Soren returned to the carriage and tucked himself quietly into one of the passenger seats. The moment he sat down, an overwhelming drowsiness settled over him—fatigue clawing at his limbs, heavy and inescapable. His eyes, though always shut, now seemed to fall into deeper stillness.
Moments later, he was fast asleep.
One of the guards who had followed behind, hoping to offer his thanks again, found him slumped against the side of the carriage, breathing slowly.
"…Looks like he's asleep," a woman whispered softly from the opposite bench, informing the guard.
The guard nodded. "Ah. I see. Don't wake him. He helped save us… he's our savior."
The other passengers around them nodded in agreement, murmuring their appreciation. One even placed a folded cloak over Soren's legs, a silent gesture of respect.
The woman who'd spoken earlier continued to observe Soren. She had seen it—from the partition window during the attack—the way he fought, how he moved despite his shut eyes, how he seemed to bend the chaos around him to his will.
He really is blind, isn't he? she thought in awe. And yet… he fought like a silent wind, thunderous in its wake.
Not just precise—unnatural. He had walked through the battlefield as if guided by some unspoken rhythm.
Her gaze softened as she watched his peaceful face, now free of pain or strain. He looked so young—almost innocent, like someone untouched by violence. It was hard to believe he had been at the heart of the battle just moments ago.
She found herself wondering—for the first time—just what kind of world he saw behind those closed eyes.
---
Border City of Kirra.
A soft click echoed in the dimly lit room.
The sound of a communication disk shutting down.
"How is it?" asked a man seated beside the one who had just ended the magic device call.
"They're sending someone from the Academy to aid in the hunt," the caller replied calmly.
A third figure—a woman leaning against the wall—let out a pleased hum. "Is that so? That's good, isn't it? Someone from Astralis Academy… they wouldn't send just anyone."
The man shook his head. "From what I gathered… they're sending a blind person."
"What?" the first man scowled. "A cripple? Is the Academy mocking us? This isn't a schoolyard exercise!"
"Why didn't they send their best?" the woman asked, voice edged with growing frustration.
"Their best?" the man gave a bitter chuckle. "Unless it's an S-rank mission, they never send their top people. They don't waste elite resources on outer-border jobs."
"Still…," the first man muttered. "This is the Crimson Apostle we're talking about. A man like that shouldn't be taken lightly."
"Doesn't matter," the caller cut in firmly. "We'll handle it ourselves. No need to wait for whoever they sent."
He stood, eyes gleaming with resolve.
"We are Adventurer Group A: Howlspire. We finish what we start. And we don't rely on half-measures."
Two Days Later — Outskirts of Kirra
The carriage finally rolled past the city gates of Kirra after nearly two and a half days of travel. The roads had been rough, the pace slow due to security concerns after the ambush. But now, at last, Soren stepped down onto hard, cobbled ground.
The city smelled of iron and smoke, its walls high and weatherworn from years of border conflict. Soldiers patrolled with taut expressions. Wariness was in the air—like everyone expected something to go wrong.
As the carriage rumbled to a halt and passengers began to disembark, Soren adjusted the strap of his satchel. His hand brushed against the worn leather out of habit, checking every familiar buckle and seam. Cane in hand, he stepped lightly down onto the stone street, the city's scent hitting him like a tide—dust, soot, salt from nearby cliffs, and steel.
Behind him, a familiar voice.
"You truly don't want me to accompany you to the inn, Mister Soren?"
Elianne Rosavelle. That was the name she had given him.
Soren turned his head slightly toward her, his sightless eyes still closed as ever. "No need. I'll find my way just fine."
He paused, then added with a faint smile, "But thank you. The road was long, and your company made it more bearable."
She laughed softly. "That might be the most elegant way someone has called me a chatterbox."
He gave a small chuckle at that. But then, his voice dropped lower, thoughtful.
"There's something I've been meaning to ask."
"Oh?"
"The perfume you wear. It's not something found in roadside stalls. It's crafted with wyrmwood essence and red lunar lily. Rare… and expensive. Almost exclusively used in noble courts."
There was a beat of silence.
Then she replied, smoothly, "My, your nose is sharp."
"I've learned to trust it." He tilted his head ever so slightly. "And while we spoke, I often felt another presence watching. Someone silent. Steady."
She didn't respond immediately. Instead, she stepped closer, close enough that the hem of her cloak brushed his side.
"I'll only say this," she murmured. "The road is dangerous. Everyone wears a mask."
Another soft laugh, lighter this time, but tinged with a veiled caution. "Some wear two."
Soren's smile faded just a touch. But he nodded. "Take care, Lady Elianne."
"And you, Mister Soren. I hope we meet again."
As he turned away, cane tapping softly on the stones, he heard the subtle footfall of someone moving behind Elianne—silent, purposeful, always a half-step behind.
A bodyguard, no doubt. Well-trained, careful. Invisible to most. But not to him.
He said nothing more, but the moment lingered in his thoughts as he walked deeper into Kirra.
---
Elsewhere — Beneath Kirra, in a Forgotten Chapel
The walls were carved from obsidian-black stone, slick with a sheen of moisture. Torches flickered with green flame, casting long shadows across arcane sigils etched into the ground. A cold stillness clung to the air.
This was no place of worship. Not anymore.
It was a lair.
And at its center, on a raised, broken altar, sat a man draped in crimson robes—faded at the hem, stained in symbols of forbidden knowledge. His presence was sharp, serpentine.
The Crimson Apostle.
Before him, on both knees, bowed a man in tattered traveler's gear—one of the Apostle's spies. His voice trembled with devotion.
"…Movements in the city, my Lord. They've sent hunters. A ranked adventuring group—Howlspire. And another... a blind man, rumored to be from the Academy."
The Apostle leaned forward, resting his chin on steepled fingers.
"A blind man?" he echoed, the hint of amusement curling into his voice. "How curious."
He rose, slow and deliberate. Chains hanging from the chapel rafters jingled faintly at the motion.
"Let them come," he murmured. "Let them all come."
He walked across the chapel floor, boots tapping over a ring of blackened bone. Then stopped.
"You said Howlspire went ahead?"
"Yes, my Lord. They didn't wait for the Academy's envoy. They move with haste."
"Foolish. Eager prey makes the best bait."
He turned, eyes gleaming in the firelight. A smirk spread across his lips.
"If I recall…" he began, fingers tracing the air as if drawing invisible maps, "…there's been a sighting. A beast. Something ancient. Something large."
The spy dared to lift his head, eyes wide.
"A monstrous beast?"
"Mm. West of the cliffs. Nesting in the crags." He chuckled low. "For now only few know. Even fewer understand the scale of what lurks there."
He paused, savoring the thought. Then gave the order.
"Spread word subtly. Let them think they're closing in on me. Then push them west. Let their ambition drive them into the beast's maw."
"As you command," the follower whispered, bowing low.
The Apostle turned back toward the chapel's dark altar.
"Let blood answer blood," he said softly. "And let the beast roar in my stead."