dignity.
In the narrow, darkened alley, tucked between crooked walls and damp stone, the air felt heavier, the sunlight barely reaching the filth-strewn ground. Low, sharp words echoed off the stone.
"Next time… you don't pay, we break your legs, you useless rat," the man snarled, his voice laced with casual cruelty. His fist cracked across the woman's cheek, sending her stumbling into the dirt. She cried softly, clutching her head, curling up as if to shrink from the world.
The man spat on her, chest puffed like some self-made king, walking away with a swaggering arrogance, his companions chuckling behind him, their shoulders broad, their steps loud and careless—like jackals parading after a meal.
High above, cloaked in the veil of shadows, Draven watched.
His expression remained blank, his silver hair blending into the dark corners, his form pressed against the cold walls, unseen and unheard. His pale eyes glinted like polished steel, but there was no flicker of urgency.
No mortal danger. No death. Only the same petty cruelty he had seen in every corner of every world.
The woman's soft sobs echoed beneath him, and Draven's lips tightened, a cold sigh slipping through his nose.
This world… is no different. Every land bleeds its own rot.
His gaze shifted back to the men swaggering away, their laughter bouncing off the alley walls. His eyes sharpened, the faintest flicker of something ancient settling in his stare—a glint that had made demon lords tremble, a look that whispered of hunts in the dark, of death delivered in silence.
Where they walked, only shadows followed.
And now, so did he.
Silent as midnight fog, Draven peeled away from the wall, his steps softer than a whisper, moving in their wake like the crawling hand of vengeance—for in shadow's judgment, there were no second warnings… only quiet, brutal ends.