The night was quiet again.
Smoke drifted lazily from the dying campfire. The smell of iron and ash clung to everything — armor, skin, the wet dirt under their boots.
Kyle stood near the edge of the clearing, wiping his sword clean on a torn cloak before sliding it back into its sheath. His movements were casual, unhurried.
Like the slaughter hadn't even happened.
The others weren't so composed.
The twins whispered to each other, pale as ghosts. The mage sat by the wagon, hands still shaking. Merrin didn't even look up, just stared at the fire with the dead eyes of a man who'd nearly lost everything.
The scarred merc, blood running down his arm, walked past the corpses until he reached the bandit leader.
He crouched, turned the body over, and frowned. "This one... was no pushover."
Kyle glanced over. "No kidding. Took him a whole ten seconds to die."
That earned him a few uneasy stares.
The merc ignored the comment, checking the man's gear — enchanted axes, thick armor, a guild mark half-faded from years of use.
"A-ranked adventurer. Used to be, anyway," he said grimly. "He's killed plenty of people tougher than us."
He turned, eyes narrowing at Kyle. "So tell me... how the hell did you kill him like it was nothing?"
The question hung heavy. Even the fire seemed to wait.
Kyle scratched the back of his neck, smiling faintly. "Guess I'm lucky?"
No one laughed.
He sighed. "Alright, alright. Look— you swing enough steel for long enough, you start to get good at it. That's all."
The mage muttered, "That wasn't 'good.' That was— gods, I didn't even see you move."
Kyle smirked, trying to lighten it. "Then you blinked. Should've kept your eyes open."
Still no laughter. Just the same uneasy looks.
He exhaled, glancing away. "Look. You're alive, yeah? That's what matters. The rest— doesn't need explaining."
The scarred merc stared a little longer, then nodded slowly. "…Fine. You saved our asses. That's enough for now."
"Good," Kyle said quietly. "Let's keep it that way."
They buried the bodies on the far side of the clearing — didn't have time, didn't have the energy, but they did it anyway.
By the time they hit the road again, dawn was bleeding across the horizon, soft orange light brushing over tired faces and dirt-streaked armor.
The caravan moved slower now. No jokes. No chatter.
Just the steady rhythm of wheels and hooves — except for the horses still pulling away whenever Kyle walked too close.
He pretended not to notice.
Sitting at the back of the wagon, he watched the forest fade behind them.
His hand rested loosely on his sword hilt, fingers tracing invisible patterns.
He'd done it again.
Showed too much.
He hated that look in people's eyes — fear dressed as gratitude.
He'd seen it too many times.
He looked down at his hands, flexing them once before shoving them into his coat pockets.
Guess it never gets old, huh? he thought bitterly. The kind of looks i always get, that inner fear as if a demon in human flesh is around them.
The road stretched ahead — long, empty, indifferent.
After some hours of silence, they finally encountered the city walls.
The city walls rose high enough to kiss the clouds, banners rippling red and gold against the wind. Trumpets blared somewhere beyond the gates, and the crowd's noise rolled like a living wave—cheers, laughter, the metallic rattle of carriages and merchant wagons.
The capital.
Home of kings, saints, and soon—another dead hero.
The caravan slowed near the outer checkpoint, guards scanning cargo and faces. Kyle stood off to the side, hands shoved in his coat pockets, hood half-drawn as he watched the spectacle unfold.
Merchants grumbled about taxes. The adventurers stretched their sore limbs. The scarred merc tossed Kyle a nod. "Not bad working with you, stranger."
Kyle caught the coin pouch the merchant offered him. Generous. He weighed it lazily in his palm. "Appreciate it. Try not to get killed before your next delivery, yeah?"
That got the faintest smile. "We'll manage."
And that was that. No drawn-out goodbyes, no handshakes or promises. Just the parting of paths—like countless times before.
Kyle turned toward the open gates, blending into the flow of people surging into the city.
Inside, the world changed.
Color. Noise. Life. Every inch of the streets was alive—paper charms fluttering from doorways, banners strung across rooftops, flower petals scattered over cobblestones.
The smell of roasted meat, cheap ale, perfume, and sweat tangled together in the air. Everywhere he looked, there were posters of a young man smiling brightly—armor gleaming, sword raised high above his head.
THE HERO SUMMONED BY THE GODS!
HOPE RETURNS TO MANKIND!
Kyle stopped in front of one, eyeing the hero's painted face.
He kept walking, letting the crowd swallow him up. Kids darted through the streets with paper swords, pretending to slay invisible demons. Vendors shouted about limited-edition hero trinkets. Every face was turned toward the idea of salvation.
He couldn't even blame them. Hope was a hell of a drug.
Turning a corner, he passed a small bakery. A mother stood outside, scolding her son who'd tried to steal a bun.
"If you keep acting like a little thief," she said sharply, "the Grim Reaper will take you straight to hell!"
Kyle froze mid-step. Then—slowly—he laughed.
It wasn't a loud laugh. Just a quiet, dry chuckle that slipped past his lips before he could stop it.
He looked up at the cloudy sky.
Still haunting bedtime stories, huh? Guess that's something.
He adjusted his coat, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth as he walked on—just another face in the crowd, just another shadow moving through the city that forgot what real death looked like.