Back to Flauros, who had just used his magic to fly away from the darkening forest behind him, where each giant treetop towered as if to hold back his footsteps.
He landed gently at the edge of the forest, his shoes barely touching the soft moss-covered ground. The darkness of the forest still lingered behind him like a silent threat, but before him was a completely different world.
A grassland stretched out as far as the eye could see, green as velvet, embroidered with countless wildflowers blooming together. Small flowers bask in sunlight, tall flowers reaching up into the wind, clusters of purple, yellow, white, and pink intertwined like a dreamy carpet spread across the hillside.
It was already dark, but at this moment, the scenery became even more brilliant and magical. The setting sun behind him, the last sunlight of the day poured like honey onto the grassland, causing each flower petal to burn in red and yellow, swaying in the afternoon wind as light as mist.
Without the canopy of trees, the sky here was open and suffocating. The pink-orange clouds stretched out, thin as silk, reflecting in Flauros' cold eyes a beauty that did not belong to him.
Far away, on the horizon, a small village appeared like a gentle light. The village lights had been lit. The light was not as bright as magic, but it was warm like something Flauros had long since lost in his heart, the luxury of "home".
The sound of the wind whispering through the grass and flowers. The smell of fresh grass, the gentle scent of pollen, all blew into Flauros's face like a late afternoon song.
Flauros strolled among the soft grass, letting the wild flowers caress the hem of his shirt while the wind gently blew past his ears like the breath of the earth and sky. He chose a high spot on the hilltop, where he could look out over the entire area, and where he could receive the most moonlight.
No one could attack from behind when the surrounding terrain was completely open.
He raised his hand, gently turning the storage ring on his finger. A streak of light flashed like a shooting star, and the folded tent appeared in his palm and was opened in an instant.
Flauros's hand quickly cleared the grass in front of the tent, just enough to build a fire. He bent down, flicked his finger, and flicked a small magic spark into the prepared dry grass, the fire flared up, red and bright, dancing as if it wanted to warm up this world.
The fire burned slowly. The sound of wood cracking mixed with the night wind.
The sky was completely dark.
The moonlight was not just one, but two moons slowly rising. One was ivory white, smooth like a young pearl. The other was a faint blue, cold like a deserted river.
They cast a magical layer of light on the grassland, a light that made the wildflowers sparkle as if they were plated with silver, and the grassland shimmered as if covered in colorful mist.
Flauros sat in front of the fire, his back against the tent. The firelight reflected on his angular face and eyes that had never revealed any emotion.
In the distance was the village.
Closer was the sound of insects chirping, the sound of the wind, and the familiar loneliness that was like a part of his flesh and blood.
Flauros rubbed his storage ring once more, a faint blue light swirled gently at his fingertips, then dissipated like the wind. From there, a low wooden chair and a small, simple table appeared.
Rustic, but exquisitely crafted, the table legs were engraved with small symbols to keep balance on the steep terrain.
He placed the chair next to the fire and sat down. His golden eyes glanced at the cloth bags on his hips, opened them, and took out some branches of plants he had picked while walking along the edge of the forest, some wild herbs with a spicy smell, white mushrooms with pink veins growing under the shade of oak trees, and some hard roots that could be stewed for a long time to become strong.
The pot of boiling water on the small iron rack in the middle of the fire crackled with a steady sound like a heartbeat. Flauros silently cut the mushrooms and vegetables, his movements as practiced as if he had done this a hundred times.
When all the ingredients had fallen into the pot, a light fragrance began to spread, the sweet smell of mushrooms, mixed with the mild sourness of wild grass, and a hint of saltiness like the sea breeze from ancient memories.
While waiting for the soup to cook, Flauros took out a small bag of bread, which he had bought at the southern Ozone market. Even though it had been left for nearly half a day, the bread was still soft, only the crust had hardened a little. He carefully used a dagger to cut the bread into thin slices, arranging them on the table in neat rows.
No words were spoken, no need for any more noise. There was only the smell of the soup, the sound of the night wind, the moonlight, and a boy with cat ears hidden in his cloak preparing the meal in silence, as if tonight he needed nothing more than some hot food and a warm corner to sit in the cold world.
The aroma of the soup was at its fullest when Flauros lifted the pot from the iron rack. Steam rose in waves, carrying the scent of mushrooms and the light taste of burnt grass.
He placed the pot on the wooden table, the wood clanking softly, then sat down, crossing his legs as if he had long been familiar with this silence.
He picked up the bread with one hand, and with the other, he scooped the soup onto a wooden spoon, pouring it lightly over the bread.
But instead of eating it right away, Flauros lifted the slice of bread, dipped a portion into the steaming mouth of the pot, held it there for a few seconds to soften it, then gently blew the air out from his thin lips as if whispering to himself.
A bite.
The soup flowed over the tip of his tongue like a hot stream running through his heart. The saltiness of the roots, the richness of the well-cooked mushrooms, and the essential oils of the fragrant grass all dissolved into the slightly crispy taste of the bread, creating a feeling that could not be described as anything other than pleasant.
Flauros closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself drift away in a rare sense of peace.
Under the ivory moonlight that spread across the grasslands, where the wind just blew gently, not cold enough, where no one called his name, no pursuers, no questions, no lies, only soup, bread, and aloneness.
He chewed slowly, not in a hurry. Maybe… staying another night wouldn't be a bad idea.
Flauros finished eating, his hand gently brushing away the remaining bread crumbs on the wooden table. He stood up, shook the tablecloth, then began cleaning up the half-empty pot of soup that was covered and placed in a corner near the tent.
The remaining slices of bread were put into a leather bag, tied up neatly. Wooden utensils, spoons, knives, everything was wiped clean with a towel, dried in the moonlight, then put into the storage ring.
The campfire was still bright but had subsided, the orange-yellow light dancing around his body.
He zipped up the tent. The sound of cloth rubbing against each other was heard, and his slender body entered the small but cozy space. Inside, he spread out a thin mattress, took out a dark blanket embroidered with silver threads like stars from his ring.
A few dried herbs were placed at the head of the bed, emitting a light fragrance to help sleep more deeply. This was an old habit he still kept from the days of wandering around exploring with the Dawn Guild.
Flauros lay down, his hands behind his head, his eyes looking at the ceiling of the tent for a while.
Outside, the night wind still blew gently, carrying the scent of grassland flowers and the gentle blue moonlight that filled the space.
He closed his eyes.
Silence.
Everything seemed to stop, only the slow breathing remained in harmony with the peaceful weather.
The next morning, as the little birds flew over the hilltop, the soft flapping of their wings mingled with the rustling of the grass in the wind. A few landed on the blooming flowers, gently pecking at the dewdrops that remained like pearls of the night.
Inside the tent, Flauros stirred, his eyes still lazy under the soft blanket. The surrounding space was quiet, with only the fragrance of the early morning flowers and the cool air that seemed to seep through the tent fabric and touch his skin.
He opened his eyes. His hair was slightly messy, his cat ears twitching, catching the signal from the chirping of the baby birds.
Slowly sitting up, Flauros walked to the tent door and pulled it open.
The light flared up, ivory and pale yellow intertwined like a silk strip stretching across the hill. The scent of the flowers rushed in, sweet but not harsh, fresh like dew, cool like spring water flowing through a dry throat.
Flauros stood still for a moment, taking a deep breath. His cloak fluttered in the wind, and his eyes scanned the area.
Yesterday's campfire was now nothing but gray ash and a few cold embers. No footprints, no strange sounds. Everything was peaceful.
A new morning.
Flauros yawned, his eyes still lazy as if he had not yet left the dream that had just ended. He put the tent back into his storage ring, extinguished the remaining smoldering ashes, and stood up straight, stretching.
With one lazy hand, he took out a sandwich from the ring. The crust was crispy, and inside was thin salted meat and fragrant stir-fried wild herbs. He took a big bite, his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, chewing while looking up at the path leading down the valley.
The village there was dimly lit from last night, gradually fading under the morning light. The smoke from the kitchen had begun to rise, spreading out thin streaks like silk.
Flauros shrugged. Anyway, he needed to buy a few things. Cloths, ropes, and some basic herbs to restore mana. If he was lucky, he might find the information he needed.
Carrying the wooden chair back into his ring, he quietly walked down the hill, his footsteps stepping on the soft grass, making a small rustling sound.
Flauros still had an unfinished sandwich in his mouth, his eyes half-closed in the morning sun. Flauros was the type of person who, even amid a life-or-death journey, still knew how to eat breakfast leisurely, as if nothing in the world could catch up with him.
Before Flauros' eyes, the village appeared as if from an ancient painting, painted with the light and scent of the morning. This place, although called a village, was almost the size of a small town with many people, many houses, and many activities.
The brown tiled roofs gradually darkened under the moss, and the ancient European-style architecture had a solid and graceful look as if time had passed without being able to fade them.
The walls of the houses were covered with vines and blooming flowers, clusters of white, purple, and pink flowers hanging down like crystal strings swaying in the wind. The gentle sunlight filtered through the leaves, landed on the tiled roof, and danced on the worn-out stone pavement.
Along the main path, clotheslines were stretched like colorful flags, fluttering in the wind. In the far corner, the forge was ablaze, the sound of hammers pounding loudly echoed in rhythm with the chimneys emitting smoke billowing into the blue sky.
Perhaps it was a session of armor repair or forging weapons for the patrolling soldiers. The smell of coal, hot iron, and fresh bread from the bakery's oven mixed in the air.
Flauros finished his sandwich as he walked through the simple wooden gate leading to the village, his eyes half-open, half-lazy, scanning every corner of the street as if he were secretly evaluating everything.
Although he didn't say anything or show it, a survivor like Flauros always remembered every detail of the location of the shops, the thickness of the walls, the number of guards, and even the curious looks from the villagers.
On the windowsill, an old woman was watering flowers, smiling at strangers. A child ran past, spinning a spinning top in his hand. Everything was too peaceful, a kind of peace that even Flauros, who had lived in chaos, felt at peace.