They arrived at the foot of the mountain.
The wind was weaker here, the snow not quite as high, but the cold still hung heavily in the air. The descent had made Noen's legs burn, his breathing was still uneven when he came to an abrupt stop.
A wagon was waiting for them.
Two strong horses were harnessed to it, snorting restlessly, steam rising from their nostrils. The wagon itself was plain, sturdy — built for travel, not comfort.
But it wasn't the wagon that held Noen's gaze.
It was the men inside it.
Four figures sat on the loading bed. All of them wore masks.
The masks were smooth, almost emotionless, made of bright material — and on every single one of them was the same symbol:
A pair of wings.
Outlined in red. Sharp.
Noen felt something tighten in his stomach.
"…who are they?" he asked quietly.
The President didn't stop. He walked straight to the wagon.
"A few people who will accompany us"
He threw the driver a brief look.
"Well then — let's go."
The masked man on the driver's seat nodded wordlessly, pulled the reins, and set the horses into a trot.
The wagon lurched forward.
Wood creaked. Iron clinked. Snow was crushed beneath the wheels.
Noen climbed in, his gaze wandering once more over the masks. None of the men looked at him. None of them moved.
The wagon rolled on. Noen leaned back slightly as it rattled over the frozen ground.
His gaze drifted involuntarily to the President.
— So this is the President of the Black Synod… —
Slicked-back brown hair. Simple, round glasses on his nose, behind which alert green eyes rested. He wore a strikingly high-quality winter coat — dark, cleanly cut, with subtle golden buttons that looked elegant even in the gray daylight.
They drove.
And drove.
And no one said a word.
The masked men sat still, motionless like statues. The driver stared straight ahead. So did the President.
The silence grew increasingly uncomfortable for Noen. It wasn't calm — it was tense.
Finally, he cleared his throat.
"Mr. President?"
The man responded immediately, without taking his eyes off the road.
"Yes, what is it, Noen?"
"Who are all these masked men?"
A brief moment.
"They are—"The President hesitated."Uhmm… you know… servants."
"Exactly. My servants. Whose faces I don't want to see because…"He grinned briefly."…they're so ugly."
Then the grin vanished again. His gaze returned forward. Serious. Closed.
Noen said nothing more.
But the feeling remained.
That quiet, creeping unease you couldn't grasp — only feel.
They continued driving.
Hours passed.
When Noen asked something, he either received an evasive answer — or none at all.The road stretched on. The sky slowly changed its color.
Noen's eyelids grew heavy. His head tilted slightly to the side.
— Just close my eyes for a moment… —
His breathing grew steadier.
Then—
A jolt.
A hard, brutal jolt.
"AHHH—!"
The scream tore Noen out of sleep.
The wagon swayed. Something flew.
Noen blinked groggily and sat up.
The President—
had been flung off the wagon.
He lay on the left meadow, several meters away, motionless in the tall grass.
"What the—?" Noen muttered.
A dull impact ahead of them.
One of the masked men lay on the road.
Another on the right meadow.
Only one remained on the wagon.
Movement everywhere. Pain. Cursing.
Noen rubbed his eyes and yawned.
"Hey…" he said sleepily, not really getting anything. "Are we taking a break or why are we stopping?"
The President got to his feet, coughing.
"Ah—!"He cleared his throat hastily. "Uh… y-yeah. Exactly. Good idea."
He brushed grass off his coat and straightened himself quickly.
"Let's take a break!" he called a bit too loudly. "Come on, men. Make a fire."
A short while later, flames crackled in the snow.
A makeshift camp had formed: stones in a circle, wood snapping, sparks shooting into the cold air. The light of the fire cast long, twitching shadows across the frozen grass.
The masked men and the President sat on one side of the fire. Close together. Too close.
Noen sat opposite them.
Between them: the fire. Like a boundary.
One of the masked men handed him a piece of bread at a silent nod from the President — frozen solid, pale with cold. Noen held it over the flames, turning it slowly, waiting until it softened at least a little.
Meanwhile, he watched.
The President leaned slightly toward the masked men. Whispering. Short, frantic words. Glances that kept darting toward Noen — too fast, too nervous to be accidental.
Noen's eyes narrowed.
— Go on… keep talking… —
When one of the masked men noticed his gaze, the group froze. The whispering stopped abruptly. Too abruptly.
Silence.
Only the crackling of the fire. The soft snorting of the horses in the distance.
Noen didn't bite into the bread. He lowered it slowly.
Then…
"Mr. President?"
The voice sounded calm. Too calm.
The man flinched slightly.
"Y-Yes? "His answer came delayed. Unsteady.
Noen stood up.
Slowly. Deliberately.
"Could you please… stand over here?"
He pointed to a patch of grass right next to the fire. In the light. Exposed.
The President followed his finger. Then looked at the masked men.
They didn't react. No nod. No signal. Nothing.
A moment passed that was far too long.
"Uhmm…"The President cleared his throat. "Sure. If that's what you want, Noen."
He stood up, walked around the fire, and positioned himself exactly where Noen had pointed.
"So… and now?"He raised his hands slightly to shoulder height.A gesture meant to look harmless. It wasn't.
Noen moved.
He walked slowly around the fire. Every step deliberate. His gaze never left the man.
Then—
POW.
The punch landed square on his nose.
Hard. Clean. Direct.
The man was hurled backward, immediately lost his footing, slammed into the ground, slid through the frozen grass, kicking up dirt and snow — until he came to rest several meters away.
Still. Filthy.
The fire continued to crackle.
Noen stood motionless.
He looked at his fist. Then at the man on the ground.
His breathing was rapid.
"I…"He swallowed. "I hit him."
Slowly, he lifted his head. "I-I was right…"
His gaze burned.
"YOU'RE NOT THE PRESIDENT, ARE YOU?!"