"Run, Marcus!"
"No, please don't go!"
"Just run, or she'll kill you too!"
"Dad!"
"Run! Get out of here!"
--- --- ---
Cold sweat slid down his temple.
His eyelids fluttered open, and—like someone torn free from an endless nightmare—he jolted awake, heart pounding wildly in his chest. His breathing was ragged and heavy; his chest rose and fell with such force it seemed each breath might be his last.
He exhaled softly and crawled out of the tent. The chill of dawn brushed his face, easing the fever in his body.
The sky, caught between night and day, burned with hues of orange and violet; a faint light glimmered over his sweat-drenched skin and bare muscles.
From where he stood, Babel rose at the city's heart—majestic, piercing the heavens themselves.
But to him, that sight held no greatly. For he stood at the city's lowest edge—in the tangled, decaying alleys of Daedalus Street, a forgotten corner of Orario...
a place where poverty, crime, and the scars of survival intertwined. A district no decent soul would ever walk, unless they had nothing left to lose.
As they said—this was the home of the Wanderers... or the only place that would take them in.
The shadow of Babel stretched over the ruins with the rising sun, and for a moment, it seemed even that grand tower was ashamed of what lay beneath it.
He clenched his teeth.
One thought echoed in his mind—that this city, for all it possessed, had never been a place for people like him.
Unless power, someday, could change everything.
But what power?—he furrowed his brow, glancing briefly at the sky.
"What a fucking day..."
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Dawn had only just broken, and the streets of the city were still wrapped in a soft silence.
The morning air was cold and hushed, drifting through the winding alleys; aside from the faint echo of footsteps here and there, nothing else could be heard.
Only a handful of adventurers were heading toward the Dungeon at such an hour—but today was Friday, and few souls wandered about.
Just a few fruit stands and small food stalls were open...
And why should anyone care?
No one in this part of the city held any fondness for the Wanderers.
People said that at night, when the shadows intertwined, the Wanderers crawled out from their shelters—and then came the foolish rumors. Yet the truth was far simpler, and far crueler. Every night, they searched for something—something that had kept their rage and blood alive through the years: Revenge.
And the name that burned like a scar among them was Gale Wind.
The people of Orario believed that Gale had died years ago—after killing all of "Evilus"
But the Wanderers did not.
They said Gale still lived, appearing in the dark, taking contracts, and killing for more coin.
That was why the Wanderers hid in the shadows, waiting for the day—and that this time, they would be the hunters.
So that she would taste the same nightmare she once unleashed upon them.
But for him...
This story had long lost its meaning.
Seven years had passed!
Perhaps there were still those among the Wanderers who hadn't lost hope, but he wasn't one of them—not because he'd given up, but because there was simply nothing left to find.
No clue. No name. No trace.
And a little man can't spend his life chasing a shadow that will never show itself.
Even so, that day—
The day he lost everything—
still haunted his sleep, and his waking hours alike.
His life as a Wanderer was nothing but emptiness; meaningless days spent waiting for death.
Maybe to others, such thoughts sounded foolish—but when you're an orphan, and your father's killer still breathes somewhere in city... you grow up faster than your years, or this cruel world burns you alive.
It was the same fate that befell most orphans. The strong survived. The weak rotted away in the corners and died.
And no one—no one—ever reached out a hand during those wretched days.
Only a stain of that past remained—a memory that would never wash away.
And yet... they were still alive.
He was still alive.
As always, his path led once more toward the Dungeon—to earn valis, to help the brothers and sisters who still lived. He was the strongest among the Wanderers, but he had never been their boss.
Or perhaps, more truthfully—he never wanted to be.
Leadership was a burden that did not suit him; his path lay elsewhere.
Still... he had been the one to first gather the orphaned children—the ones who, like him, had lost everything—and teach them how to survive in this merciless world.
He shared with them the knowledge his father had once taught him—the secret art of a true pilgrim: Survival...
His father... a man he never truly knew.
He rarely spoke of his past, but sometimes, in the stillness of star-filled nights, he spoke of another world—a sick, corrupted world, where humans turned into the walking dead from a savage plague; monsters hungrier and crueler than anything that existed here.
He had always wondered...
Where exactly had his father come from?
As he walked, nearing Babel, his thoughts back to the previous week.
Some of the Wanderers had clashed with a group of female warriors—Amazonesses of unknown origin, whose clothing looked less like battle gear and more like half-worn garments of temptation.
A mix of silver bells, leather straps, and violet cloth wrapped loosely around their bodies, leaving little to the imagination.
Their movements were slow and alluring, but there was something cold and feral in their eyes—something devoid of lust.
The Amazonesses had tried to lure them in with soft smiles and gentle words, inviting them to spend the night.
But the Wanderers stayed silent, distant, and unmoved.
None yielded to the gaze or charm of those seductive women—and that indifference was what sparked the disaster.
They called themselves "Barbarians."
And from what they showed of their lustful, they were far more dangerous than they appeared.
The fight broke out suddenly—screams of snu-snu...
Some of the Wanderers managed to escape, but the rest never came back the same.
When they were later found in the alleys of Daedalus, something inside them had turbulence—their eyes were dull, their stares empty, their bodies trembling.
They no longer spoke. Some just shivered. Others screamed at the faintest sound.
A few even threw themselves from the heights, as if trying to flee from something that still lived inside their minds—those moments of torment they could never forget.
But one thing repeated through all the rumors.
They were searching for their leader.
Leader?
He clenched his jaw.
A leader? What leader? The Wanderers never had one.
And those "Barbarians"... he could swear he had heard that name before—But where?
.
As he passed through a narrow alley that led toward Babel's street, he suddenly stopped mid-step. His body stiffened—something inside him screamed a warning.
Instinctively, he turned, his hand brushing the haft of his axe.
But... no one was there.
He blinked a few times, ran a hand beneath his mask, rubbing at his eyes. A strange tension crawled along the back of his neck—an instinct that never lied.
It felt as if someone or something were watching him from afar.
No... closer. Much closer.
A pair of eyes. Still. Focused.
He held his breath.
"E–excuse me?"
Before the voice had even fully reached him, instinct moved faster than thought. He drew his tomahawk and spun—its blade stopping just short of slicing into a girl's throat.
The air between them split, a few strands of her hair severed as they drifted down.
The girl was nearly his height, maybe a little shorter.
Her hair was a pale bluish-gray, tied loosely into a small ponytail. Eyes of the same color, skin smooth and fair like a peach.
She wore a simple outfit—a white apron, an oak-green skirt, brown shoes, and long black stockings.
The air stirred by the weapon brushed her hair, her eyes widening, a bead of sweat sliding down her cheek, lips parted but soundless.
Beneath his mask, still caught in the shock of the mistake he had nearly made, he exhaled sharply.
Just as he began lowering the tomahawk—
A sharp, metallic whistle cut through the air, far too fast for instinct to react.
A knife buried itself into his shoulder. Pain, savage and immediate, flared through his body.
"Ghh—aaah!!?"
Before he could even locate the source, a second blade, then a third—
Dozens of kitchen knives struck him from every direction, each one placed with surgical precision, like an ambush by murderous chefs.
Blood sprayed, seeping through the tears in his cloak and hoodie, splattering across the stone street.
His breath hitched, trembled—and then...
At the entrance of a tavern, several girls stood frozen. They all wore outfits similar to the gray-haired girl's—from humans to catfolk, even an elf—aprons and skirts marking them as waitresses.
Among them stood a tall woman dressed the same, though in blue. Her brown hair was tied in a high tail.
"W-W-W-What d-d-did you do!?"
The gray-haired girl, seeing the man drenched in blood, rushed forward, her face pale.
The tall woman frowned, her tone tight and rough.
"Damn it... what was that!?"
None of them seemed to have meant to kill him—whatever they'd done, it was a mistake.
"Is he... dead?"
The cat-eared girl's voice trembled.
Another waitress stepped closer, staring at the fallen boy's dark clothes.
"He's a Wanderer..."
An elf with green hair grabbed the gray-haired girl's arm, pulling her back.
"Syr, get away from him! He almost took your head off!"
"He didn't mean to!" Syr's tears shimmered as her voice broke.
The tall woman exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair, her gaze fixed on the bloody scene before her.
Everything was chaos—the ground soaked in blood, air thick with its metallic scent, silence pressing down heavy. Her expression hardened, as if searching for a way to fix this mess.
But before she could speak, her eyes suddenly widened in disbelief.
The others followed her gaze—and froze.
The boy—the one they thought dead—moved.
Slowly, he rose...
The sound of metal sliding out of flesh echoed through the air—again and again.
Each knife fell wetly to the ground.
He staggered upright, leaning against the wall, his breath short and ragged, blood dripping from his fresh wounds.
But something was wrong with him.
From beneath his mask, faint lines of light spread from the left side of his face—glowing veins beneath the skin, pulsing brighter with each breath.
His breathing quickened, his jaw trembled, his inhale came out like a growl.
The gray-haired girl took a step forward. "A-are you all right?"
He coughed, spitting blood.
The mask slipped from his face and hit the ground with a hollow clack.
Part of his face showed beneath the hood—pale, drawn, haunted, as if still trapped in a nightmare.
"Let me help you..." the girl reached out, but the boy lifted his head.
His left eye blazed gold—burning like a flame in the night. That look held rage, pain, and hatred all at once.
A heavy pressure filled the space, forcing everyone back a step.
The green-haired elf quickly stepped in front of Syr, picking up one of a bloody knife and raising it defensively.
The boy, yanking the last sharp from his shoulder, roared—a feral, guttural sound tearing from his chest.
"GrrraaAAAHHH—!"
The streak in his neck bulged, hot breath steaming in the cold morning air.
"Rrrhh..."
His wounds began closing—one after another, unnaturally fast.
The blood dried, leaving behind faint, murky traces of glowing lines. His black leather was stiff with dried blood, and the stench of scorched iron filled the air.
They could all feel it—what stood before them was no longer human, but something that should have been dead.
He stayed poised for attack for a heartbeat—but, to their surprise, he pulled back instead.
Opening his bag, he pulled out a small glass vial filled with black liquid, drank it in one go, and after a few seconds, the glow beneath his skin faded.
He exhaled deeply, collapsed to his knees.
Syr stepped forward as the others watched in stunned silence, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.
"Sir, you're not all right..."
"Leave me."
His voice was rough, gravelly.
"No! You're bleeding!" She tightened her grip.
"Syr..."
The tall woman's voice came low and stern. "Let him go. He—"
But before she finished, Syr leaned close and whispered something in her ear.
The Dwarf woman's eyes widened, then narrowed again.
She exhaled sharply. "Damn it... girls, bring him ins—huh?—"
Her words broke off.
Because the Wanderer was gone.
Syr's eyes darted around in wide, but there was no trace of him.
Only a few drops of blood still glistened on the cobblestones.
"Where did he go?" the cat girl asked, her voice trembling.
The others stood frozen, realizing they hadn't even noticed when he left.
A hush fell over them—only one thing remained behind.
The mask, lying on the ground, still dripping blood from its edge.
Syr slowly knelt, reaching down to pick it up. A drop of blood slid along her finger.
She just stood there, staring at it—eyes heavy, distant—as if the warmth of his face still lingered within.
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A wet cough burst from his throat, blood splattering as the sound of choking and gasping faded into the murmur of passersby.
People's eyes weighed heavy on him as they passed—the wounded Wanderer—giving him a wide berth, disgust clear in their faces.
Leaning against the cold wall, he tried to stay still, to breathe, but his body wouldn't obey. His wounds—though many had already closed—still burned like fire coursing through inside his veins.
His body wasn't made to heal like others; every wound that closed opened another one deeper within.
Every act of healing came with waves of agony—an accursed inheritance boiling in his blood.
His father had once told him that he was not ordinary... that he had been altered from the root.
Something hybrid, he'd said—a birth between a human and something else.
A being known in his father's memory as Chimera Evolution.
A system within his body that, when harmed, responded violently—awakening a primal core that repaired the flesh, sealed the wounds...
But the price was pain. Pure, searing pain that reached the bone.
He had called it the "Blood Seizure"—the moment when the body tries to wrest control from the mind.
A power both gift and curse; a sickness disguised as strength.
Each time his body tried to heal, his nervous system burned in a storm of wild signals—
and that toss bred fury, the kind that, if unleashed, would turn him into a mindless beast.
He had tried to learn how to control it—and when he couldn't, his father had taught him to make a serum: Antizin, a chemical elixir that calmed the raging flow within his mood.
It was the only thing standing between his humanity and the monster he could become.
If he hadn't drunk the Antizin moments earlier, those waitresses would have been ripped apart.
Still, recalling the precision of those flying knives... he realized those girls hadn't seemed like ordinary waitresses at all.
But that was beside the point now.
Even with Antizin dulling the situation, his body trembled, his insides rioted, and his mind wavered on the edge of losing control.
He wondered how he hadn't gone insane already.
Near the base of Babel Tower, under the scornful gaze of people who stared with fear and contempt, blood trailed down from the corner of his mouth.
To them, he was just another Wanderer—nothing more, nothing less.
He turned into a lane and slid down the wall, sitting in the shadow.
The air burned in his lungs.
He felt empty. Out of breath, out of hope, out of self.
How much...?
How long could he keep living this cursed life?
He hated this city.
People.
Past.
—and most of all, himself.
As his vision blurred and his consciousness drifted somewhere between waking and sleep, a figure appeared—a woman's silhouette moving closer through the faint shimmer of a gentle aura, long hair flowing behind her.
In that half-conscious haze, he couldn't tell whether she had come to save him... or to finish what death had started.
Either way, the latter didn't sound so bad.
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At that very moment, in a luxurious room facing a vast glass wall that unveiled a breathtaking view of Orario under the fading glow of dusk, a lady sat gracefully upon a leather chair.
A glass of crimson wine rested in her hand, her slender fingers delicately circling the rim of the goblet as her piercing gaze lingered upon the glowing streets below.
She blinked once—her eyes searching the distance for a face that seemed to have vanished from the people just moments ago.
Her lips tightened slightly, an expression of faint disappointment crossing her features...
In a calm yet commanding voice, she spoke; "Go... Look into the Wanderers—especially the one who was near the Hostess of Fertility."
The tall, muscular man standing beside her bowed immediately.
His expression remained unreadable, obedient, as he turned and silently exited the room.
The soft click of the closing door echoed faintly in the stillness, while she took another sip of her wine, her gaze Staring once more—toward the deepening sky where the first stars of the night began to seen.
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To be continued...