The path stretched on, a straight line without any curves or special features.
It was a simple dirt road, mixed with loose stones and the faint marks of wheels from carts that had passed by not long ago. Zairen walked at a steady pace, not rushing, not dragging his feet, letting the repeated steps get him into a rhythm.
As he walked, his body changed.
First, his shadow faded. It didn't disappear all at once, but thinned out, like a dark dye diluting in water. Sections of his armor seemed to fold into themselves, the sharp edges becoming smoother, the weight shifting.
His bones realigned to a new shape.
His muscles shrank.
He got a little shorter, becoming someone ordinary. His broad shoulders narrowed. His hands lost their sharp, dangerous look, the fingers changing into a human shape, with slight calluses where his claws used to be.
Next, his hair grew.
It was black, patchy, and hung around his neck. Too long to style, too messy to be on purpose. It framed a face that was getting softer – his strong jawline was less defined, his cheekbones were smoother, and his features looked almost gentle. Anyone staring for too long might think he was a young, harmless person.
His eyes turned a mild gray.
Not bright, not boring, just… there.
His clothes adapted last.
He wore what he had found – ripped pants, a long, dark shirt torn at the shoulder, and a coat with a frayed bottom. They were all stained, worn out, and didn't match. The clothes didn't fit well, but not so badly that anyone would notice right away.
He still had the sword.
It was plain, made of steel, with a worn handle.
He looked human enough.
Zairen kept walking.
Hours passed. The sun rose higher, then started to drop in the sky. He stayed in the shade of trees whenever he could, but he didn't need the shadows as much now. His human shape was stable.
Up ahead, near a bend in the road, he saw something.
A man.
He was old and skinny, with gray hair stuck to his head with sweat. He was lying on his side, with one arm twisted under him. There were no obvious injuries, no blood.
Zairen slowed down.
He looked around carefully. Nothing moved. He heard no voices or wagons approaching.
He went closer and crouched beside the man.
He was human, and still alive – or had been very recently.
Zairen put two fingers lightly on the man's chest.
His heart was beating slowly. Weakly.
His ability to Devour almost kicked in on its own.
But nothing happened.
The resistance was instant and strong.
Zairen took his hand away.
The rule was still in place.
As he stood up, the man's eyes fluttered open.
He gasped.
"…huh?" the man mumbled.
Zairen stopped.
Then he spoke.
"…are you okay?"
The words came out clearly, without any strange sounds or effort.
The man looked up at him, confused, then relieved. "Oh… thank gods. Thought I was done for." He coughed and slowly pushed himself up, groaning. "Thank you, young man."
Zairen nodded.
The man squinted at him, then frowned. "You look terrible. What happened to your clothes?"
Zairen glanced down at his torn clothes, at the dried blood that wasn't his.
"I was attacked," he said. "On the road."
The man grimaced. "Bandits?"
"Yes."
"Figures. The roads have been getting worse lately." The man shifted and winced. "I'm lucky you showed up. I must've passed out. I'm Rethan."
"Zairen," he said after a short pause.
Rethan nodded, then looked him over again. "You're carrying a sword."
Zairen didn't answer right away.
Rethan smiled slightly. "Don't worry, I'm not accusing you of anything. Just guessing. Are you an adventurer?"
Zairen tilted his head. "I… think so."
Rethan raised an eyebrow. "Think?"
Zairen thought about it. Then he said, "I don't really remember."
Rethan stared at him for a moment. Then his face softened. "Oh. Did you get hit in the head?"
"Yes," Zairen said smoothly. "One of them hit me. After that… things are blurry."
Rethan sighed. "That's rough, young man. Truly." He slowly got to his feet. "Well, you can't stay on the road. Come on. I live nearby."
They walked together as the light started to fade, the sky turning into evening.
Grayhaven appeared slowly – first as smoke in the distance, then rooftops, then old stone walls that were still standing. It wasn't a big city, but it wasn't small either. It was busy enough to be important.
They went in through a back way.
Rethan's house was on the edge of town. It was small, made of old stone, with one floor, and a messy garden.
A woman opened the door before Rethan could knock.
"You're late," she said, then stopped. "Rethan?"
"I'm fine," he said quickly. "I just passed out again. This young man helped me."
She looked Zairen up and down, noticing his torn clothes right away. "Get inside. Both of you."
She moved quickly, setting out water, towels, and food without asking any questions. Zairen followed her instructions without a word.
Dinner was simple: stew, bread, and warmth.
As they ate, Rethan leaned back and looked at Zairen again.
"So," he said, "what do you do, young man?"
Zairen swallowed. Then he answered carefully.
"I was traveling. Bandits attacked and took everything I had." He tapped his head gently. "After that… I don't remember much."
The woman clicked her tongue. "Terrible."
Rethan nodded. "But you held onto your sword."
"Yes."
Rethan smiled slightly. "Then you were probably an adventurer. That would make sense, with the road, the sword, and the trouble."
Zairen thought about that. "Maybe."
"Well," Rethan said, folding his hands, "if you don't remember who you were, it's best to start somewhere safe. The Guild is good for that. It gives you structure, work, and until you remember…" He looked around. "You can stay here."
The woman nodded firmly. "We have room."
Zairen nodded. "Thank you."
That night, he lay on a narrow bed under a creaky ceiling.
His thoughts moved slowly.
He was alive again.
Outside the dungeon.
There was no guidance, no rules, no clear goal.
Just existence.
Morning came quietly.
After asking for directions several times – and being corrected a couple of times – Zairen finally stood in front of the Adventurer Guild of Grayhaven.
The building was wide and strong, made of stone that had been darkened by years of weather and pollution. A carved symbol hung over the doors – crossed swords around a stylized beast skull.
People were constantly coming and going.
Armor clanked. Voices overlapped. Notices were pinned to boards near the entrance in a messy way.
Zairen stopped.
He watched.
Then he stepped forward.
And pushed the door open.
---