In the vast chamber, shadows lengthened as daylight waned, casting a dim hue over the rows of chairs. A lone nun made her way toward the exit, the final occupant of the room. However, as she approached the door, her gaze fell upon a figure sprawled across one of the long benches. Pausing momentarily, she recognized the familiar face and sighed.
Alfred, known for his penchant for nodding off during church services, lay asleep. Normally, the nuns would rouse him from his slumber, but this time, something seemed different. With a knowing glance at Alfred's peaceful expression, the nun retraced her steps, closing and locking the door behind her. It appeared that, for once, Alfred had been granted the unexpected role of the church's unofficial night sentinel.
In a sprawling city beneath the same vast sky, a solitary figure stood within a grand edifice at the heart of the district. The cavernous room, adorned with photographs that whispered stories of the past, was bathed in the silvery glow of moonlight streaming through tall windows. The beams of light streaked across the polished floor, casting an ethereal ambiance. The man, a silhouette against the darkened room, lifted a delicate wine glass, its slender form catching the light as he brought it to his lips, savoring the taste of the mysterious purple liquid within.
A soft footstep echoed through the room, breaking the silence and then halting abruptly. The man with the wine glass, his gaze still fixed on the photographs, spoke without turning. "I didn't expect you to come here yourself..." His voice was calm, laced with a hint of surprise.
The footsteps resumed, drawing closer, until the moonlight revealed the once-hidden face of the newcomer. The man took a slow sip of the purple liquid, savoring its taste, before uttering a single name: "Iggra..."
The man with the wine glass turned, revealing his middle-aged face etched with lines of experience and contemplation. As he moved to the side, his eyes never left the newcomer. "So, what do you want to say?" he inquired, his voice steady and measured.
Iggra stepped forward, his expression resolute. "I have already obtained enough participants for the colosseum event, sir Allgon."
Allgon paused, still holding the wine glass, and shifted his gaze to the window. Through the glass, the city sprawled beneath him, its lights twinkling like stars. In the distance, the colosseum loomed, a grand structure waiting for the spectacle to unfold. "Well, I entrust the colosseum to you," he said, his voice calm yet commanding. "Then why did you need to come here? Do you require funds? Or people?" His tone carried a blend of curiosity and authority, as he awaited Iggra's response.
Iggra replied, "To be honest, we do need more funds, and our reserve funds as event organizers are still lacking."
Allgon turned to lean against the window sill, the cityscape glimmering behind him. He took a slow sip of his wine, the glass jingling softly in his hand. "That's easy," he said, his tone nonchalant. "I'll coordinate with the finance department about it." His eyes, sharp and probing, fixed on Iggra. "Is there anything else? Other important matters?" He took another sip, waiting for the response, the weight of his authority evident in every word.
Allgon walked toward Iggra, gesturing towards a portrait on the wall. "Look at that portrait," he instructed.
Iggra's gaze followed the direction of Allgon's hand, landing on a photograph labeled 'Gordon Allgon.' But as Allgon approached, he noticed Iggra was focused on the wrong image. "Not that one," Allgon corrected gently, "the photo beside it."
Iggra shifted his attention to the adjacent photograph, which depicted a young blond man with an air of quiet confidence. The name beneath the image read 'Calvert Narragansett.' The weight of the moment hung between them, as if the portrait held secrets yet to be unveiled.
"Maybe you forgot our initial agreement, Eleventine," Allgon said, his voice edged with irritation. He strode towards Calvert's portrait, downing the remaining wine in his glass before hurling it at the image. The glass shattered upon impact, fragments scattering across the floor, and the portrait's glass splintered, distorting the face of Calvert Narragansett.
Iggra remained composed, his gaze unwavering. "We have found the house suspected of being the place where the person you're looking for is staying, but there is no sign of a teenager—only a weak old man."
Allgon's expression twisted with frustration. "That's Ramon! I told you, I saw it myself—Ramon carrying a small baby, running on the night of the incident."
Iggra nodded, his voice steady. "Well then, are you planning to catch him, or shall I?"
Allgon's eyes burned with determination. "Tell me his location! I will catch him with my troops and ensure his death!"
"Okay," Iggra responded, turning to leave. "I will order my subordinates to bring a map of his location, as soon as possible."
As Iggra exited the room, Allgon remained, his gaze locked on Calvert's fractured portrait. He whispered to the image, "Sorry, my friend, but this time my victory is certain."
Colorful mosaic-stained glass windows filtered the morning light, casting a kaleidoscope of hues across the room. A circular ventilation hole above the glassless window allowed a direct beam of sunlight to pierce the space, illuminating a specific spot amidst the long rows of chairs. Still sprawled on the bench, Alfred squinted against the sudden brightness as he slowly opened his eyes. Shielding them with his arm, he took a moment to gather his thoughts and rouse himself.
The tranquil night swiftly gave way to a vibrant morning, the round sun bathing every corner of the land in its golden glow. Alfred, his face still bearing the marks of sleep, emerged from the giant church doors. In the distance, a group of young nuns walked by, their soft laughter carrying on the morning breeze as they glanced at Alfred, seemingly sharing a private joke about him. Yet, Alfred paid them no mind, focused solely on his path as he continued his steps into the new day.
The inn's familiar façade greeted Alfred as he approached, his footsteps resonating softly against the wooden floor. As he neared his room, a door down the hall creaked open. Inietta emerged, leaning casually against the doorframe, her expression suggesting she had been anticipating his arrival.
Alfred halted, meeting her gaze. "Is there anything I can help you with?" he inquired, his tone even and unperturbed.
After their conversation, Alfred summarized, "So, you want to send Tobias to participate in the Colosseum? And you're having trouble persuading him, so you're asking for my help. Is that right?" His voice was calm and measured.
Inietta's eyes narrowed slightly. "I won't repeat myself. You know Tobias's condition well enough. He's practically a lifeless shell."
Alfred took a step forward, opening the door to his room, which was right next to Inietta's. She watched him with a flat expression. "Let me know if you succeed," she said, her tone devoid of emotion.
Alfred, standing at the threshold, didn't need to enter to check on Tobias. With a hint of humor, he remarked, "Young people do have a knack for dramatics. So, where is he now? Did he go out?"
Inietta, still leaning against the doorframe, scoffed. "Hmph, that wretch wouldn't leave his miserable corner of your room."
The air grew heavy with silence for a moment. Then, with a swift stride, Inietta moved past Alfred and into the room to confirm Tobias's whereabouts. Her eyes immediately scanned the familiar corner where Tobias often lay, curled up and lifeless.
Inietta stepped into the room, her eyes scanning the familiar corner. To her dismay, Tobias and his bag were gone. She spun around, her movements urgent as she brushed past Alfred, who was still standing in the doorway, and headed for the exit.
Descending the wooden stairs rapidly, her hurried steps echoed through the inn, drawing the attention of the hotel owner at the front desk. Without hesitation, Inietta demanded information about Tobias, her tone growing menacing as she threatened the innocent old man.
Seeing the situation escalating, Alfred quickly intervened, calming Inietta down and apologizing to the startled owner.
Later that day, it was officially declared: Tobias was missing.
Inietta, who had hoped to leverage Tobias for her own purposes, now found herself filled with questions about his whereabouts. She suspected that the God of War, Albalbel, had pulled Tobias back into his personal dimension. However, if that were true, why had Albalbel neglected to inform her?
Her thoughts raced. If Tobias had merely run away, he wouldn't have gotten far without her noticing. She had discreetly imbued a small amount of her mana into Tobias' notebook as a marker, ensuring she could track him. Yet, there had been no sign of him.
Despite her frustration and uncertainty, Inietta remained resolute in her duty to the God of War. She resolved to continue her tasks with unwavering confidence, determined to fulfill her obligations no matter the obstacles.
On the same morning, in a distant part of the vast city, there was a forest still untouched by time, nestled within the giant wall that marked the city's edge. In a secluded corner of that forest, an open field basked in the first light of dawn. The sun's rays pierced through the canopy, casting shifting shadows on the ground as the day began to unfold.
In the midst of those dancing shadows, a sturdy leg stood firm, rooted in a stance. The figure—a teenager, by the looks of his youthful frame—gripped a sword with determination, his movements fluid and precise as he swung the blade through the morning air. Despite the worn and tattered pants and simple cloth shirt he wore, an iron helmet covered his entire head, its weight and size awkward against his slender form. The helmet obscured his face entirely, rendering him unrecognizable, yet his spirit was evident in every strike.
As time passed and exhaustion set in, the young swordsman finally paused, his breath heavy from exertion. He made his way to a tree that towered above the others, its wide trunk offering a comforting shade. Leaning against the rough bark, he reached for a small jug tucked at his side.
Carefully, he tilted the jug to drink, but even then, he only lifted the lower part of his iron helmet slightly, just enough to allow the water to flow. His upper face remained hidden, concealed beneath the metal, as if guarding a secret. The cool liquid offered some relief, and he closed his eyes briefly, savoring the moment of rest before he would rise again.
Haudensaun was so vast that it defied the definition of a mere city, sprawling instead into a colossal mega-region that encompassed not just cities but entire landscapes. Far from the urban core, there lay a suburban area still within the protection of the immense wall, yet bordering a green expanse of trees that resembled a forest more than a park.
As the morning sun bathed the world in a golden hue, the young swordsman began his trek along a dirt road that wound through the trees. His steps were steady, carrying him from the shadowed forest toward the suburban area ahead. The quiet of the early hour accompanied him, the only sounds those of his boots against the earth and the distant rustle of leaves.
In this suburban area, the pace of life was slower and more relaxed compared to the bustling city center. The residential streets, lined with houses that stood only one or two stories tall, felt open and airy under the unobstructed sunlight. The lack of towering buildings allowed the morning light to flood the area, giving it a warm, inviting glow.
Though the streets were less crowded, people still moved about, giving the neighborhood a gentle hum of activity. Men and women walked leisurely, greeting one another as they passed, while children played in the yards and alleys. The houses, modest but well-kept, were spaced apart enough to give each family a sense of space, yet close enough to maintain a sense of community.
At the heart of this suburban area was a market, smaller and more intimate than the sprawling bazaars of the city. Here, the hustle and bustle were still palpable, with vendors calling out their wares and horse-drawn carriages delivering fresh produce. The scent of earth and vegetables filled the air, mingling with the sounds of haggling and the clatter of hooves on cobblestones.
This was a community of farmers, and it showed. The market was rich with the bounty of their labor, from vibrant vegetables to baskets of fruits, all sold at prices much lower than in the city. Here, customers were often first-hand or second-hand buyers, ensuring the produce remained fresh and affordable. The market was a vital lifeline for the residents, connecting them to the rhythm of the land that sustained them.
As the young swordsman approached this suburban area, the contrast between the tranquil fields he had left behind and the quiet yet lively suburb was stark. His steps, once silent on the forest path, now joined the chorus of everyday life, blending seamlessly into the flow of this peaceful, hardworking community.