Strax walked through the narrow streets of the small town with firm but unhurried steps. The scene was a mosaic of destruction: burned-out houses still emitting the acrid smell of smoke, blackened walls, pieces of roofing scattered across the ground. This place had suffered. And yet, there was life. Children ran barefoot through the rubble, merchants set up makeshift stalls using charred wood, people shouted, discussed prices, exchanged news.
This time, Strax didn't stand out. There were no horns, nor the black kimono embroidered in gold that made him look like an emperor emerging from the flames. Now, he was simply a man with black hair with slightly reddish tips, possessed of a restrained presence. Anyone who saw him might have mistaken him for an ordinary traveler—though, in the golden eyes hidden beneath the calm, there was a flame that betrayed much more.
