"I'm heading out, man. See you tonight… Oh, and hey, thanks for yesterday, seriously. Don't stay mad at me, okay? I'll bring you something to eat on the way back."
Roberto's voice sounded upbeat, though tinged with nervousness. As soon as the words left his mouth, he swung the door open and slipped out like someone fleeing a crime scene. Which, in a sense, he was.
Upon his girlfriend telling him what happened last night between almost motherly scoldings, he realized he had crossed the line with that comment he'd thrown at Dylan —half joking, half serious— after he denied him a piece of bread.
Now he feared that staying any longer with his host would completely drain what little patience he had left. After nearly a month living together, Roberto knew his friend's temperament well. One more wrong move, and he'd probably come home to find his stuff scattered on the curb.
Feeling guilty, embarrassed, and more than a little anxious, he dashed off to catch his bus to work.
Back in the modest little house he'd just left, Dylan lay sprawled out on the couch, legs bent up on the seat, head resting on the armrest. He was on the verge of drifting off, worn down by the lingering fever that had been with him for hours, when Roberto's noisy departure yanked him from his fog.
Not eager to fall asleep in such an awkward position, Dylan slowly cracked his eyes open and sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. Sweat clung to his forehead, neck, and chest, and even though he'd been resting, his whole body ached like he'd been beaten with a stick.
Taking a deep breath, he switched off the TV — which he'd forgotten was even on — and stood up with a low groan. The world wobbled slightly around him. Once his vision cleared, he headed to the kitchen, where he left his empty mug in the sink, promising himself he'd wash it when he felt better, and went straight to the bathroom to wash off the sticky feeling on his skin.
As he entered, the humid air wrapped around him, a reminder that someone else had been there not long ago. Then, Dylan slid the green glass door shut behind him, flicked on the light with the small switch at the side, and began undressing with little ceremony. When he was fully naked, he tossed his dirty clothes toward the laundry basket in the corner, missing by just a little.
Clicking his tongue at the sight of his clothes scattered on the rough cement floor, he shrugged and left them where they fell. Instead, he stepped further into the bathroom, unobstructed past the sink and toilet until he reached the shower. There, he turned on the faucet, letting a thin stream of icy water run down his back, drawing a sharp gasp from him.
For a moment, he wondered if it was really a good idea to shower like this, with the fever still swirling inside him, but it was too late to regret it now.
He lingered under the stream until his body adjusted to the cold. When he figured that was enough, he shut off the tap and grabbed the small bar of soap resting on the rusty shelf to his right. The lather slipping down his skin brought a strange mix of discomfort and relief, and his slow movements helped loosen the heavy fatigue weighing on him.
Maybe because of the fever, his mind began to wander. Memories from the journal he'd been listening to during training floated back to him; this time not with the artificial voice of his laptop's software, but with his own.
"Free a couple of orcs, huh? Sure… and then what? Unless I had some twisted taste for chains and whips, that would've been sheer stupidity.'
The desire to oppose slavery was a common virtue among modern-era people. But the enslavement of nonhuman races after the Transfer wasn't just about cruelty, racism, or caprice. Back then, it was framed as a cold, pragmatic choice: one that delivered real, tangible results.
The governors of New Hope had pushed it as a necessary strategy to survive in a hostile, alien world. And thus, despite being an intensely debated measure, it was accepted under the facades of honesty and equality.
'Going against that system to free a couple of "monsters" would've been suicide. Best scenario, they would've lynched me on the spot; worst case, they would've taken me as a replacement for the lost labor, which would only have led to a slower death.'
Moreover, the orcs' appearance didn't help one bit to reduce their discrimination.
Their features, too close to those of the monsters humans so feared, and their physique naturally superior to that of any man without training in mana control, made their capture normalized. They were used as cheap, tireless labor in the most tedious or dangerous jobs.
If Dylan had been enslaved to replace one of them, he would've collapsed sooner rather than later.
'Of course, in the end, all those "needs" were just poorly disguised excuses.'
People weren't inherently evil, but after they were dragged to Craelos, they fell into deep despair. Blinded by fear, anger, and the pain of being ripped away from their families, they needed someone to blame. Someone to carry the weight they couldn't bear.
The orcs, as isolated nomads without a vast shared culture and lacking the beauty of elves, became the perfect recipients of a guilt they didn't deserve.
'And speaking of that… how the hell could I have stopped the elf following Elena from leaving her? If I'd tried to stand in his way when he walked off, he would've beaten me half to death with a single blow.'
Human limitations weren't just obvious next to orcs. In fact, apart from sheer numbers, humanity had no advantage over any of the other intelligent species.
Sure, those gaps had narrowed over time. But back then, Dylan stood no chance against an elf; even one who wasn't particularly strong by his race's standards.
And the truth was, Dylan at that point had been even worse off than his current self, who was living on Earth without access to mana. Having never trained, he had barely survived by hiding until he was rescued by a hunting party. So, without a doubt, he had been below the average human.
'Damn it… even now, it pisses me off knowing I wasted a golden opportunity because of this stupid fat body.'
Actually, humanity wouldn't have survived in that world if they'd stayed the same as they were on Earth. To endure for over a century there, they underwent "adaptation," which brought about physical enhancements tied to each individual's actions during that evolution process.
Some gained strength, others sharp reflexes, and the unluckiest, resistance to extreme environments.
Dylan had been part of that last group.
'If I'd had more courage, maybe I would've been something more than just a private… No, who am I kidding? If I'd done anything differently, I probably would've died long before ever running into other survivors.'
Some choices were worth regretting. But there were others where the outcome had been inevitable, making regret pointless.
'Unfortunately, what happened with the beastfolk was also an inevitable development. Without their help, reclaiming Vestigia would've been impossible. And without that territory, humanity wouldn't have lasted long under the sieges from its many enemies.'
The hatred between humans and beastfolk was born from a lie: one that preyed on the naïveté of a young leader, letting the Alliance achieve its goals at a low human cost, but at a staggering price for the beastfolk.
Many died. Others were warped, twisted by a cause that had never been theirs, as they'd been led to believe.
From then on, those they once shared cities with became irreconcilable enemies. Hostility became the norm, to the point of triggering genocides at the slightest excuse.
'It's a shame everything ended that way. If we'd had their help in the war, maybe things would've turned out differently.'
Though Dylan understood —and partly supported— the reasons behind that rupture, it didn't stop him from wishing for a world where that conflict had never existed. After all, in terms of versatility, beastfolk ranked just below dragons and humans. And unlike the latter, their power grew gradually and steadily: they were never considered particularly weak.
'No… even if that monstrosity known as Velkara hadn't turned against us, it would've already been a huge victory.'
Despite the beastfolk's potential, there was no doubt that humanity's defeat wasn't due to low- or mid-rank warriors, but to the few capable of decimating armies on their own.
Avoiding enmity with any of them would've changed many things.
"What a damn mess…"
With a sigh, he rinsed the soap from his body, shut off the water, and ran his hands back through his wet hair, squeezing out the excess. It had gotten long, as he hadn't had time for a haircut in months. Then he grabbed the towel he'd left on the sink and barely dried himself before wrapping it securely around his waist.
He never brought clothes into the bathroom since he hated when they got damp from splashes. So, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind, he made his unhurried way toward his room.
His body no longer felt so bad. The long shower had calmed the fever's symptoms, and he could think with a bit more clarity. Hence, as he walked, he mentally reviewed his options for what to do next: maybe rest a bit, maybe cook something decent, or even continue his workout.
But just as he was about to cross the threshold of his room, a couple of knocks sounded from the front door.
Dylan stoped, brow furrowing as he turned toward the sound.
"Did that idiot come back?"
Roberto probably forgot something, he thought.
Momentarily, he considered ignoring him as a small revenge for his past behavior but gave up when the knocks came again, this time more insistent.
Faced with the persistence, Dylan pressed his lips together. He tightened the towel around his waist to avoid any mishaps and headed for the entrance. As he walked, he was already mentally rehearsing a scolding for Roberto. Since yesterday, the guy had been getting on his nerves, so he didn't plan on holding back this time.
What he'd forgotten, though, was one important detail: if it really was Roberto, he wouldn't have been knocking so politely. That guy would've been yelling, banging on the door, demanding to be let in like he owned the place.
As he approached, the knocking had already stopped. Without expecting them to return, he turned the doorknob naturally, and upon opening the door, came face-to-face with a presence he hadn't expected to see again… at least, not so soon.
"Dylan Castro! For your crimes against public order, I—!"
The energetic, authoritative voice at the entrance cracked abruptly.
Haru, who had stepped back a few paces to strike a proper dramatic pose —one hand over her face, the other extended like she was delivering a sentence— froze in place at the sight before her.
"Ah…"
She blinked, momentarily stunned by the broad figure of Dylan: torso still damp, hair dripping, and a towel precariously slung low on his hips.
For a brief, nerve-wracking instant, as her heart pounded in her ears and a faint twitch hit her eyebrow, Haru wondered if she had just arrived at the most unfortunate moment of her life.