The nearest town to Byrek was Dud, a relatively prosperous settlement boasting schools, administrative halls, police stations, factories, and nearly all essential facilities.
Carriages of varying designs clattered through streets crowded with people whose class-distinctive attire immediately revealed their social standing. Flanked by ornate Rococo-style buildings, the scene left Glen momentarily disoriented.
Compared to the rustic simplicity of Byrek, this felt like another world.
Though fragments of the original host's memories had shown him these images, experiencing them firsthand carried a visceral weight.
Why is it so crowded today?
Glen steadied himself, noting the unusual bustle. His inherited recollections hinted at occasional festivals or visiting circuses—neither of which interested him.
After purchasing vegetables from scattered stalls, only two copper coins remained in his pocket.
Need to find income... and soon.
Arms laden with parcels, he turned back toward the road home.
A sudden movement caught his eye. He lunged sideways, catching a stumbling boy by the elbow.
"Thank you, sir."
The boy bowed deeply, sincerity etched into his features.
Glen nodded curtly.
Another voice cut through the noise:
"Meyer! Bolin isn't vanishing. No need to sprint like a startled hare."
Glen glanced over. Five youths approached—three boys, two girls—led by a lanky teenager with an amused grin.
"He's the Grand Knight who slew a third-tier vampire! Even our master only spoke of him in legends. How can you not be eager?"
Meyer's cheeks flushed as he glanced at a golden-haired girl among the group.
"Eagerness shouldn't override caution," another boy chided.
Their voices faded as the six melted into the crowd.
Glen recognized them. Or rather, Dylan did. Though their paths had crossed occasionally in Dud, they'd never acknowledged the original host.
Dylan's attention had fixated on the two strikingly beautiful girls—a fixation that now felt alien to Glen.
In his father's days of wealth and influence, Dylan would've courted them boldly.
Now, only a hollow self-contempt lingered.
Grand Knight Bolin... So this commotion is for him?
No memories of the man surfaced.
Not my concern.
Adjusting his parcels, Glen walked on.
Silver armor glinted under the sun. A crimson cloak embroidered with gold threads billowed behind broad shoulders. Bolin's stern face radiated unassailable authority, his presence as heavy as forged iron.
This was Meyer's first glimpse of the living legend. Slightly less imposing than imagined—yet undeniably formidable.
Bolin rode a white stallion clad in silver-plated barding. Behind him marched two columns of knights, their armor clanking in unison.
At the procession's forefront, banner-bearers hoisted flags emblazoned with the kingdom's crest. The fabric snapped defiantly against the wind.
Amid cheers and sighs of admiration from young women, the entourage advanced toward the town hall—their temporary lodgings arranged by the mayor.
"Deyamela! Look! That's the Rhyrs Greatsword Master described! And those pistols—they must be the demon-slaying White Lion Guns!"
Meyer tugged his friend's sleeve, pointing at the weapons with trembling excitement.
"We're not deaf, Meyer," Deyamela chuckled. "Master regaled us all with Bolin's tales. But seeing him in flesh... Gods, he's more."
"I'll become someone like him!"
A red-haired, slightly pudgy boy thrust his chin forward.
"You'll fail Master's exam if you daydream, Pork."
A golden-haired girl smirked beneath her wide-brimmed hat, her emerald eyes dancing with mischief.
The group erupted in laughter.
"Pelnas! Must you ruin every moment?"
Pork scratched his head, his ears turning crimson.
"Enough teasing," interjected a chestnut-haired girl. Her voice, soft yet firm, silenced the laughter. "Pork's been studying diligently."
"Thank you, Layla," Pork mumbled, gratitude flooding his face.
"Prepare thoroughly," Layla replied, her smile warm. "You'll pass."
At the Knights' Lodge in Dud, Bolin's entourage dismounted. Police held back townsfolk clamoring for a closer look.
The white-bearded mayor stepped forward, his ceremonial robes immaculate.
"Grand Knight Bolin, your chambers await. Please follow me."
"No need for formalities," Bolin rumbled, his voice like gravel beneath steel. "We depart within days. Our primary mission is to track two fugitive werewolves."
The mayor blanched.
"Here? In Dud? You must guarantee our safety, my lord!"
"They're low-blooded mutts," Bolin countered, his calm unshaken. "Even your police could handle them with standard firearms."
Relief softened the mayor's rigid posture.
On the desolate road back to Byrek, Glen mentally cataloged dinner ingredients while scanning his surroundings.
The path grew quieter, the occasional traveler thinning to none—until a lone figure materialized ahead.
Glen slowed his pace.
Another creature?
He approached cautiously.
The man came into focus: sallow skin, shadowed eyes, a tattered gray tunic, and a head-wrap twisted into peculiar knots. His expression remained as unreadable as weathered stone.
A faint scent tugged at Glen's memory—the damp earth and pine resin of Byrek. A townsman Dylan had never encountered.
The man stood sideways, clutching a burlap sack. At his feet lay a motionless form half-hidden in weeds. Glen noticed it only when ten steps away.
"Are you from Byrek?"
Glen's voice cut through the silence.
The man turned. A single nod.
Not one for words.
Glen's gaze dropped to the body.
"Your doing?"
A headshake.
Then why is it here?
Glen's fingers tightened around his parcels.