The rain lashed down without mercy.
For Fogón, however, it was just another trial on the path toward the destiny awaiting him. At dawn, with his fur soaked and his body utterly exhausted, he arrived at Brisalva just as the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon.
But the journey had left its mark.
Fogón took one more step.
Then another.
And he fell.
The wet grass received his body without ceremony. His chest rose and fell with difficulty. The vapor of his breath mingled with the morning mist.
God… I'm so sleepy…
His stomach growled violently.
So hungry… so cold…
He closed his eyes.
He could stay there.
Sleep for a while.
Maybe no one would notice.
Maybe destiny could wait.
…
No.
If he stayed, he would fall ill. If he fell ill, he would die. And if he died, he would never know whether he had truly been destined for something more than wandering aimlessly.
With a low growl, he pressed his paws against the ground and forced himself to stand.
"One more step… just one more…"
That step carried him into the village.
The map was somewhere within the town, and he could not afford to lose that chance.
When he finally lifted his gaze, he saw an imposing castle in the distance. Without wasting time, Fogón approached a humble bread stall and asked with a hoarse voice:
"Excuse me… who lives in that castle?"
The baker cast him a look filled with pity before answering.
"That, young one, is the castle of Lord Chancellor Arthenor of the White Bastion. He is the one who rules these lands."
The castle rose upon a hill, white and unyielding, as if it had never known rain or hunger. It dominated Brisalva with the silent arrogance of one who never doubts his right to rule.
Fogón stared at it.
The map was there.
And perhaps… his chance.
Fogón nodded silently in gratitude for the information, his eyes returning to the fortress.
I won't fail you, Artur. I will become the greatest warrior, just as I promised you.
With a determined expression, he began walking briskly toward the castle.
Inside the castle chambers, Chancellor Arthenor gazed out the window at the landscape below. His dark suit was perfectly aligned—not a wrinkle, not a speck of dust.
"Has the messenger arrived?"
"No, my lord."
A faint sigh escaped him.
"Incompetence is a contagious disease."
He did not shout.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
"Come to my chambers when he arrives. I will rest until then."
"Do not worry, my lord. I will have the guards remain alert for any news."
The Chancellor cast an empty, indifferent glance before rising elegantly and leaving the room without another word.
His subordinate hurried toward the main entrance, where a pair of guards rested near the great doors.
"Today a hero will arrive to collect the map destined for the king. When he appears, I want to be informed immediately. I will not tolerate delays. Do you understand?"
The guards exchanged glances before answering in unison.
"Yes, sir. But first… we have a question. What is this hero supposed to look like?"
The subordinate frowned, momentarily unsettled.
"The Chancellor did not receive that information. It is possible the king has not yet chosen the man for the task, which is why no details were given about his appearance. But do not worry. This mission is so secret that I doubt anyone outside this castle—other than the hero himself—knows about it. I trust you."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked away with an air of superiority, leaving the guards exchanging confused looks.
Shortly afterward, Fogón arrived at the towering gates of the castle, panting and soaked from the rain. He could barely remain standing, and his disheveled appearance immediately drew the guards' scornful looks.
"Who the hell are you?" one guard demanded.
"I… I was sent by the king to collect the map… that… you are guarding…" Fogón replied, struggling to catch his breath.
The second guard, a burly man with a stern brow, burst into mocking laughter.
"You!? You're the hero everyone's talking about!?" he barked as he stepped toward Fogón. "You can barely stand, you wretch!"
"I… had a long journey… and I'm exhausted… the road really made me eat dust, hahaha…" Fogón tried to joke, forcing a weak smile. "That's why my appearance isn't the most proper. I'm very sorry…"
"If you really are the hero we've been waiting for, then surviving my sword shouldn't be a problem, right?"
Fogón squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the inevitable.
Then a sharp sound echoed through the air.
A few tense seconds passed before he dared to open them again.
In front of him, the other guard held his sword—the same sword he had just used to strike his companion on the head.
"What the hell is wrong with you, idiot?" he growled. "What if it really is him?"
"Hey! Don't hit me like that… I was just going to do a quick test," the first guard complained, rubbing his head.
"Shut up! Remember, no one else must know about the map. He's the one Lord Bonica told us to expect. We can't delay delivering the news to the Chancellor."
"But I—"
"No 'buts'! Apologize to the hero and escort him immediately."
The aggressive guard knelt before Fogón, lowering his gaze.
"My apologies for my clumsiness, Lord Hero. Allow me to escort you to the Chancellor."
Fogón, trembling, tried to compose himself. With a nervous smile, he nodded, unable to utter a single word.
The guards opened the way for him.
And so he entered the castle.
The palace seemed even larger from within.
The immaculate white walls enhanced the delicate ceramic mosaics that adorned the floors.
"We've arrived. These are the Chancellor's chambers. Behave yourself, or we'll lose our heads," the guard warned before entering with Fogón.
The room was exquisite—a true display of opulence.
A crimson carpet stretched beneath their feet, and solemn portraits of the Chancellor adorned the walls.
Standing beside the enormous windows was Lord Bonica, the Chancellor's right hand and loyal subordinate.
Fogón felt his heart pounding inside his chest.
He had never faced a situation like this before.
And as doubt filled his mind…
The Chancellor arrived.
His presence was imposing.
His gaze cold.
His figure elegant.
"Tell me… are you the hero?" Arthenor asked while observing Fogón.
"I… can't help noticing that you don't believe me," Fogón said, trying to convince even himself.
"I have never seen a fox among the kingdom's heroes. Especially not after what you did."
"What we did?"
"My lord, that was ten years ago," Lord Bonica interjected.
"You're right. You must not know about it. I should remember that animals… live shorter lives." Arthenor's gaze sharpened like a blade. "Do you know that lying to the Chancellor of this region is punishable by death?"
"I have nothing to hide."
As Fogón spoke with conviction, a realization struck him.
I'm going to become a fugitive the moment they find out.
"Very well. Lord Bonica, give our guest the map. But before that, I want to make something very clear."
He leaned slightly closer.
"Fox… if I discover that you are not a hero, I will kill you myself. I will make a scarf out of you… and then the moths will finish turning you to dust."
Fogón swallowed hard, his ears folding back.
Bonica handed the map to Fogón with a respectful bow.
He escorted him discreetly to the exit, leaving the fox alone with his thoughts and his uncertain fate.
"Wow… now I'm a fugitive…" Fogón muttered as he pressed the precious map against his chest.
At this point, there was no turning back.
Either he found the Seiseki…
Or he would die trying.
His body felt heavy, but when he looked at the beautiful map spread out before him, a faint smile appeared on his face.
The roads were marked with dotted lines. Each village proudly displayed its distinctive crest, and along the edge of the parchment, a delicate poppy flower decorated the design.
However, his happiness faded when he noticed a troubling detail.
The language written on the map was unreadable.
"Damn…" he murmured.
"If I don't decipher this before the Chancellor realizes… I'll die."
"I need to find help."
To be continued…