The long road had worn the duo down. By the time the sun had bled into the horizon, they had been trudging along for hours, their feet aching from the relentless march since noon.
"Any place nearby to rest?" Avilio asked, his voice heavy with fatigue.
Tora glanced around. "There was a road we crossed earlier that led to another town… but we're far past that now."
Avilio raised an eyebrow. "So what do we do?" The irritation in his tone betrayed his surprise at Tora's lack of foresight.
"Let's keep walking for now. I spotted a small town ahead, but we'll have to take a side road to get there. We can come back to this road afterward," Tora replied.
"Fine with me," Avilio said, though his sigh spoke louder than his words.
"Alright, then it's settled. Still… I didn't know there was a town in this direction," Tora muttered, almost to himself, as the shadows of night deepened.
They left the main road, following the narrow side path. The moonlight filtered weakly through drifting clouds, illuminating the outline of squat houses in the distance. As they drew closer, the "town" revealed itself to be more like a sleepy village—small, one-story homes huddled together, their windows shuttered, chimneys cold.
It was only a few hours to midnight, but the streets were already deserted. No lamps burned in the windows. The soft crunch of gravel under their boots was the only sound in the still air.
"Looks like we're late to the party," Avilio said dryly.
"Party? I think this place hasn't had one in decades," Tora replied, scanning the darkened streets.
Their stomachs twisted in protest—they hadn't eaten since midday, and the silence of the village offered no hint of open taverns or food stalls.
They wandered deeper into the settlement, searching for any sign of a rest house. At last, down a narrow lane, they spotted a dim lantern swaying beside a weathered wooden sign: "Marlow's Rest." The paint was peeling, and the building looked like it had been standing since before either of them was born.
Pushing open the creaky door, they stepped inside. The air was warm and smelled faintly of old wood and tea leaves. Behind the counter sat an elderly man, his hair a shock of white, his eyes sharp despite the deep lines on his face.
"Travelers, at this hour? I forgot when I last saw one," the man asked, his voice gravelly but curious.
"We're just passing through," Avilio said. "Looking for a room… and maybe something to eat, if that's possible."
The old man chuckled, leaning forward on the counter. "Food? At this time? You'll be lucky if the rats haven't finished the bread. Still, I might be able to dig something up. The question is—what brings two strangers to a place the world forgot?"
Tora exchanged a quick glance with Avilio before replying, "Twisted story. And probably one best told over that bread you mentioned."
The old man's eyes narrowed, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Fair enough. Come in, warm yourselves. Let's see if I can find you a meal and a bed without too many splinters."
The fire in Marlow's Rest crackled faintly as the old man set down two chipped plates, each bearing a small loaf of bread and a clay cup of lukewarm tea.
"It's not much, but it's honest," Murlow said, easing himself into the chair opposite them.
Avilio tore off a piece of bread, chewing slowly. Tora followed suit, but his eyes never left their host.
Between bites, they told their story—at least the parts they were willing to share. The long road they had taken, the detours, and the need for rest. Murlow listened in silence, nodding from time to time, his hands folded on the table. When they finished, he leaned back with a sigh.
"This place you've stumbled into," he began, "is Terano Town. I think you guys didn't even hear the name. Once upon a time, we were prosperous, small businesses on every corner, streets busy until midnight, travelers from other towns stopping in to rest or trade."
He paused, looking into the fire as though searching for the past in its flames. "Then came the Hunter Academy. They started swallowing towns whole, building their great institutions for hunters—training grounds, armories, medical halls. All in the name of protecting people from monsters. The problem is, this town… we're far from their usual routes. Monsters don't even bother coming here. And if they did—" He chuckled humorlessly. "—no one would notice. We're off the map, as far as the hunters care."
Tora leaned forward. "So the businesses…?"
"They withered. The hopeful ones left first, packed their carts and vanished. The rest of us? We stayed. Or rotted. Take a walk outside—you'll see what I mean. This 'town' is just an old village now."
His words hung in the air like dust in the firelight. The only sound was the crunch of bread between their teeth—until the bread was gone. And their stomachs, still unsatisfied, voiced their protest in unison.
Murlow's stern face cracked into laughter. "That's the music of hungry men, that is."
Avilio smirked. "Seems your bread is just an appetizer."
"Then you'll want something else before the night ends." Murlow tapped the side of his nose. "There's an old man here—Hawkins. Owns a bar, though these days it's really just his living room. Nobody goes there now, but he might welcome company. And he makes a juice—thick, sweet, and strong enough to make you forget you're still hungry."
"Juice?" Tora asked skeptically.
Murlow grinned. "Trust me. You'll sleep well after it."
He gave them directions—down a narrow lane behind the cobbler's abandoned shop, then under a stone archway, and finally into a stairwell leading underground.
The duo set off, their boots whispering against the empty street. The directions seemed simple enough, but in the darkness, with the buildings pressing close and every lane looking the same, they found themselves doubling back twice. The archway was half-hidden by a sagging wooden fence and the stairs were damp, the air colder as they descended.
At last, a faint glow seeped from beneath a warped door. A sign, painted long ago and barely legible, read - "Hawkins' Bar"
Avilio knocked twice, and after a long pause, the door creaked open to reveal a man even older than Murlow—his face lined like old parchment, eyes sharp but tired.
"Well," Hawkins said, voice low and raspy, "either you're lost… or you're knocking on the wrong door.."
Avilio and Tora didn't know how to reply to that. Hawkins squinted at them from the doorway, the faint light from inside casting deep shadows across his lined face.
"So, You're lost," he said flatly, his voice like gravel dragged across a stone.
Avilio shook his head. "No, we're here for juice. Murlow sent us."
"Juice?" Hawkins scoffed, leaning on the doorframe. "Haven't made that in years. Stopped for a reason, too."
"We've barely eaten," Tora said, his voice almost pleading. Avilio didn't need to add anything—the hollowness in his eyes and the way he rubbed his stomach said enough.
Hawkins stared at them for a long moment. His shoulders sagged, and he muttered, "Fine. One more time… for old times' sake." He stepped aside. "Come in before I change my mind."
They entered, and the smell hit them first—damp wood, stale air, and something faintly sweet, like fruit long past its prime. The bar was barely more than a long, crooked counter and a scattering of mismatched tables. Every surface seemed tired—wood warped and splitting, the floorboards groaning under their steps. The ceiling sagged slightly in the middle, a deep crack running from one corner to the other.
A single oil lamp flickered on the counter, casting uneven shadows over the shelves behind it. Most bottles were empty, their glass dusty and dull.
"Sit," Hawkins said, disappearing through a narrow doorway at the back.
They settled into chairs that creaked ominously. Tora's hand traced the deep scratches in the tabletop, each mark a reminder of livelier nights the place had once seen.
When Hawkins returned, he set down two clay mugs filled with a thick, golden liquid.
"Drink it slow," he said, settling into the chair opposite them. "Might be the last batch I ever make."
They took cautious sips. The juice was surprisingly rich—sweet with a tangy edge, and somehow warm despite being cold.
"So," Hawkins began, resting his elbows on the table, "what's got two strangers wandering into a place everyone else is trying to leave?"
Tora glanced at Avilio. "Just passing through. Murlow told us a bit about Terano Town."
"Did he now?" Hawkins leaned back, a dry smile on his face. "Bet he told you about how the hunter academy ruined us."
Avilio nodded. "Said the businesses left, people stopped coming."
"That's the short of it. What he didn't tell you," Hawkins said, lowering his voice slightly, "is that this place used to matter. We were on the trade road. Merchants, travelers, entertainers, they all came through. Now? All we get are lost wanderers and the occasional fool thinking there's still treasure here."
The room fell quiet again except for the slow dripping of water somewhere in the back.
Avilio leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting around the dim space. That's when he noticed them—posters, dozens of them, clinging to the cracked walls. The edges curled and yellowed with age, some torn, others faded beyond recognition.
They were all different—advertisements for festivals, announcements of merchant caravans, bold proclamations about tournaments and shows that hadn't happened in years. A few were for people—faces of hunters.
Avilio's gaze roamed over the wall until something caught his eye—two posters, side by side, more faded than the rest. The paper was still intact, though stained by time, and the ink—dark and deliberate—hadn't yet surrendered to the years. He rose from his chair, the floorboards groaning beneath him, and stepped closer.
Both were bounty posters.
The first showed a stern-faced man with deep-set eyes and a scar slicing across his cheek. Beneath the image, the numbers sprawled in thick black letters: 1,800,000 units. The reward amount alone was enough to buy half the town—back when the town still had something worth buying.
The second poster made his breath hitch. It was older—edges torn, a corner missing—but the face was unrecognizable. Shadows in the illustration gave it a sharper, more dangerous look. The bounty here was even higher: 3,600,000 units.
A cold weight settled in his stomach. Behind him, Hawkins' voice broke the silence. "Those aren't for the likes of you, boy."
Avilio didn't turn. His eyes stayed fixed on the posters, the lines of the face burned into his mind.The lamplight flickered, shadows stretching over the cracked walls like reaching fingers.
Tora shifted uncomfortably. "Avilio…?"
But Avilio said nothing. At that moment, the sound of the wind outside seemed sharper, almost like a warning.