The strip of light cutting through the gloom of the gate arch illuminated two figures.
Izayoi slowly lowered the leg with which he had intended to kick down the oak gate and tilted his head to the side. His violet eyes, usually sliding over people with lazy indifference, now narrowed. He was scanning the man before him.
Two swords on his back. Not ceremonial decor, but working tools, worn at the hilts. Stance relaxed, but the center of gravity shifted to launch into an attack in a split second. And most importantly—the gaze. In those eyes, there was none of the fear typical of locals when witnessing destructive power. In them lay the calm, heavy depth of an ocean.
"Here's a big fish," Izayoi noted with satisfaction. He felt it on his skin. This man wasn't just "strong." He was a constant of this world. A rock against which waves crash. For the first time since arriving, Izayoi felt a slight, pleasant prickle of excitement.
"Well, look at that," the youth drawled, adjusting the headphones around his neck. "I thought intelligence was forbidden by regulation in this fortress. Nice to see there's at least someone who knows how to use a door handle, not just a bow."
He stepped forward, brazenly invading the living legend's personal space.
"Sakamaki Izayoi," he introduced himself, not extending a hand but simply indicating a nod. "Acting draft horse and babysitter."
The man with two swords chuckled. In that smile was a strange mix of bitterness and relief.
"Roderick," he answered simply. "Though many call me the Hero of the South."
"Hero, huh?" Izayoi scoffed, appraising his cloak. "Well, at least you're not wearing shining armor and making speeches about friendship. That's a plus already."
At that moment, from behind Izayoi's back, leaning on the shoulders of two sturdy peasants, Hans hobbled out. The captain of the guard was pale as chalk. The bandage on his leg was soaked with fresh blood—the long road and stress had taken their toll.
"L-Lord Hero..." Hans rasped, trying to straighten up and salute, but his legs failed him. "Captain of the Taul Border Guard, Hans... Reporting... The outpost is destroyed... We... we are the only ones..."
Roderick stepped toward him, interrupting the report with a gesture.
"At ease, Captain. I know. Or rather..." he stumbled for a second, casting a quick glance at Izayoi, "...I guessed. You and your people achieved the impossible."
The Hero of the South turned to the garrison frozen in the fortress courtyard. Soldiers, ready to shoot a minute ago, now stood with lowered weapons, looking at their idol with reverence. They didn't understand what was happening. Why did the Hero open the gates for some ragamuffins?
"Let them through!" Roderick's order thundered over the square, reflecting off the stone walls. "Medics to the gate! Prepare the infirmary and hot food! These are citizens of the Empire, and they are under my protection!"
Izayoi, not waiting for a second invitation, turned his back to the fortress.
"You heard the boss?" he shouted to the people frozen on the bridge. "Move it! The old man will kick the bucket soon if we don't get him to the healers."
He grabbed the wide leather strap lying on the ground and threw it over his shoulder.
"Let's go."
The leather belt tightened, cutting into his shoulder. Izayoi leaned forward, digging his feet into the cobblestones.
And then silence fell.
The soldiers of the Baal garrison, standing inside, saw only carts. Five heavy peasant wagons, loaded to the brim, tied into a single train. They expected to see a team of oxen. Or horses. Or at least a dozen men pushing the load.
But they saw one guy.
Creak.
The sound of wheels on stone seemed deafening.
Izayoi took a step. Then a second. The enormous mass of wood, iron, sacks, and sixty people shuddered and floated forward.
The eyes of the guard sergeant, who had just recently threatened execution, bulged. A recruit dropped his halberd, and it fell to the stones with a clang.
This was wrong. It contradicted everything they knew about strength and human capabilities. The guy wasn't using enhancement magic—there was no glow, no characteristic hum of mana. He was simply dragging this weight as if it were a child's toy wagon. The muscles on his arms didn't even bulge from extreme strain; they just worked, rhythmically and precisely.
Roderick, standing by the gate leaf, watched this spectacle with undisguised interest. His gift was silent, but his warrior's eyes saw more than the soldiers' eyes. He saw perfect control. It seemed the youth wasn't wasting a gram of energy on this.
"Monster..." whispered one of the guards. In that whisper was not fear, but holy terror.
When the last cart rolled into the courtyard, Izayoi dropped the strap. The ground beneath his feet shook slightly.
"Receive the cargo," he threw at the medics running up, pointing to Hans. "And be careful with him. The old man is tough, but not made of iron."
Chaos ensued. Healers in white coats, orderlies with stretchers, quartermasters—everyone swirled around the refugees. Hans, who had already begun to lose consciousness from blood loss, was carefully transferred to a stretcher.
"Izayoi!" the old knight managed to shout before being carried away. "Thank you! I swear, I..."
Izayoi just waved him off, deliberately turning away.
Others immediately reached out to him. Women cried, trying to kiss his hands. Men, clutching their hats, bowed at the waist. Children clung to his legs.
"Enough, enough!" Izayoi broke out of the ring of gratitude, feeling uncomfortable. He liked attention, but not in this format. Tears and snot were not his genre. "Better find somewhere to eat. Look, maybe they're handing out porridge somewhere."
He stepped aside to the stone wall, where it was quieter. There, with arms crossed over his chest, stood Roderick.
"Popularity tiring you out?" asked the Hero of the South, watching the refugees being led to the barracks.
"More like the lack of personal space," grumbled Izayoi, leaning against the cold masonry. "So, Hero? What's the fate of these poor devils? The local lords, I hear, don't favor extra mouths."
"The Count will be displeased," Roderick admitted honestly. "But my voice carries weight here. I've given orders. Some will be sent to villages deep in the valley—they need working hands there. Those who know a trade can find their place here and will be kept in the fortress. Blacksmiths, carpenters, seamstresses—they are needed everywhere."
"So, they won't be kicked out into the frost," Izayoi nodded, and the tension in his shoulders eased a bit. "Heh. At least that's something."
He looked at the Hero. The man looked tired. Not physically, but existentially. As if he carried a burden heavier than the carts Izayoi had dragged. But Izayoi's supernatural instincts, comparable to a sixth sense, unerringly determined the threat level.
And he liked what he felt.
"You're an interesting specimen, Roderick," Izayoi smirked, unceremoniously examining him. "By the looks of it—an ordinary drifter in a cloak. No golden armor, no pompous aura. If one met you in a back alley without those toothpicks on your back, you could be mistaken for a washed-up mercenary."
Roderick raised an eyebrow questioningly but remained silent.
"But here's what's strange," Izayoi continued, and his eyes glinted predatorily. "I look at this garrison... Hundreds of soldiers, iron, discipline. And then I look at you. And you know what? I have a strong feeling that you alone are worth more than this whole crowd in tin cans put together."
Roderick blinked. To hear such an assessment from a stranger seeing him for the first time was unexpected. And accurate.
"Likewise, Izayoi. You look like a spoiled aristocrat who hasn't held anything heavier than a fork. No scars, no calluses. Your skin is as smooth as a baby's."
He nodded toward the carts, which were now being unloaded by a dozen soldiers, puffing and dripping with sweat.
"Looking at you, any veteran would laugh. And then die, because you possess such wild physical might as I have not seen even in mountain trolls."
They looked at each other.
One saw absolute martial competence hidden behind plainness. The other saw monstrous, inexplicable power behind the appearance of a soft-handed boy.
Izayoi snorted. Roderick let out a short chuckle.
And a second later, they both laughed. Loudly, genuinely, startling the passing patrols. It was the laughter of two predators who had suddenly met an equal in a forest full of hares.
"Appearance is the biggest lie, huh?" Izayoi wiped a tear brought on by laughter. "Looks like in this world, judging a book by its cover is a sure way to die young."
"Perhaps," Roderick agreed, and his gaze became serious again, but now lacking that grave melancholy. "The world is full of surprises. And I am glad... genuinely glad that something capable of surprising me still remains in it."
He pushed off the wall.
"Let's go, Izayoi. I'll treat you to dinner. I think we have things to talk about."
"Meat and booze on the Hero's tab?" Izayoi adjusted his collar, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Well, it would be a sin to refuse an offer like that."