The grasslands of Zlandria stretched like a living ocean, waves of emerald bending beneath restless winds. Nil rode alone through the Duchy of Gleno, the distant village a smear on the horizon, his cloak snapping in the breeze.
He was halfway there when movement caught his eye.
Two men fought by the roadside, blades flashing in the afternoon sun, their snarls carrying across the open fields. From his saddle, Nil watched with a detached eye. Their footwork was sloppy—amateurs or desperate men. Bandits, no doubt.
Then he noticed the shadows.
The duel stopped mid-strike. Three more figures emerged from the tall grass behind him, spreading out, grins splitting their faces. The fight had been bait.
"Another one falls for it," said the tallest, his grin stretching wide. "Get down, traveler. Weapons, coins—everything."
Nil's horse shifted beneath him, sensing the tension. He said nothing.
One of the fake duelists spat. "Think he's deaf. Or dumb."
The leader strode forward, hand resting lazily on his sword. "Strip him."
Nil's lips curled into something between amusement and boredom.
The bandits lunged.
They didn't reach him.
In a blink, Nil was off the saddle, cloak fluttering as he moved. His boot slammed into the nearest man's knee—bone snapped, scream cut short as Nil's dagger carved a red smile across his throat. Before the others processed the sound, Nil pivoted, dragging another into a vicious headbutt that shattered teeth.
The leader's blade cleared its sheath—too late. Nil's dagger drove into his side, twisted, then ripped free, spilling hot entrails into the grass.
By the time the last corpse hit the dirt, Nil hadn't broken rhythm.
Two men remained. They froze, blades trembling in weak hands.
Nil inhaled, letting the quiet stretch.
One bolted. The other faltered, made the mistake of hesitation.
Nil's fingers curled. Mana surged, and with a crack, wind howled across the plains. The runner tumbled head over heels, crashing into a tree with a wet crunch.
The survivor dropped his sword, scrambling back. "P-please—mercy—!"
Nil approached, expression empty. His hand lifted; a small orb of flame spun lazily in his palm, heat warping the air around it.
The man groveled. "I-I'll give you everything—everything I have, just—don't—"
Nil's voice cut like steel. "Start talking."
Moments later, Nil stood over a pitiful pile of copper coins, a few silvers glinting among them. Pathetic.
Nil's gaze sharpened as the bandit fumbled, trying to hide a pouch beneath his coat. Without hesitation, Nil seized the man by the throat, squeezing until the pouch dropped. More silver spilled out.
"You lie like a child," Nil muttered, tightening his grip until the man's face darkened. He dropped him to the dirt, the bandit coughing violently.
Nil pocketed the silver and turned to the trembling survivor. "Your name."
"M-Marcus," the man croaked.
"Congratulations, Marcus," Nil said, stepping over a corpse. "You just got promoted."
The man blinked. "P-promoted...?"
"You'll serve me now. Drive my carriage, clean my boots, carry my things." Nil's smile was thin. "Or you can join your friends in the dirt."
Marcus's head bobbed furiously. "Y-yes, of course—whatever you say, sir!"
⸻
By the time Nil rode into the village, Marcus sat hunched on the driver's bench, steering the horse and battered carriage under the weight of fear. Nil lounged inside, boots resting on a crate, expression unreadable.
The village was bigger than most. Weathered timber and clay houses lined the main road, their crooked chimneys sending lazy smoke into the sky. Strange, Nil thought. For such a remote place, the infrastructure looked well-maintained. Mabul lights flickered above doorways—expensive enchantments for simple folk. Someone here had money. Or secrets.
Nil stepped down near a public fountain. Marcus followed like a whipped dog.
"Take the carriage. Get lost," Nil said, tossing a copper onto the dirt.
Marcus blinked. "Th-this... isn't enough for a meal—"
Nil's fist drove into his gut, folding him in half. The man coughed and toppled, clutching his ribs.
Nil's voice was ice. "It's enough for breathing. Count yourself lucky."
The man staggered to the carriage and fled without another word.
He guided his horse through the village, his boots kicking up dirt with each step. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light over the rooftops. It was around four in the afternoon, and men were already heading home, their faces worn from a day's work.
Up ahead, an elderly man walked slowly, a white cloth wrapped around his head. He wore loose yellow pajama-like trousers and a simple coat over his torso, the fabric faded from years of use.
Nil approached him. "Is there a tavern around here, old man?"
The man turned, clearly surprised to be spoken to. He studied Nil for a moment before answering. "Go near the fountain and take a left. You'll find one there."
Nil glanced around the village. "This place seems larger than most in the north."
The old man nodded. "Aye. It's an ancient village. We usually don't have to worry about goblins or bandits."
"Usually?" Nil raised an eyebrow.
The man hesitated before shrugging. "It's rare for them to cause trouble here."
"Strange. I saw a few bandits a couple of kilometers north," Nil said.
The old man gave a knowing chuckle. "They stay away from the village. And like I said—usually."
Nil said nothing. He gave a slight nod, gripping his horse's reins. "Alright then. Thanks."
As he walked away, the old man watched him go, his gaze lingering just a little too long.
As Nil walked through the village, he noticed the glow of small fires flickering inside translucent spheres mounted on walls and posts. These were called Mabul—orbs that cast a steady, golden light without smoke or heat.
He narrowed his eyes, studying one as he passed. The fire inside wasn't just burning—it was amplified. A faint hum of mana surrounded the orb, bending the flames and converting their heat into pure energy.
A clever enchantment. Efficient, too. Most northern villages still relied on torches or oil lamps, but here, magic handled everything.
Even a backwater place like this has better magic than some cities, he thought, his gaze sweeping across the village. This can't be cheap. Either someone here knows enchantments... or the local lord has deep pockets.
His eyes landed on the fountain the old man had mentioned. Left from here. He adjusted his pace, moving toward the tavern.