Chapter 3 – The Village of Ashes
As Ashton continued down the dirt path, his steps echoed softly against the silence of the settlement.
He had called it a "village" when speaking to the guard, but now that he was inside, he couldn't help but frown.
"What is this…?" he whispered under his breath.
The huts were nothing more than crude shelters, sticks lashed together with mud, roofs patched with straw that barely held shape. The "streets" were strips of bare earth, scattered with bones and old ash from cooking fires. Smoke rose weakly from only a few chimneys—if they could even be called that.
"This… isn't even a proper village," Ashton thought, his chest tightening. His eyes swept over the people, and the sight made him stop in his tracks.
Thin, sunken faces. Hollow eyes. Men whose shoulders slumped as though crushed by years of labor.
Children with stick-like arms clung to their mothers, barefoot in the dust. Every gaze that turned to him carried the same mixture—curiosity, awe, and fear.
"…Poor. Very poor," Ashton muttered.
A small voice broke the air.
"Mom… is that a god?"
He glanced to the side. A little girl, no older than six, tugged on her mother's ragged skirt, her wide eyes fixed on Ashton.
The words were innocent, almost reverent—but the reaction they sparked was immediate.
The mother's face went pale. She dropped to her knees, clapping her hand over her daughter's mouth in panic. "Quiet!" she hissed, voice trembling. "Don't say that—don't ever say that!"
The desperation in her eyes told Ashton everything.
In this age, to call someone a god was dangerous. Gods were not beloved protectors—they were tyrants.
Ashton's jaw tightened. He said nothing, only giving the child a faint smile before continuing down the path.
He soon found himself standing before what seemed to be the largest hut in the village.
Calling it a house was too generous—at best, it was four crooked walls held up by worn logs, a roof of uneven straw sagging in the middle. Still, it was clearly the place of authority here.
"This must be it…" Ashton muttered.
He raised his hand and knocked gently against the wooden frame. For a long moment, there was silence. Then the door creaked open, and a man stepped out.
He was old, his beard streaked with white, his back hunched from years of burden. The moment his eyes landed on Ashton, the man froze.
Then, without hesitation, he dropped to his knees.
"P–please, my lord!" the elder cried, bowing so low his forehead touched the dirt. "Please, God, do not take our food. We have nothing left to give!"
Ashton blinked, stunned. Then he sighed softly, kneeling down and reaching out a hand. "Please, sir. Raise your head. I'm not a god."
The elder froze, his eyes wide. "…You… are not?"
"No," Ashton said firmly. He helped the man up with a gentle tug. "I'm just… a normal human. Just… too beautiful for my own good, I guess."
The elder stared at him in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing as though unsure what to say.
Finally, his shoulders slumped in relief. "A human…? Truly?"
"Yes," Ashton nodded. He offered a small smile. "Truly."
The elder swallowed hard, then gestured shakily. "Then… please, forgive me. I… I mistook you for one of them."
Ashton chuckled lightly, though there was no humor in it. "Don't worry. It seems to be a common mistake today." He stepped closer, his expression softening.
"Elder… can you tell me about this village? About what's happening here?"
The old man hesitated, then nodded grimly. "Very well… come inside."
The inside of the hut was dark and cramped, lit only by a single clay lamp burning weakly.
The air smelled faintly of herbs and smoke. Ashton sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, while the elder lowered himself across from him, his frail hands resting on his knees.
"Our village…" the elder began slowly, voice rough with age. "We are simple people. Farmers, hunters. We once lived in peace, trading among ourselves.
But now…" His eyes grew shadowed. "The demi-humans come. They raid our stores, steal our grain, take what little we have.
Sometimes they take our men to work as slaves. If we resist, they kill."
Ashton's expression darkened. "Demi-humans…?"
The elder nodded bitterly. "Half-bloods. Children of gods and mortals.
Stronger than us, faster than us… they believe we exist only to serve them.
We cannot fight back. We barely survive." His voice trembled.
"We thought… when we saw you… that perhaps you were another god come to torment us."
Ashton leaned back, silent for a moment. Inwardly, his thoughts swirled.
So the humans are already under oppression. Barely a hundred years into the world, and they're already being enslaved.
His hand curled into a fist. "Damn demi-humans," he thought. "How dare they take the freedom of these people."
His crimson eyes flicked toward the door, where faint whispers could be heard.
The villagers—men, women, children—were gathering outside, drawn by curiosity. He could feel their stares even through the thin walls.
"…No," Ashton murmured under his breath. "They're not just looking. They're staring at my beauty."
He dragged a hand down his face, suppressing a groan.
"I knew it. This is gonna be a pain in the ass."
The elder blinked. "What was that?"
"Nothing," Ashton replied quickly, forcing a smile. "Just thinking out loud."