The mercenaries looked at him strangely. The boy resembled a noble—his demeanor and movements were too elegant, almost like high-profile person. Yet he insisted he didn't have an ID, as if avoiding his own family.
A vampire hybrid like him would normally be part of a bloodthirsty elite soldier squad in the military, or, in human territory, a highly sought-after pet—only owned by the most powerful nobles.
But with that kind of face, and no tendency toward bloodlust, he was probably the latter—a noble's pet.
"You better go back to your family, kid. Being with your family is better than being out here. They're not nice."
Sylene looked gloomy, staring at the snow falling softly outside the window, ignoring the ache in his heart.
"I don't have one. They died seven months ago."
Suddenly, the carriage fell completely silent.
"Also, I have nowhere to go back to."
The tall, burly man stared at him awkwardly. Now that he was looking at the boy properly, he did seem... abandoned. His cheap cloak and worn belongings were dirty and neglected. It was clear that life hadn't been easy for him. Perhaps he had been born a slave—or maybe he had stolen from a cruel owner and was now on the run, which would explain the pouch that looked heavy with coins. There were many cases of young hybrids or orphans who did the same.
Michel remained silent, and for a while, no one dared to speak. Then the young man cleared his throat.
"Sorry, I didn't know—I mean, you have that money, and your behavior didn't look like someone who was from the slums. Even some noble's slave didn't have your demeanor."
A small sigh escaped his lips, "Well, we don't really have a place to settle either. We just move from place to place like this."
Sylene remained quiet, unsure of how to respond. Michel seemed to struggle, trying to explain in a way that made sense.
"Argh, I mean... We're all the same! Don't feel like you're the only one suffering. There are plenty of young hybrids and children like you. We...also don't have families or homes to return too."
Bire chimed in. "Except the captain. He has a house in Forchel. We have rooms there!"
A slight blush and excitement sparkled in Michel's eyes. "The captain took us in. This old guy here grew up with him after we lost our village." He pointed at Bire, who then slapped his head.
"Who's old? I'm in my mid-30s. I'm in my prime."
Michel glanced sideways at Bire, rubbing his head that had just been slapped.
"My point is, don't be scared to start over. You... might like this new life better."
Sylene didn't expect to be comforted like this by the sharp-tongued young man. His too-short, spiky, dark hair didn't seem to fit him, and the constant annoyance in his tone put others off. Yet, he gave the potion and encouraged him, a mere stranger, a hybrid who was homeless and alone.
Bire rubbed Michel's head roughly, laughing loudly. "Alright, look at this softie. We get it. Our youngest is so kind. Good boy, Michel~"
"I wouldn't be like this if you guys didn't tease and always bully me! I'm a bad boy! I can fight five ghouls without weapons! Shut up!"
Sylene watched Michel closely. The young man frowned when he noticed Sylene's gaze, feeling awkward.
"Why do you look at me like that? Got something to say?"
Sylene's frown deepened. "You... always look angry. Is your butt scratchy?"
The young man was dumbfounded before the others in the carriage laughed loudly.
"Probably, so that's why he's always mad! Hahaha!" Bire laughed until he fell off the chair, and Simon, the burly-looking one who had been silent since the start of the journey, was shaking his shoulders, trying to hold back his laughter.
If there had been a slight blush on Michel's face before, his whole head was red now.
"What the f*ck?! I was thinking of asking Bryent to help with your ID and this is how you pay me?!"
Sylene was embarrassed and confused, and he asked quietly, "So your butt isn't scratchy? I'm sorry..."
"What's my butt being scratchy or not got to do with you?!" Michel was ready to slap Sylene's head, but Bire held him back. "Now, now, he is our benefactor. After we reach Luen, you can do it. Just be patient until then."
"Go away! I need to knock some sense into his head! From which angle did it tell you that my butt is scratchy? Are you insane??"
"Stop acting like your butt itches, then. You're just like my neighbor—a grumpy granny, always yapping and unbearably annoying."
Michel shot him a murderous glare before lunging at Bire. "You don't even have a house, so you don't have neighbors! They are Bryent's neighbor! And I am not a woman!"
He continued, "You're the one who's annoying! I respect Bryent for raising me, but you—you! I hate you so much! I'm going to punch you right in the face!"
The small brawl ended when Simon stepped in. He grabbed Michel by the collar and stopped Bire from hitting the young man. Sylene apologized again with a guilty look, since the fight had started because of his words. He made a mental note to observe people more carefully.
It seemed that the guest at an inn—who had looked annoyed at first but turned cheerful after scratching his butt—wasn't a reliable standard for judging human behavior.
Sylene had seen it by accident; his sharp eyesight had caught the man relaxing behind a deserted potted plant, looking satisfied after the scratch, then returning with a smile. His irritation had vanished.
Maybe it was just their temper.
The nausea medicine worked well, and they stopped for a short lunch break. Sylene shared his bacon with Michel to apologize.
Although still not smiling and grumpy, Michel ate the bacon with gusto. He said he would bring Sylene to the underground ID-making place. Bryent joined their group with the other nine mercenaries and ate a small ransom together, then they left to reach the inn.