The market of Marque was as crowded as ever.
Voices overlapped in every direction, forming a constant hum that never truly settled.
"Fresh cuts! Only four bronze!" a meat seller shouted, slamming his cleaver down with practiced force. The blade struck bone, sending a sharp crack through the noise.
Not far from him, two children darted through the crowd, nearly knocking into passing traders.
"Don't let it escape!" one of them yelled, eyes locked onto a skinny alley cat weaving between legs and carts.
"I—I know! I know!" the other stammered, struggling to keep up.
The crowd barely reacted. This was normal.
Merchants argued, coins exchanged hands, and the scent of fruit, meat, and sweat lingered heavily in the air.
At a fruit stall near the corner, a foxkin stood with arms crossed, ears slightly lowered in irritation.
"These prices are ridiculous," he muttered, picking up a fruit and inspecting it closely. "For something this small?"
The vendor didn't even look up.
"Then don't buy it."
The foxkin's tail flicked once—sharp, controlled.
"Tch."
"The people of Xexo can't afford fruits at these prices," the foxkin said, his voice tightening. "You know the number of mythics near the dwarves' border is rising."
"Look, mister," a human snapped, his voice rising with irritation. "I don't care what you're talking about. If you don't want to trade, then get lost."
He tossed an apple toward the foxkin. It struck his shoulder and fell to the ground.
The noise around them began to shift. Conversations slowed. Eyes turned.
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
"Look at him… a foxkin."
"I heard they're descendants of mythics."
"They look strange…"
"Good thing I'm not one of those monsters," someone laughed.
The foxkin stood still for a moment.
Then his ears lowered further.
He didn't argue.
Didn't respond.
He simply turned and walked toward the edge of the market, the noise swallowing him again as if nothing had happened.
The market slowly returned to normal, as if nothing had happened.
"That's why I hate coming to the human kingdom," the foxkin muttered under his breath, his voice edged with frustration.
He walked past the crowded stalls, his pace steady but his tail tense.
"Well… who can blame them?" he continued quietly. "We beastfolk look different compared to them."
He let out a long sigh.
"…Still."
"Well then, no point thinking about it. I need to take something back to Xexo."
His expression hardened as his thoughts shifted.
"Damn those mythics… how can their numbers be increasing like that?"
His foot struck the ground harder than necessary.
"If the trade routes don't open soon…"
He paused.
"…we won't survive much longer."
Somewhere along the border between Xexo and Druagon, beneath a low hill, a military camp had been set up.
Birds flew overhead, their chirping unusually loud against the tense stillness below.
A few guards stood watch at the perimeter.
One of them yawned widely.
The guard beside him smirked.
"Didn't get any sleep last night?"
"You know how it is…" the other replied, rubbing his eyes as another yawn escaped him. "With the mythics nearby, you can't let your guard down."
"Yeah…" the first guard muttered, glancing at the sky.
Their conversation stopped as two figures approached the camp.
At the front was a foxkin dressed in high-quality, noble attire. His posture was calm, controlled. Beside him stood an attendant.
"Halt. State your business," one of the guards called.
The attendant stepped forward and presented a seal.
The guard's expression changed instantly.
"My apologies… Minister."
The Central Minister of Xexo entered the camp.
At its center stood a large strategy table, maps spread across its surface. Nearby, seated on an overly lavish chair, a dwarf noble calmly sipped wine.
"Lord Crevtos," the foxkin said with a slight bow, "it is an honor to meet you in person."
Crevtos, the Left Minister of Druagon, slowly raised his gaze.
"Lord Froo… welcome," he said, standing up. "How was your journey?"
He stepped forward and embraced Froo in a formal greeting.
"It was smooth," Froo replied.
Crevtos immediately gestured toward the table.
"Shall we begin?"
Froo nodded.
Crevtos's tone shifted, becoming sharp and authoritative.
"We have analyzed the situation. Around one hundred and fifty mythics are currently gathered near the Shekl trade route."
He paused briefly.
"We will begin subjugation tomorrow. The operation is under the command of General Kravil Desdo."
At the mention of the name, Froo frowned slightly—uncertain.
A brief silence followed.
"…Then allow us to assist," Froo said. "We have brought fifty foot soldiers."
Crevtos laughed.
"That won't be necessary. Our forces are more than enough."
"That may be so," Froo replied, maintaining composure, "but we insist."
Crevtos smirked.
"…Very well. We can't refuse extra meat shields, can we?"
He laughed loudly.
Froo's expression stiffened.
"…Of course," he said quietly.
"Let your soldiers rest here," Crevtos continued.
"Tomorrow, they will fight alongside General Kravil."
The meeting ended soon after.
Froo left the camp, his mind restless—anger and unease mixing beneath his calm exterior.
Some time later, Crevtos also departed, returning toward Druagon.
Days before the outbreak of the mythics…
At the southern edge of the Kingdom of Quile.
A vast rocky desert stretched endlessly beneath a scorching sun. The heat distorted the air itself, and nothing lived there—except a few stubborn cacti clinging to survival.
A boy walked through the wasteland.
He wore simple pajamas, completely out of place in such a harsh land. His steps were uneven, dragging. One of his legs was injured, and each step seemed to cost him what little strength he had left.
His body looked fragile—like he had been wandering for days without rest.
He stumbled over a rock and collapsed onto the burning ground.
"…What the hell is happening?" he muttered weakly. "I… I don't understand any of this…"
He forced himself up again, swaying.
"Where… where am I?"
His vision blurred as he looked ahead.
"There's nothing… just desert… I've been walking for days…"
Hours passed.
Then—something.
Far in the distance, a shape emerged through the heat haze.
"…There's… something there," he whispered in his mind. "I can't see it clearly…"
He dragged himself forward, step by step.
As he got closer, the shape became clearer.
Walls.
Tall, imposing walls.
"…Is that… a castle?"
His breathing grew heavier.
Near the gates, two guards stood watch.
Summoning what little strength he had, the boy tried to approach them.
The guards noticed him immediately.
"Halt!" one shouted, rushing forward with his spear raised. "Who are you? Where are you from?"
The boy froze.
Fear gripped him—but no words came out.
"I said—who are you?" the guard demanded again, more aggressively.
The guards exchanged glances, their suspicion growing.
His clothes were strange. Unfamiliar.
Not from Quile.
"Speak!" one snapped.
Without warning, the other guard struck him across the face with the back of his spear.
Pain exploded through his head.
"Ahhhh—!"
The boy cried out and collapsed to the ground.
"Bind him," the guard ordered coldly. "Take him to the royal guard."
The boy drifted in and out of consciousness as they carried him away.
"Check him first," one guard muttered.
"He's alive," the other replied.
They placed him into a cage carrier and sent him toward the royal guard station.
At the royal guard headquarters—
A man sat behind a cluttered desk, documents scattered everywhere.
"What a mess…" he muttered in a deep, irritated voice. "And at a time like this…"
A knock sounded.
"Yes. Come in."
A guard entered and saluted.
"Captain Vecia, sir. The gate guards have captured an unknown boy. His clothing is unusual, and he refused—or was unable—to identify himself."
Vecia exhaled sharply.
"…Just what I needed. Another problem."
He stood up immediately.
"Take me to him."
The underground prison was dim and suffocating.
Guards stood at attention as Vecia passed, saluting with precision.
He stopped in front of a cage.
Inside, the boy hung by his wrists, chained to the wall.
Vecia's eyes narrowed.
"…Now this is interesting."
He stepped inside the cell and ran his hand over the boy's clothing.
"This material…" he muttered. "This isn't from Quile."
He turned slightly.
"Throw water on him."
A bucket of cold water was splashed across the boy's face.
The boy gasped and coughed as consciousness returned.
Vecia dragged a chair and placed it directly in front of him, sitting down calmly.
The boy slowly lifted his head.
Dark walls. Chains. A suffocating smell.
Panic surged through him.
"W-Where am I?!" he cried weakly. "Who are you people?!"
Vecia leaned forward.
"I should be asking you that, kid."
The boy's eyes darted around, confused and terrified.
"I… I don't know…" he stammered. "I don't remember…"
Vecia's expression hardened.
"Don't play games with me."
He stood up and stepped closer.
A faint green glow formed around his hand—wind mana gathering.
The pressure in the air shifted.
The boy's body trembled uncontrollably.
Vecia grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up.
"Where did you come from?" he asked coldly. "Are you a spy from Marque?"
The boy gasped in pain.
"N-No…!" he stuttered. "I… I don't know… I don't remember anything…"
Silence filled the cell.
Vecia stared at him for a long moment.
"…Are you sure about that, kid?"
*END*