Pagopoi 30 – Dromos 15, Imperial Year 1643
Castle Ethelred, Eastern Marches – Two Months Later
Gregor Eisenhardt stood at the window of his quarters and watched the rain fall. It had been two months since the Raven killed Sir Aldous. Two months since the halfling – Elara – had offered him a place among the reincarnators. Two months since he had refused.
He had thought about little else.
The rumors had reached Castle Ethelred slowly, filtered through merchants and travelers. The Raven had struck again – a corrupt treasurer in the capital, killed from miles away with a thunder weapon. Then a duke in Valdria, struck down in his own study. Then a circus master in Stonebridge, impaled before an audience. And most recently, the assassination of Duke Reynard Blackwood in the king's own throne room – the Raven walking on walls, calling himself Alucard, throwing ledgers of evidence at the king's feet.
Gregor had listened to each rumor with a growing sense of unease. The Raven was not random. He was methodical. He killed only those who deserved it – monsters, corrupt officials, abusers of power.
Like Aldous, Gregor thought. Like the men I have served.
He thought about his master, Baron Ethelred. The baron was not a monster, but he was weak, and weakness bred cruelty. Gregor had killed peasants on the baron's orders. He had suppressed revolts that should have been addressed with justice, not steel. He had done nothing while Aldous beat women and extorted merchants.
I am complicit, he realized. By my silence, by my obedience, I am complicit.
The Raven had not come for him. Not yet. But Gregor knew, with a cold certainty, that he could be next. Not because he was a monster, but because he had allowed monsters to thrive.
I do not want to waste my second chance.
He had died once. He had been given another life. And he had spent that life as a tool for a weak lord, killing for causes he did not believe in.
No more.
He packed his belongings – a change of clothes, a purse of silver, his sword, and the brass casing he had found after Aldous's death. He wrote a letter to the baron, resigning his position, and left it on his desk.
Then he walked out of the castle and did not look back.
Dromos 15, Imperial Year 1643
The Eastern Road, Near the Free Cities Border
It took Gregor two months to find them.
He traveled east, following rumors of a halfling woman asking questions, of an orc blacksmith traveling with a group of strangers, of a red‑haired merchant's daughter with too much coin and too little caution. He asked at inns, at markets, at waystations. He showed a sketch he had made of Elara's face – a skill he had learned from a passing artist.
The trail led him to the borderlands between Mercia and the Free Cities, a lawless stretch of hills and forests where bandits preyed on travelers. He heard that a group matching the description had been seen heading toward an old trading post called Gray Rock.
He rode faster.
Dromos 15, Imperial Year 1643 (continued)
Gray Rock Trading Post – Afternoon
The trading post was a ruin. The buildings had been burned, the walls collapsed, the well poisoned. In the center of the clearing, a group of travelers had made a stand – a halfling, an orc, a gnome, a dwarf, a half‑elf, a mage, and several humans. They were surrounded by bandits – at least thirty of them, armed with swords, axes, and bows.
Gregor recognized Elara immediately. She stood at the center of the group, a short sword in her hand, her face pale but determined. Roderick was beside her, his massive orc frame blocking a volley of arrows with a stolen shield. Rosalind fired a crossbow from behind a overturned cart. Miku and Hikari huddled together, while Kaito and Daiki worked frantically on a small device.
Reinhard – the teacher – stood at the front, his sword drawn, his voice shouting orders.
The bandits were closing in.
Gregor drew his sword and spurred his horse forward.
Before he could reach the clearing, a sound stopped him.
A distant roar – not thunder, but something sharper, faster, more mechanical. It came from the hills to the east, and it grew louder with each passing second.
Then the first bandit fell.
His head simply vanished – replaced by a spray of red mist. The roar continued, a rapid crack-crack-crack that echoed across the valley. Bandits dropped in rapid succession – chests exploding, limbs tearing, bodies collapsing. The survivors screamed and scattered, but the death followed them.
Gregor saw the source. On a rocky outcropping above the clearing, a figure stood – tall, dressed in a long blue trench coat, a beaked mask with a red plume, a longsword at his hip. In his hands, he held a weapon Gregor had never seen – a curved magazine, a wooden stock, a long barrel. It spat fire and lead at an impossible rate.
The Raven.
He fired in bursts, each burst dropping two or three bandits. The drum magazine fed round after round. The noise was deafening – a continuous roar that drowned out the screams.
Then the weapon jammed.
The Raven stopped firing. He looked down at the rifle, clicked his tongue, and muttered – loud enough for Gregor to hear – "Needs more improvement."
He slung the rifle over his shoulder by its strap and drew two pistols from under his coat. He walked down the hillside, firing as he went – each shot precise, each shot lethal. The remaining bandits fled or fell. Within thirty seconds, the clearing was silent.
The Raven holstered his pistols. He looked at the class – at Elara, at Roderick, at Reinhard. They stared back, weapons still raised, faces frozen.
Then the Raven turned, walked to the edge of the clearing, and vanished into the trees.
Gregor dismounted and walked into the clearing. The class turned to face him – wary, exhausted, but alive.
"You," Elara said. "You came."
"I changed my mind," Gregor said. "If you will still have me."
Reinhard stepped forward. "We will. But first – who was that? The Raven?"
"Yes."
"He saved us," Rosalind said. "Again."
"He also called his weapon inadequate," Kaito said, his voice shaking. "That weapon killed thirty men in less than a minute. And he thinks it needs improvement."
Gregor looked at the hillside where the Raven had stood. "He is not human. Not entirely."
"We know," Reinhard said. "The question is: what does he want?"
No one had an answer.
Dromos 15, Imperial Year 1643 (continued)
The Hills Above Gray Rock – Vlad's Perspective
Vladislav Eisenberg – the Raven, Alucard – stood behind a tree, watching the clearing through a small spyglass.
The class was gathering themselves, tending to wounds, counting the dead. The knight – Gregor – had joined them. Vlad had seen him ride in, had recognized the gray eyes, the determined set of his jaw.
He finally decided to stop being a fool, Vlad thought.
The halfling – Elara – was speaking to the teacher, her hands gesturing. The orc was collecting arrows. The gnomes were examining the jammed rifle from a distance, though Vlad had taken it with him.
He lowered the spyglass.
Idiots, he thought. They cannot keep their profiles low. They travel in a group. They ask questions. They draw attention. They will be caught or killed within the year.
He should leave them. He should never have intervened. The bandits were not his target. The class was not his concern.
And yet, he had fired. He had saved them. He had exposed himself – his weapons, his abilities, his face (masked, but still).
Why?
He did not have an answer. He only knew that when he had seen the halfling surrounded, her sword raised against impossible odds, he had felt something he had not felt in a hundred years.
Fear.
Not for himself. For them.
He shook his head and turned away.
Idiots, he thought again. But they are my idiots.
He walked into the forest and did not look back.
End of Chapter Eighteen