Noel sat in the jolting carriage, half-dazed and bored out of his mind, the world outside a blur of rain-slicked roads and distant trees. Five years since being in Thornwatch.
five years of grinding under Arthur's watchful eye, and now here he was, rattling toward the empire like any other wanderer chasing a fresh start. His fingers absently clutched the pendant around his neck, the cool metal a quiet reminder of Gramps's gruff farewell.
Keep it. Simple words, but they carried weight. His beastkin ears twitched at the creak of the wagon, uncomfortably under his cloak, its to avoid stares, he'd learned early that hiding his demi-human traits made travel easier, but it never sat right.
"Hey, pal, I was talking to you. You deaf or something? Or is that mutt hearing of yours acting up?"
Noel blinked, snapping out of his thoughts, his pointed ears flattening slightly under the hood. The man across from him—an older guy with a scruffy beard and a worn cloak—stared expectantly, one eyebrow raised, a sneer curling his lip as he eyed Noel's subtle features.
"Yeah, my bad," Noel muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, ignoring the jab for now. "Zoned out. What was it you asked?"
The man snorted, shaking his head. "Sheesh, the youth these days—no manners at all. And letting demi-scum like you ride with real folk? Empire's gone to hell. I was asking why you're heading there. You don't look like a merchant or a traveler with coin to burn—probably scavenging scraps like the rest of your kind."
Noel shrugged, glancing out the window at the muddy trail, his tail flicking irritably beneath the fabric. "Looking for work. Can't really do much else out in the sticks. Maybe enlist in the army, like my gramps did back in his day. He always called it his glory years or whatever."
The man opened his mouth to reply, but the words died on his lips. A low rumble shook the carriage—thud, thud, thud—like massive footsteps vibrating through the earth. The drivers yanked the reins hard, horses whinnying in panic as the wagon skidded to a halt. Noel leaned forward, peering out, his enhanced senses picking up the beast's stench before he saw it.
Towering over the road was an orc lord, its hulking frame, massive, scarred green skin rippling over corded muscles, tusks jutting like broken spears. It roared, the sound shaking leaves from nearby trees, and the drivers froze in terror, one whispering prayers under his breath. The old man in the carriage paled, hands trembling as he gripped the seat, shooting Noel a glare like this was somehow his fault.
Noel sighed, standing up without a word. He stepped out into the mud, slinging his shield—half his size and heavy as a log—off his back with ease, like it weighed nothing. His sword came next, drawn from his waist in a smooth motion.
Both were in heroic peak condition, edges honed razor-sharp from the basic smithing skills he'd picked up over the years. No shortcuts there—always keep your tools ready, Gramps had drilled into him.
"Huh," Noel murmured, rolling his shoulders, his ears perking up to track the orc's movements. "Guess it's time to test my strength."
The orc lord swung its massive fist downward, a telegraphed haymaker that Noel sidestepped effortlessly, his beastkin agility making it child's play. Why block when you can just dodge? He pivoted left in the same motion, sword whipping diagonally upward in a clean arc.
The blade bit deep, severing the orc's arm at the shoulder with a wet crunch. The limb thudded to the ground, blood spraying in a visceral arc, soaking the mud red.
The orc bellowed in rage, swinging wildly with its remaining fist—but Noel was already moving. Before the blow could land, his sword flashed again, cleaving through the beast's neck in one decisive stroke. The head rolled free, body crumpling like a felled tree.
Noel exhaled, flicking blood from his blade. Gramps nearly beat me senseless that one time for gawking at my kills, he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. Observe later—survive first. That fatal weakness was long gone now.
The two drivers scrambled over, eyes wide as saucers. "That was incredible, kid! You took down a level 2 orc lord all by yourself! Didn't think a demi like you had it in ya—thought your kind were all cowards and thieves."
Noel sheathed his sword, shrugging it off, though the backhanded compliment stung. "It was nothing." Inwardly: Huh, that was level 2? For something my level, it was pretty pathetic.
One driver clapped him on the back, a bit too hard, like testing if he'd flinch. "Heard you're heading to the imperial capital for work? Stalkers pay well—better than adventurers, even. Or join the army; they ain't bad either. Just watch yourself around the other demi-humans if you go stalker route—they let more of 'em in now, but most folks still treat your kind like trash. Elves, beastkin, the lot—called 'em monsters in fancy skins back in my day."
"What's a stalker?" Noel asked, curiosity piqued, his ears perking up subtly under the cloak as he pushed down the rising irritation.
The other driver chimed in, still catching his breath. "Mercenaries, vigilantes, troubleshooters for the capital. They handle jobs for the wealthy—bodyguards for nobles, that kinda thing. You'll spot 'em by the animal masks; old custom from a hundred years back when folks in the empire wore 'em for festivals or whatever. Masks show rank—the top dogs pick first, so seniors stick juniors with the goofy ones. But yeah, demi-humans get the short end—lower pay, shittier assignments, and half the nobles won't hire 'em 'cause 'they can't be trusted.' Your furry ass might end up mopping blood off the streets."
The old man from the carriage finally spoke up, voice steadier now. "Army pays solid too, but I gotta warn you—the capital ain't no dreamland. Sure, it's the big city, but it's overrun with monsters even nastier than this heap." He nodded at the orc's corpse. "And don't get me started on the demi-trash like you flooding in—elves begging for scraps, beastkin causing trouble. Empire's gone soft letting your kind roam free."
Noel frowned, a flicker of unease stirring, his ears flattening as he met the man's gaze steadily. "Monsters in the capital?"
"Not the beast kind," the man said, lowering his voice with a pointed look at Noel's hidden ears. "Humans with monster hearts. The place is crawling with 'em—corrupt bastards who'll chew you up and spit you out. And the demi-humans? You're part of it—stealing jobs, stirring up riots. Mark my words, mutt, keep your distance or they'll string you up first."
Noel nodded, unfazed on the surface but noting the casual venom, his claws digging into his palm. "Thanks for the heads-up, but no way I'm turning back. Still need a job."
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All people one day must turn to ash, so too must nations fall to ruin. Despite the capital's wealth and prosperity, it's become mired in corruption. The pompous and the vile run rampant throughout the city—these demons are beyond salvation and therefore must be silenced in the darkness.
A grim vision flashed: hundreds crucified on stakes, flames licking their bodies as they burned, screams swallowed by the night. Among them, demi-humans with pointed ears or furred tails, branded as "lesser" even in death.
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Noel stepped off the carriage at the capital's gates, jaw dropping as he took in the sprawl. It was massive—far bigger than he'd imagined, towers scraping the sky, walls thick as houses. The castle alone loomed like an entire country unto itself, spires piercing the clouds. But amid the grandeur, he spotted the cracks: an elf vendor being shoved aside by human guards, a beastkin child begging for coins while passersby sneered and spat, one kicking the kid for "getting too close."
"Alright," he muttered, slinging his pack higher, his ears twitching under the hood. "Better scout for info on stalkers or the barracks. See which pays more."
At the barracks, a grizzled recruiter shoved a form his way, eyeing Noel's subtle demi-traits with disgust. "You wanna enlist? Fill this out and bring it back. But demi-scum like you? You'll start at the bottom—cannon fodder for the real soldiers."
Noel scanned it: basic enlistment, starting as a private with low pay—10 coppers a day. Not bad, but let's check the other option. "Got any info on becoming a stalker?"
The recruiter snorted. "Next building over. Can't miss it, moron. But if you're smart, stick with us—stalkers take in more demi-scum now. Taints the whole outfit, if you ask me."
"Alright, alright—don't gotta be rude about it, sheesh." Noel rubbed the back of his head, thanked the guy anyway despite the glare, and pocketed the parchment before heading out.
He stopped a few steps away, looking up. Alright... so this is the Stalkers Headquarters.
It wasn't impressive—just a squat, wide stone building, two stories tall, more warehouse than HQ. No banners, no flair, just a faded iron sign creaking in the wind: STALKERS. Simple. Blunt. Like the job, he figured.
There was a line out front, maybe fifteen people deep. Some stood tall and cocky, others fidgeted like they were second-guessing everything. One guy tapped his foot nonstop, the rhythm grating on the stone. Noel noticed a couple demi-humans in the mix—an elf with notched ears, a beastkin with a scarred tail—standing apart, ignored or glared at by the humans. As Noel joined, a human in line spat at his feet. "Demi-rat. Go back to your den."
Noel joined the back quietly, ignoring the slur, but his ears bristled. No greetings, no nods—just silence, broken by a muttered whisper from someone up front: "Filthy mutt shouldn't even be here."
A few seconds later, the door swung open. A man stepped out, eyes empty as a void—not tired or sad, just hollow. He shuffled past without a word.
Someone from the front entered; the door shut.
Noel shifted his weight. This felt off—not like enlisting in the army with its parades and oaths. No hype, no glory. Just a quiet grind.
The guy ahead glanced back, sizing him up with a sneer. "...First time, beast-boy?"
"Yeah," Noel said, keeping his tone even.
The man stared a beat longer, then turned away. "...Half of us won't last a year. And the demi-trash like you? You go first—nobles love watching your kind bleed." Casual, like commenting on the weather.
Noel frowned, his claws flexing, but before he could reply—
The door opened again. This time, two burly types dragged out a limp body—a beastkin, fur matted with blood, a badge clinking to the ground.
No one flinched. No gasps. The line just shuffled forward, a few smirks rippling through the humans.
One of the draggers sighed. "...Another idiot. Demi-freak thought he could hack it."
Noel's chest tightened—not fear, but reality sinking in, laced with the bitter edge of prejudice. This wasn't playtime. People died here, quick and quiet, and the world kept turning—especially if you weren't human.
He stepped up when it was his turn, fingers brushing the army parchment in his pocket. Good, he thought. This is exactly what I'm looking for.
Inside, the pay jumped out: 1 silver a day—way better, assuming 100 coppers to a silver.
Assigned to the sweepers section: "Responsible for civilian protection, monster extermination, escort duty, and internal emergency response within the Empire's lower and outer districts." Demi-humans assigned at discretion; reduced rates apply.
Noel frowned slightly. So... protect folks, kill beasts, guard caravans. Basic, necessary, dangerous. A faint smile tugged at his lips. Perfect.
He lowered the parchment.
The door opened, and everything froze. Quills stopped scratching. Mutters died. Even the clerk behind the counter stiffened mid-stamp.
Noel felt the shift immediately—the room holding its breath.
He turned. A woman strode in: black coat, long and plain, no frills. Boots clicked softly—step, step, step—unhurried, like the world waited on her. But as she passed, Noel caught the pointed tips of her ears peeking from under her hood—an elf. Whispers hissed: "Demi-bitch thinks she's one of us."
She didn't glance around, didn't acknowledge the stares or the venom, but everyone felt her presence. Tension thick as fog—not outright fear, but sharp awareness, like standing near a drawn blade laced with prejudice.
The clerk bolted upright. "...You're back." His voice shifted—boredom gone, replaced by respect laced with caution, and a hint of disdain. "Even for a pointy-eared freak, you're efficient."
She nodded once. He fished out a parchment from under the counter, handed it over. No questions, no fuss.
She took it, turned. Her eyes swept the room—stalkers, applicants, then over Noel for a split second, lingering just a touch longer on his hidden ears, as if recognizing kin in the hostility.
His spine straightened, breath catching. Not killing intent—just cold evaluation, like sizing up a tool.
Then she was walked past him, coat rustling faintly, out the door. A low mutter followed: "Should send her back to the slums with the rest of her kind."
The room exhaled.
Noel stared after her, the door clicking shut behind the elf woman like a period at the end of a sentence.
Someone muttered behind him, close enough that Noel could feel the breath on his neck. "...You'll see her again."
Noel didn't turn, keeping his eyes on the empty doorway. "...Who is she?"
A pause hung in the air, thick with the room's lingering tension.
"That's Lea Florence Monad," the voice finally said, low and wary, like uttering the name might summon her back.
Noel smiled faintly.