The sky was still a dull gray when Reno opened his eyes.Blackened branches stretched upward like giant hands clawing at the sky.His clothes were torn. His body ached. His breathing was shallow.He had no idea where he was. But nothing felt urgent.Until—Footsteps. Heavy. Burdened.
"Heh! Thought you were a dead deer. Turns out you're half-alive, huh?"
The man—middle-aged, sun-darkened skin, scruffy beard, a voice rough like an axe cleaving wood—laughed softly. No questions. No suspicion. Just the instinct of an old man who hadn't yet lost his humanity.He slung Reno over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carried him to a small wooden house—warm, smoke-filled, and worn with time.
Ezzera Village.A name not written on any map.Dirt roads. Crooked houses. A sluggish river that felt half-alive.Skinny children sat on porches, staring at the colorless sky.Two guards at the village gate played dice atop a grain crate. No alertness. No hope.And Reno simply watched, silently.
"This village system... it's dead," he thought. "But if only the top has died, the bottom might still grow."
In that wooden house, a young woman tended to him.Her name was Mira. Stern, but tired. Hair tied back. Fingers scented with herbs.
"My name's Mira. I usually handle the healing around here. Though... well, no real medical training," she said.
She cleaned the wound on his arm carefully. It wasn't just attention—it was skill honed from necessity, not education.
"How much for the treatment?" Reno asked suddenly.Mira paused.
"Pay whatever you can," she said with a shrug.
A common phrase, delivered plainly. But Reno heard more than that.He heard exhaustion. Resignation. Devotion that no longer had the luxury of choice.
"Don't you need money for supplies?""I gather the herbs myself. And the people here... they can barely eat. I can't charge them."
She could leave, Reno thought. But she didn't. Why?
"You close to the villagers?""They're not family. But they've become like one. Tomas, for instance—he's like a father to me. And there's also..."
And Mira kept talking. And Reno just listened.
That evening, Tomas—the old man who had saved him—invited Reno to the communal kitchen.Through the steam of broth and worn pots emerged a thin old woman with white hair.
Mother Yarra.
"So this is the forest boy?" she said, ladling soup."Yep, Ma. Quiet one. But I think he's good.""If you say he's good, then he must be."
Reno introduced himself quietly.He knew how to act—polite, unremarkable, a little awkward. Just enough for people to lower their guard... without raising suspicion.
And all through dinner, Reno simply listened.To Tomas and Yarra chatting about the weather, the harvest, old memories.And from that, he began to draw a mental map:Who talks to whom.Who's trusted.Who stays silent.
That night, Tomas kept talking.About his late wife and her famous rabbit stew.About his son who left for the city and never came back.About a village slowly withering away.
Reno kept listening.And realized something: the three of them—Tomas, Mira, and Yarra—could have left this village.But they didn't.Or couldn't.Or weren't allowed to.
And these three, with hearts too honest for this place, couldn't be bought with coin.
"Then," Reno thought, "I need to help this village grow—and make them its pillars."
Days passed.Reno didn't stand out. But he didn't hide either.He hauled buckets. Repaired roofs. Gathered herbs with Mira. Hunted with Tomas. Mended the barrack fence.Slowly, he blended into the rhythm of village life.He didn't ask questions. He just listened.
And from listening, he pieced together fragments:
– Trade routes were cut off.– Medicine was expensive.– Crops went missing during transport.– Taxes kept rising, but the roads remained broken.– No diplomatic contact with the capital.
Two names kept surfacing:
Berond – the village chief.Korr – the captain of the guards.
That's when Reno began to infiltrate.
He volunteered at the village office.Berond, cunning and calculating, accepted him.Within a week, Reno sat quietly in a dusty corner, reading old records no one bothered with.
And he found the cracks:
– Farmlands "donated voluntarily."– Crops "lost" due to "bad weather."– The supply warehouse? Only two keys: Berond's and Korr's.
Reno suppressed a smile each time the evidence stacked up.He didn't speak. Not yet.Because proof isn't for showing. It's for using.
Korr was harder.He didn't like new people. Paranoid.
So Reno kept mending fences. Sharpening blades.Brought him wine during night shifts.Until one night...
He was invited to drink at a shack behind the barracks.
"People around here need to learn their place," Korr laughed, swigging from his mug."Ask too many questions... well, a few beatings teach 'em silence."
Reno laughed along.Then Korr stepped out.And Reno moved.
A small chest in the corner. Locked. But not for long.
Inside:
– Necklaces.– Bracelets.– Laced undergarments.– A tattered notebook filled with girls' names.– Dates.– Red X marks.– One name: Mira. Two years ago.Marked: "Silenced."
The next morning, Reno approached Mira.He didn't speak at first. Just stood there. Still.
Then quietly said,"They… wrote everything down."
Mira froze mid-motion. Her shoulders tensed. Silence.
"I know," she whispered. "But if I speak out… I won't just die. The next girls… they'll be next."
Reno didn't reply.He made no promises.
Because to him, promises weren't words.They were plans.
And from that moment on, he wasn't just infiltrating.He was hunting.