When Adlof returned to the room, questions gnawed at his mind slowly, relentlessly. He knew nothing. Not who he was, not how he had arrived here, not even whether this was a dream or some twisted reality.
The room was simple.A thin mattress on the floor, a small wooden bed, and a dusty shelf with a few scattered items. Beside the bed sat a dark leather bag—worn, but oddly well-kept.
Adlof approached it cautiously, almost fearing it might burst open on its own.Inside… was his mentor's sword.
Time seemed to halt. His memory was blank, yet the face of his mentor, his voice, the way he wielded the blade—everything rushed back in a sudden, violent wave.
He gripped the sword tightly, as if clinging to the last pieces of his identity. In the bag, he also found some old clothes—those he had worn during training.
He fastened the belt around his waist, sheathed the sword, and stepped out of the room. He didn't know where he was going, but his legs moved instinctively, driven by something deeper than logic.
The village looked clearer now, though no less foreign.
It sat nestled between rolling hills, surrounded on all sides by dense trees that made it feel hidden—deliberately hidden—from the outside world.
The houses were scattered and modest, made of wood and stone, with thatched or clay-tiled roofs. No clear pattern to their placement, no signs of modernity.
The streets were narrow and dusty, carved by the slow erosion of footsteps and cart wheels. No lampposts. No vehicles. Just raw, untouched life.
Adlof walked aimlessly until he reached what resembled a market area:Tiny stalls, farmers selling vegetables, a leatherworker, a carpenter… and then—a blacksmith.
"Exactly what I need," he thought.
He stepped into the forge. The heat hit him instantly, thick with the scent of coal and sweat.The space was cramped, alive with the sound of hammer striking steel.
An old man stood by the anvil, his shoulders broad despite his age, pounding metal with rhythmic precision. His arms moved like machinery, every strike a lifetime of craft.
The blacksmith looked up briefly and said in a rough voice,"Oh… the new boy."
Adlof froze."The new boy?"
The man laughed, a deep, heavy laugh that echoed through the forge."Yes, yes—you're the latest talk of the village. They speak of you more than they speak of rain!"
He paused, then asked,"What's your name, lad?"
"Adlof…" he answered, hesitantly.
"Hmm… strong build. You've trained, haven't you?What's that at your waist?"
Adlof drew the sword and held it out."Can you fix this?"
The old man examined it, turned it in his hands, inspected the blade and the worn engravings.Then, suddenly, he snorted and said flatly:"This? Trash."
He tossed it onto the bench.
Adlof flinched, stunned. He wanted to object but had no words.
"You need a new weapon, a real one. This won't hold up in any proper fight.Come back when you have some coin—we don't work for free, and we sure as hell don't accept dreams as payment! Hahahaha!"
The blacksmith burst into laughter and returned to his hammering.
Adlof picked up the sword and left, silent, unsure of what to do.He wandered through the village, his mind drifting, his steps empty.He watched the people, heard their words, but none of it felt real.
Then, at the end of a narrow path, he saw a building larger than the rest.
Unusual. Different. It didn't fit with the rest of the village.
He stopped in front of it, staring.
"What is this place?And why… does it feel like it's calling to me?"