"Not, thank you." I raised my hands in front of me in a defensive gesture, fingers still covered in dust and dry leaves. My voice came out nervous, but polite, like someone trying to refuse a questionable offering without offending the insane host.
The man raised a thick eyebrow, clearly surprised by my refusal.
"Seriously?" he said, with that indignant tone of someone who had just witnessed a crime against hospitality. "Don't you know water is the liquid of life?"
I blinked slowly. The phrase echoed in my head with the irony of a poorly rehearsed play.
'Says the man who, until now, was cursing such a liquid of life…' I pressed my lips together to hold back the comment. Not even my inner sarcasm could keep up with this guy's instability.
The old man stared at me as if I had refused a sacred treasure, shaking the almost-extinct cup in his calloused hand.
Axel let out another low snore, like an involuntary comedic soundtrack.
I sighed, feeling the weight of the backpack on my back and the weight of the conversation on my shoulders. 'I just arrived… and I already want to leave.'
Silence fell for a second. I was about to say goodbye with some flimsy excuse when a firm voice erupted in the distance:
"CAPTAIN!"
The man froze. His previously scattered gaze sharpened. His shoulders tensed. The cup stopped halfway to his mouth.
"…hm." he murmured, eyes narrowing as he slowly turned toward the source of the voice.
The tension in the air shifted. The sound of hurried footsteps cut through the leaf-covered ground, followed by rushed and irritated voices, like a small crowd in contained frenzy.
And I, still standing there with my hands half-raised, could only think: 'Oh great. There's more of them.'
"Here! I finally found him!" one of the voices shouted, now closer.
"Finally! Someone found him!"
"Damn old man!"
"What kind of captain gets put in confinement and still manages to escape?!"
"Worst of all, he's gigantic, wears heavy armor full of rattles, and yet no one ever manages to hear him!"
The complaints came in a chorus, each more indignant than the last. The footsteps multiplied, pounding in rhythm like a small army invading the clearing. I could see, far ahead at the edge of the old plaza, a man in armor running toward us at absurd speed—too fast for the weight he carried.
And yet… still far away.
The old man beside me let out a melancholic sigh, like someone accepting fate.
"It was good meeting you, kid." he began rising, not a single sound escaping except his voice. His gaze sharpened, becoming like that of a predator at the moment of the hunt. "But unfortunately… my time has come."
"CAPTAIN! S-T-O-P!" the voice roared again, now absurdly close.
I turned back to where the man had been, expecting some kind of theatrical escape, a pathetic sprint, or a dramatic leap.
But he… was gone.
'What?' A chill ran down my spine. The air seemed to shift behind me, and then…
A heavy hand rested on my shoulder.
"Kid…" the voice came low, right next to my ear, almost intimate. "Nice sword you've got there. Never lose it." the old man's voice dropped even lower. "AH! Almost forgot—good luck with what comes next."
"HUH?"
Before he even finished speaking, I felt the weight of that presence vanish before I could even turn my head. "What do you mean?"
And when I looked… nothing. No trace of the old man.
No rustling. No footprint. Nothing. Only the distant echo of approaching voices and the cold wind hitting my neck as if mocking me.
"Captain… damn it…" the armored man in front of me muttered, now face to face with me.
And I stood there, frozen in the middle of the silent clearing, staring at a breathless man who looked like he was about to collapse.
Beside me, Axel was still snoring peacefully, completely unaware of the growing chaos.
On the ground, the broken wooden cup now seemed to be the only proof that the old man had truly been here… or I was on the verge of a mental breakdown.
'That old man is a ghost, right? He has to be…'
More footsteps erupted from between the trees, leaves being crushed under heavy boots. Voices closed in through the brush, and before I could think of any excuse or explanation…
"ARHAAAAA!" the soldier in front of me roared in frustration, throwing his arms up. His eyes looked like they might pop out of his skull, and sweat ran down the side of his flushed face. "I was so close to catching him!"
He grabbed his helmet with both hands, pulling it back with a metallic sound and panting loudly, as if he had just run a marathon. He tried to regain his dignity, which didn't work very well with grass stuck to his chest armor and an expression of pure despair.
I remained confused, but now calmer, I could better analyze the person in front of me. He also wore blackened metal armor, but unlike the old man, he had a slimmer build. His armor was full plate, also ornate—but much less so than the old man's, which led me to a thought.
'Most likely a knight, and quite an honorable one, given the full and decorated armor.' As I observed him, I began noticing the absence of certain ornaments and shine in his armor compared to that certain someone.
'But… does that mean that crazy old man is a high-ranking veteran knight?' I hadn't paid attention before, but at that moment I remembered the knight hierarchy.
The higher the rank, the more ornate and specialized the armor and equipment.
While I was lost in thought, more than ten men burst into the area—some panting, others clearly irritated, all in combat uniforms. One of them, with gray hair and hardened features, with an emblem embroidered on his short cloak, spoke firmly:
"Kyle… the captain?"
Kyle, still with his hands on his hips, replied with a disgusted sigh: "Escaped."
The answer dropped like a stone in the middle of the group.
"Bloody hell!" another exclaimed, slamming his metallic boot hard into the ground. The impact echoed with a hollow sound, mixing with the collective frustration.
"Once again…" a younger soldier muttered, rolling his eyes. "That's the tenth time this month."
"And it's only the first day of the month!" another grumbled, looking as if he was reconsidering his life choices.
"Enough nonsense!" the gray-haired one raised his voice, his presence immediately imposing order. "We're going to recapture him. He cannot leave the Fields of Waiting."
As they organized themselves, grumbling and huffing, I slowly raised one hand, trying to look polite—or at least not guilty.
"Mm… good morning?" I risked.
Eleven faces turned toward me in unison. For a brief moment, silence was absolute. Even Axel stopped snoring, as if sensing something was off.
"Ah!" Kyle was the first to react, pointing at me like he had just seen a rabbit jump out of a chest. "That's right! There were still two children inside the forest!"
He approached, boots creaking against the earth. He looked me up and down like someone inspecting the condition of a scarecrow. I was covered in dust, scratches, my cloak torn, and my sword tied by a makeshift leather strap.
"Well, Kyle…" the gray-haired man said, with a tired look. "Since you're the one who found him…"
"Yes, yes, I know." Kyle muttered, raising his hands impatiently. "Paperwork duty."
"And take the wolf too." another commented, pointing at Axel with curiosity.
"Seriously? A wolf?"
"At least that one sleeps. Unlike that damn captain."
"I bet the wolf is more disciplined."
"Less bearded too." someone murmured, earning a restrained laugh.
The group began dispersing, some still complaining, others already planning search routes. The gray-haired man gave the final order before leaving:
"If you find any traces, do not pursue him alone. Wait for reinforcements."
"Sure, like last time, right?" someone mocked.
"We're not repeating that chicken coop fiasco." another added.
As the other knights walked away, still discussing and cursing the whereabouts of that so-called "captain," Kyle remained beside me.
His body looked relaxed, but his eyes told another story—accumulated exhaustion, the kind that belongs only to those who have seen more than they wanted to and are still forced to witness more.
He studied me in silence for a few seconds, and it wasn't just my appearance being assessed, but the state I had returned in. I was dirty, hair messy, clothes torn and stained with mud, sweat, and dried blood. Every fiber of my muscles trembled almost imperceptibly, betraying the mix of adrenaline and exhaustion eating me from within.
"I must say it's not every day someone returns with a full outfit," Kyle commented, his voice carrying restrained irony, eyes still scanning every detail of me. "And with quite well-crafted tools, I must admit."
His gaze lingered on my improvised gear, the sandals, the bag, the dagger I had made myself. Finally, I noticed a slight confusion when his eyes landed on the sword strapped to my back, held by carefully tied vines.
"Normally they come back almost naked and in tatters." He paused briefly, the corner of his mouth suggesting a tired half-smile. "At least the second part, you already did."
'Do these knights have some damn habit of rambling?' I thought, as patience drained out of me like water over worn stone. My expression, far from hiding it, made my irritation obvious.
"But, alright, kid." He straightened his posture, shifting into a more professional tone. His voice was calm, but carried a cadence that allowed no deviation: "Which one are you? And that wolf… is it tamed? Your familiar? A spirit?"
For a few seconds I remained silent. The old man's voice still echoed in my mind, mocking, full of stories dragged through sips of alcohol, so distant and yet so present, while exhaustion pulled at my body like an anchor.
I exhaled sharply and looked at him. "The one with the Patriarch's blood." The words came out dry, more like a warning than an introduction. My back burned, my eyes stung, and patience was already fraying into threads.
Kyle raised an eyebrow, but his expression remained unchanged. No surprise, no reverence. Just that functional apathy, shaped by someone who has seen youthful pride more times than he cares to remember.
"The wolf?" I added, glancing at Axel, still sleeping as if the world were nothing more than a lazy spring afternoon. "His name is Axel."
The next words slipped out almost unintentionally: "Is he my familiar?"
I thought for a moment. 'Familiars are bound by the soul… a union of life and death.'
"No." I shook my head. "He's not my familiar… but you could say he's tamed. We're companions."
"Then you are Alexander." He started turning away, but stopped mid-motion, as if something still needed to be said.
"As for the wo—"
My eyes narrowed instinctively. Axel. 'Don't you dare call him 'puppy' or something like that…'
Kyle noticed. A faint smile appeared at the corner of his lips, almost imperceptible.
"Axel," he corrected himself naturally. "He will need to be registered. Other than that, all I ask is that he doesn't bite anyone… or go around causing trouble."
"He doesn't bite without reason," I murmured, eyes still half-lidded, more to hide exhaustion than hostility. "And if someone gets bitten, they probably deserved it."
Kyle's brief laugh was carried away by the light breeze across the field, along with the distant sound of moving armor and hawks calling in the morning air.
He turned and began walking, gesturing subtly for me to follow.
"Yeah. You're definitely Alexander. Famous for the sharp tongue," he commented, as if noting something in a mental report.
I just rolled my eyes and followed him, trying not to trip over my own exhausted legs.
We walked along a dirt path bordered by uneven stones and small watchtowers. The sky was beginning to open with the first golden light of morning.
The place, he explained, was called the Fields of Waiting, or the Lands of Awaiting, as some preferred. However, it was said to have had another name in ancient times—now forgotten by most, buried in the dust of history.
There was a symbolic weight to the common name. It was the place where the chosen awaited confirmation of their worth: as hunters, knights, servants, or worthy heirs of their houses.
"The plaza where we met before is called the Thousand Weapons Plaza," Kyle said as we crossed a large wooden gate marked with carved symbols. "It's named after the statue you saw. It honors the bloody battle fought centuries ago, when the demonic forest was sealed."
"I know…" I replied softly, letting the images form in my mind. "That day, no one was left out. Children, youths, adults, elders… even women who barely knew how to hold anything, everyone rose up."
"There are those who say even babies were counted among those who resisted, which seems exaggerated to me… but the legend insists. The truth is that everyone turned whatever they had into a weapon—whether it was a wooden spoon, a rusted fork, or the rarest, most precious blades. It didn't matter the object, only the will to rise against the invasion."
I turned to him as I continued speaking. "That's the battle where the Blood Mausoleum was lost, right?"
"…" Kyle simply nodded, continuing the tour of the area.
The field itself was surprisingly vast. Paths between light stone buildings and dark wood structures crossed like veins, connecting buildings of different purposes.
Squires and youths were training with spears, swords, and shields in open training grounds, some under strict supervision of veteran knights in ornate armor with gleaming pauldrons, others simply repeating movements in disciplined silence or running without rest.
'On Earth, the Middle Ages might have looked like this', I reflected as I observed the surroundings.
I also saw servants and apprentices cleaning corridors, polishing weapons, carrying buckets of water and food.
The hierarchies were openly displayed in the way they looked down or lowered their heads when passing someone better dressed. But even in the simplicity of their tasks, there was precision, as if everyone knew a single mistake could cost dearly.
We passed places like the Forge, where the air was heavy with the smell of burning iron and sweat. Blacksmiths and apprentices worked under the intense heat of eternal embers, ancient runes softly pulsing on each anvil and blade. Rhythmic hammering filled the space like a constant war drum.
We also passed the Lesser Dormitories, where servants, apprentices, and future squires and common cadets alternated between training and brief moments of rest. The walls were simple, but the discipline in the air was undeniable.
The Watchtowers rose like silent sentinels around the field, their tops fading into the morning sky. From above, watchful eyes observed everything—not only external threats, but internal unrest as well.
And of course… the Library. An imposing structure of bluish stone, its columns carved with runes that told stories in silence. From it came an unmistakable scent of old parchment and bitter tea. When we stopped in front of it, I felt a knot in my throat.
Fascinated, I studied every detail as if standing before a lost sanctuary. My feet, however, were covered in mud and dried blood. Stepping inside like this would be almost sacrilege.
'Damaging a book here is a mortal sin…' I thought with regret. Due to my obsession with reading, shared both by me and him, my sense of honor wouldn't allow me to enter in such a state. I restrained myself with effort.
Kyle noticed my gaze. "You'll go in there sooner or later. Just not today." He said casually and moved on without waiting for a response.
We then crossed a wide, bustling area where other children and teenagers were waiting. Some sat in circles playing cards, talking and laughing. Others trained with fury in their eyes, as if fighting were the only way to forget the time they had already lost. The scars on their bodies spoke louder than words.
I noticed the gazes—fixed, cutting. Some showed pity at my condition, others a mix of empathy and indifference, the last ones full of resentment.
'They know who I am.' Or at least, they think they do. Maybe… maybe they're right. After all, according to Kyle and that fleeing old man, I had stayed one year longer inside the forest, which prevented them from leaving that place for another year.
"So I've barely arrived and I'm already a celebrity…" I muttered through my teeth, trying to hide my discomfort while returning some of the stares, waving and smiling at them. A clear act of provocation.