"So, to celebrate my little brother's return from his journey, and to welcome his companions from Mr. Kalu P. Brownbird's caravan… a toast to you all!"
"A toast to you all!"
Glasses rose in unison, and the chandeliers' light glinted warmly off the glass and colored liquids.
At the small Rosovis palace on the outskirts of Rose Village, night had settled in, punctuated by scattered laughter and melodies from simple instruments played by some of the village's youth.
Outside the manor, the celebration spilled into the grassy square, where lanterns hung from wooden posts.
In a quiet corner away from the noise, Takashi, Ethan, and Roden stood chatting.
"Ah, this juice is amazing… what exactly is it made from?" Ethan said, lifting his cup toward the light to admire the clarity of the transparent green liquid. A genuine smile of contentment spread across his face.
"It's made from a local sweet-tasting plant—though I've heard it actually contains no sugar at all. It's called Lahelo."
Roden replied, his voice as calm as his naturally reserved demeanor, sipping slowly from his cup.
Ethan paused, staring at the liquid in his hands as if evaluating it. "What do you mean, 'I've heard'?"
"I mean it literally. We're not researchers, and we have no way to verify whether it contains sugar or not. All we know is that it tastes sweet."
Roden paused briefly, a memory returning to him, then continued:
"A scientific expedition once came from the capital to study local flora. I was assigned to guard them back then, and one of them told me that fact."
Ethan hummed softly, then took a longer sip, surrendering to the flavor as his gaze wandered around.
He saw familiar faces—but mostly strangers—genuine laughter, and children darting between tables.
"I still can't believe there's no alcohol…" he murmured, his tone light but tinged with astonishment.
Takashi, standing beside him with his own cup, replied, "As I told you before, alcohol is an illegal substance in the nations of the Northern Continent."
"Right~ right~," Ethan said meaningfully, leaning slightly toward him, eyes glinting mischievously.
"Anyway~ why don't you go talk to Zofia~?"
Takashi stiffened instantly—the words struck him like an arrow.
"Wha—why would I look for her?!"
He blurted it out too quickly, his voice betraying clear nervousness as warmth crept up his face without his noticing.
Ethan chuckled lightly, lowering his voice: "Hehe~ You're so obvious. I think Zofia's the only one who hasn't noticed how much you like her."
Takashi fell silent, tightening his grip slightly on his cup.
He tried to appear indifferent, but his eyes involuntarily drifted toward the square, searching for a certain face—his heart pounding faster.
Before he could catch his breath, Roden quietly excused himself with a slight nod and moved away toward the other side of the square.
There, his sister Rofa stood smiling as she spoke with Jumana and Elena, their voices blending with the music and laughter.
As for Takashi, he downed his entire drink in one gulp and declared, "I'm going to the restroom…"
Ethan watched him for a moment and thought: *Liar. I bet he's off looking for Zofia—but she's not even here.*
His eyes kept scanning the crowd, and he muttered under his breath: "Boris… no sign of him either…"
He frowned slightly, then sighed inwardly with mock solemnity: *Hmm… probably because, as a main character, he's got some important task to kick off the next chapter…*
His gaze drifted again—and landed on a group of children running near the tables.
He unconsciously counted them… then stopped. He tilted his head slightly, his expression darkening.
"Wait… where did that little tortoise go?"
*Could this be the start of a new arc? Maybe… I really am just a side character after all,* he thought with self-deprecating bitterness.
***
Far from the Rosovis estate, across an empty stretch of grass, Saty lay on his back, gazing at the sky.
The moons of the nineteenth day of Suntzu month were slowly revealing themselves, one after another, as if hesitating before appearing.
He wasn't thinking about anything in particular, yet the void left by his grandfather's death kept seeping into his small chest.
He remembered Boris—his strength, his calmness, his short laugh as he played with them… and then the silence that followed.
A silence he didn't know how to blame, nor how to forgive. Like a lost child.
His grandmother had told him it wasn't Boris's fault.
The words had settled in his mind, but as a child—without understanding—he'd sought the simplest scapegoat, someone to hold responsible.
If Boris truly couldn't do anything… did that make Saty the villain for blaming an innocent person? And why did he feel so strongly that something should have happened—but didn't?
Why had he believed—assumed—that Boris would save his grandfather, just as he'd saved everyone else?
He stared longer at the sky…
The moons of the nineteenth day of the month of Suntzu were slowly revealing themselves, one after another, as if hesitating before appearing.
Lunashi, the yellow moon, had just passed its midpoint.
A very small black crescent had begun to appear at the edge of the blue moon, Lunana.
As for the red moon, Lunara, it had started to wane, showing a distinct black crescent signaling its decline.
He recalled his grandmother's words, gentle and needing no explanation:
*"Faith in the Creator eases the burden, and patience softens the pain. That is why we believe—everything that happens is a test, to make us stronger."*
He closed his eyes for a moment, and with his young mind, tried for the first time to understand the vast world… a child becoming aware of existence for the first time.
Some things cannot be changed. And patience isn't just waiting—it's an experience of something deeper within oneself.
He slowly opened his eyes. Small tears rolled down his cheeks, but they no longer carried anger toward Boris.
"How silly I was… even the other kids stopped being upset with Boris…" he whispered, voice thick with self-reproach.
He accepted, with childish gentleness, that strength doesn't always mean saving everyone.
Then, he heard approaching footsteps—and lifted his head to see who was coming.
No matter his thoughts, he was still a child who worried when footsteps drew near.
"Excuse me… may I sit beside you?" Zofia asked, smiling softly.
"Zofia Sis?" he said, quickly wiping his tears with his hand.
Zofia smiled faintly and sat down beside him on the grass without waiting for an answer.
"Why did you disappear from the party, Little Saty?" she asked gently, her tone filled with sincere concern.
"You should've been playing with the others. The children were asking about you."
He took a deep breath, eyes returning to the sky where the moons drifted slowly.
"I… I just… wanted to look at the sky," he said quietly, speaking more to himself than to her. "I feel like I don't understand anything… everything's tangled in my head."
Zofia didn't respond, but she didn't move away either. Her silence was an invitation to continue.
"Boris Bro…" Saty finally said, clenching his small fists in the grass. "He saved everyone… and I never spoke to him. I didn't thank him… I didn't apologize for staying away."
Zofia smiled as she listened to him go on: "I promise… I'll go to him. I'll thank him for saving everyone, and I'll apologize for all my silence."
Zofia smiled again and said calmly, "I know he'll be happy to hear that from you. I know you were confused—that's normal."
He gave a small but genuine smile, then breathed slowly, feeling a heavy weight of sorrow lift from his heart.
"You know…" he said, fingers brushing the grass, "my grandmother says… faith and patience make everything easier. I think I'm starting to understand a little… that strength doesn't mean everything will always be alright—but I should try to understand first, before I judge."
Zofia turned to him and placed a hand on his head.
"I see that, Little Saty… I see you learning to become stronger from within. I think the title 'Little' no longer suits you. Should I start calling you Lad. Saty instead?"
His heart skipped a beat—then raced suddenly.
His face flushed instantly, eyes widening slightly in flustered confusion.
It wasn't just the title—it was hearing *her*, a beautiful girl, call him that. It completely unnerved him.
He stammered softly, laughing nervously at himself: "I—I guess… maybe…"
He lowered his head shyly, but a small, warm pride glowed in his chest.
Meanwhile, clouds thickened gradually, dimming the starlight and moonlight.
***
Not far from Rose Village, raindrops began to fall—light and scattered at first, then steadily increasing.
"Bro, are we really doing this today?"
"Yes. The Sheriff is hosting a party. Most guards and villagers are there. This is our chance to capture several young Goblhums."
Hidden among dense shrubs stood two hooded figures—illegal slave traders—planning their operation in hushed tones.
"Let's go," the leader said, moving cautiously forward. The other followed with hesitant steps.
They slipped between trees, sticking to the shadiest paths, advancing slowly toward the village.
The rain grew heavier, and wet leaves whispered softly under their feet.
"Once we exit this area, we'll be in open ground. Move lightly," the leader said, glancing back.
The other nodded—then froze. His eyes widened, his body stiffened.
"What's wrong?" the leader whispered.
"You never get tired, do you, messieurs?"
Both men froze. The leader leapt backward instantly, drawing a small dagger.
Before them stood a guard in neat, formal attire—orange hair carefully combed, visible scars on his face, and his left arm amputated below the shoulder.
"Sir, we don't know what you're talking about. We're just taking a walk."
The guard looked at them calmly. "Taking a walk while fully concealing your faces—and drawing a knife the moment you see a guard?"
"…No use," the leader muttered lowly. "Run. I'll hold him off. Just make sure you come back for me later."
"Bro…" the criminal's eyes gleamed with disbelief.
"Stop talking. Run."
The leader pulled out a smoke pellet and hurled it to the ground. Smoke billowed instantly, mixing with the rain.
"The sixteenth this month… how many more illegal slave traders will come after this… huh," the guard muttered, stepping into the smoke without hesitation.
Relying on sound, he drew his wavy sword and struck the leader's back with the flat of the blade, knocking him down. Then he moved to pursue the other.
But the leader grabbed his leg with all his remaining strength.
"A leader never abandons his men!" he gasped hoarsely. "Run!"
The guard stared at him impassively. "Too many words at the wrong time."
The other criminal had already fled—then suddenly turned back, sprinting toward them, knife in hand, tears streaming down his face.
"Stop! I won't let you hurt my brother!"
"Fool…" the leader whispered, strength fading.
The guard turned, ready to block the attack—
but at that exact moment, someone dropped from above and tackled the attacker to the ground before he could reach them.
A boy with silver eyes and copper-brown hair stood firmly after landing.
The attacker writhed on the ground, the boy's Koshin-wrapped hand gripping his head.
Before the man even realized what hit him, he was given no chance to rise.
With steady steps, the orange-haired guard advanced as Boris stepped back.
The guard pressed his knee onto the criminal's back—but the man was already unconscious.
"He's unconscious due to a Koshin martial technique," Boris said calmly.
The guard remained silent. With one hand, he pulled metal restraints from his belt and swiftly cuffed the attacker's wrists with practiced skill.
The whole process took mere seconds. Then he turned to the injured leader, who was panting as he tried to crawl away.
A single strike with the sword's hilt to the back of his head ended his attempt—before he too was cuffed and dumped face-down in the mud.
Rain fell harder now, and the area quieted to the sound of water pattering on the earth.
Finally, the guard turned and looked at Boris standing before him—silver eyes reflecting the rain's light, composure beyond his years.
He studied him for a second… perhaps two… then spoke in a calm, emotionless voice:
"Mr. Boris, correct? Companion of Mr. Kalu and Sir Anton."
*Sir Anton? So he holds a knighthood,* Boris thought before replying:
"Yes. And you're the guard who accompanied Lady Lima, aren't you?"
The guard stood at attention and spoke formally:
"Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Guerreiro H. Riptide, official knight of Dame Lima N. Rosovis. An honor to meet you, Mr. Boris."
*H. ?* Surprise flickered briefly on Boris's face.
Guerreiro noticed and smiled faintly. "I didn't earn the 'Honorary' title for our family—it was my grandfather. Don't worry about it."
Boris smiled simply. "Understood. But you don't need such formality when introducing yourself."
Guerreiro replied calmly: "Perhaps not—but a knight must introduce himself properly, especially since you assisted in my duty."
Boris asked, "That's unimportant… but why aren't you at the party, Sir Guerreiro? As Dame Lima's knight, shouldn't you be accompanying her?"
A hint of hesitation crossed Guerreiro's eyes before he answered:
"Yes, but Dame Lima ordered me to guard the village, since most guards are attending the party. I thought this was best—don't you agree?"
Boris nodded. "Indeed. I noticed that too. Lady Lima also mentioned this area is vulnerable to attacks by illegal slave traders."
Guerreiro affirmed firmly: "Correct. You should return and enjoy the party, Mr. Boris."
Boris smiled. "No. I'd rather guard the village children."
Guerreiro smiled. "Very well. Let's patrol together, then return to the party."
"Agreed—but let's go deeper into the forest to be sure."
"Fine."
"Fine… but first…" Guerreiro glanced at the criminals lying on the ground, then added with a faint smile:
"I need to take these two to holding so they don't escape."
Boris smiled quietly. "Right…"
***
Guerreiro parted ways with Boris and walked steadily down the wet path, dragging the criminals across the muddy ground with his single hand.
Raindrops fell on his orange hair as the village lay silent, lantern lights casting faint glows along the road.
"Well… let's be honest…" Guerreiro muttered to himself as the criminals squirmed uselessly, "this isn't the ideal way to transport prisoners."
He marched forward steadily.
One of the criminals tried to speak in a trembling voice: "C… can you let us go? Please… we'll never do this again…"
Guerreiro gave him a stern look and said coldly: "Unfortunately, for all the children you've sold—whose number only the Creator knows—there's no such thing as 'never again.'"
He continued walking through the empty streets as the rain slowly intensified.
"You know…" Guerreiro murmured, "if you truly regret it… then work to atone for it after your sentence ends."
He finally reached the police station—a small building with a heavy wooden door.
The duty guard greeted Guerreiro when he saw him, and the latter returned the greeting with his head.
"Mr. Jalaj! Where are you?" Guerreiro called upon entering.
No reply.
"Mr. Jalaj! I've brought criminals!" he called again.
"Sir Guerreiro? Come down to the basement," came a distant voice from below.
The basement was pitch black.
Guerreiro approached the opening, hoisted both criminals onto his shoulder, and began descending slowly. His footsteps echoed on the stone stairs.
Inside, the cellar was cold and damp. Stone walls glistened with dripping water from the ceiling.
Only the faint glow of oil lamps provided light.
He stopped before a cell, unlocked it, and tossed the criminals inside before slamming the door shut.
"Won't you remove our restraints?" one criminal sobbed.
"Remove them? What if you use some energy ability—or even TRAITUM? These procedures are necessary."
Just as Guerreiro turned to leave…
A violent crash of chains echoed through the basement.
Hoarse screams filled with curses.
A powerful blow shook the wall slightly.
Guerreiro halted, then followed the sound down the narrow corridor until he entered a slightly larger cell room.
The light was stronger here—two wall-mounted lamps illuminated the scene clearly.
Inside, Jalaj—a visibly aged, half-bald Goblhum—sat slouched on a simple wooden chair, arms crossed, exhaustion etched on his face.
Before him stood a massive criminal, his huge body chained tightly to the wall. Muscles bulged, neck veins strained, face red from shouting.
Humanoid features—reddish-brown skin, bear-like claws, crocodile-like teeth…
It was Darmon—the one Boris had sent through the Request Guild.
"I'll break this place apart! I'll slaughter you all—one by one! Especially you, Boris! I'll tear your bones apart, piece by piece, you bastard!"
He slammed against the chains again. Metal groaned, filling the basement with a grating screech.
Jalaj slowly turned his head toward Guerreiro and said wearily, yet sarcastically: "Ah… Sir Guerreiro. Thank the Creator you're here."
He jerked his thumb toward the giant without looking.
"He's been like this for an hour. Screaming, threatening… I'm starting to miss silence."
Guerreiro looked calmly at Darmon, then turned to Jalaj and said dryly: "Why didn't you silence him?"
Jalaj sighed. "I tried. His endurance is insane—no matter how hard I hit him, it's like I did nothing… Maybe you can?"
At that moment, Darmon turned to Guerreiro and grinned grotesquely: "And you… do you think you can silence me?"
A brief silence fell.
Guerreiro didn't answer.
He took two steps forward, then said in a deadly calm voice: "Fine. I'll handle him, Mr. Jalaj."
He studied Darmon carefully and advised: "Stop causing trouble, and I'll leave you alone."
Darmon sneered with contempt and confidence: "Hah? Threatening me, you insect? Go to hell!"
He spat directly in Guerreiro's face.
Guerreiro pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face silently.
"Fine," he murmured, clenching his fist. A glowing aura—Koshin, but orange instead of yellow—began to swirl around it.
"You think you can threaten me with just a TOV Koshin coated fist—"
Darmon never finished his sentence.
A punch to the gut—so fast he didn't see it, only felt it—drove the air from his lungs.
Guerreiro began striking the giant's massive body with blinding speed, one precise blow after another.
Darmon's screams and pleas drowned out all other sound.
The beating lasted several minutes—until the screams ceased.
Darmon's body went limp, head drooping forward. The chains gave one final ring—then silence.
Jalaj stared at the swaying body, then at Guerreiro. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he muttered: "You're... monster..."
Guerreiro turned to leave, saying over his shoulder: "He'll wake up in an hour or two, probably."
His footsteps echoed into the darkness of the basement, fading slowly—leaving only silence behind.