In a small, lively village filled with color and joy, life flowed with a kind of rhythm only peace could create.
Morning sunlight spilled across the wooden rooftops, gilding them in gold. The air was filled with a mixture of scents — freshly baked bread, fruits ripening under the sun, and the faint perfume of wildflowers carried by the wind.
Merchants lined the narrow streets, their voices overlapping in a cheerful chorus. Some displayed jewelry that shimmered with golden light, catching the attention of every passerby. Others sold handmade trinkets, glass bottles filled with glowing dust, and rare herbs from faraway lands. Every sound — the chatter, the laughter, the rhythm of footsteps — merged into a song of ordinary happiness.
Children ran through the alleys, their laughter echoing between the wooden houses. Women greeted each other warmly, and the sound of hammering from a blacksmith's forge blended seamlessly into the melody of the morning.
The village was mostly home to families, its streets divided into two zones — one for the villagers, the other for travelers. Between these two zones stood the heart of the settlement: a grand church.
At its center rose a massive wooden cross, its dark wood smooth and ancient. Despite its simplicity, it radiated a sacred presence, as if it absorbed the prayers of everyone who passed beneath it. When sunlight touched it, a faint glow spread from its edges, painting the stone path with soft golden hues.
People came and went through the heavy doors of the church. Some entered to pray quietly, others to seek blessings before journeys or festivals. Around the building, laughter and conversation filled the air, blending with the distant toll of the bell that marked the passing of time.
The entire village was alive, full of breath and warmth —
except for one small, silent house standing on the northern edge.
Its wooden walls were old and slightly cracked, yet sturdy. The curtains were drawn, allowing only thin rays of light to filter inside. The air there was still. It was as though time itself had slowed down in that place.
Inside, there were only two people — a man and a woman.
The man had long white hair that fell to his shoulders, glowing faintly under the dim light. His eyes, a deep shade of gold, carried both calmness and distance, as if reflecting a past that refused to fade. His torso was wrapped in white bandages, stained faintly with brown where old blood had dried. Every breath he took was steady but heavy, as though his lungs still remembered pain.
The woman sitting nearby had long, flowing black hair that glimmered like silk in shadow. Her gray eyes were calm, almost expressionless, yet beneath that quiet surface lay uncertainty — curiosity she couldn't suppress.
For a long while, she said nothing. The only sound in the room was the soft creak of wood and the distant call of birds outside. Then, finally, her voice broke the silence.
"Who are you?"
Her tone was gentle, almost hesitant, as if she already expected not to receive an answer.
The man stayed silent for a few seconds before exhaling slowly.
His gaze shifted from the wooden ceiling to the faint glow seeping through the window.
"I can't say," he replied at last. "And no, I'm not from another world."
His voice was calm, sincere — almost too sincere. It carried no hesitation, yet it felt as though that honesty itself might be hiding something deeper.
The woman looked at him quietly. For a brief moment, her lips parted as if to speak, but she hesitated. Then, almost without realizing it, she spoke again — words slipping from her mouth before she could stop them.
"There's a dragon... It's the cause of all this chaos.
It's trying to destroy the kingdom.
Our village... has only suffered minor damage so far."
Her words hung in the air like smoke, and she blinked, as if startled by herself. She didn't even know why she had told him that.
The man's golden eyes flickered faintly — not with surprise, but with quiet curiosity. He didn't ask further. Instead, he stood up slowly, his movements cautious, as if testing the strength of his still-healing body.
Only then did he notice her attire — a simple, neat dress of dark gray, modest yet elegant, much like that of a housemaid.
The woman felt his gaze but chose to ignore it. Her eyes lowered briefly before she asked, her voice barely above a whisper:
"So… what will you do next?
Do you have a goal?"
Her question carried a strange softness, but also weight — a quiet understanding that the answer might matter more than she realized.
He fell silent, lost in thought. The air between them thickened with stillness. The faint ticking of an old clock filled the space, marking the seconds as his mind drifted into fragments of memory.
He tried to recall what had happened before he came here — before he woke up in this strange world.
He remembered his house, quiet and warm. On the wooden table, there had been a letter — one he'd noticed but ignored. He could almost see it now: the rough parchment, the unbroken seal.
He had tossed it aside, uninterested, before stepping outside to nap in his garden. The sunlight had been gentle that day, filtering through the leaves. The air had smelled of grass and earth.
And then... nothing.
His memory ended there — a sudden blankness, like a candle snuffed out.
He didn't know how or when it happened, but deep down, he sensed a connection — a faint echo of a voice, a strange man who had spoken of a "dimension beyond."
"Funny man…" he murmured under his breath, as though trying to recall a name long forgotten.
And with that memory, everything aligned. The haze in his eyes cleared. His purpose became certain, solid.
"I'm getting out of here."
The words were simple, but the way he spoke them carried resolve — quiet but absolute.
As he turned his head, his gaze fell upon something draped over a nearby chair — a cloak, white as snow. Its fabric shimmered faintly under the filtered light, clean and newly made.
The woman followed his gaze and spoke softly.
"That cloak... I made it for you.
Your old one was too torn to repair, so I made a new one."
He paused, remembering. His old cloak had been dark — black and gray — worn from years of travel. It had been with him through countless journeys, a silent witness to who he was.
Now it was gone, and in its place lay something unfamiliar yet strangely comforting.
He nodded faintly, an unspoken thank-you passing through his expression.
His fingers brushed the white fabric. It was smooth, soft — a warmth that contrasted the coolness of his bandaged hands.
He put it on quietly. The cloak settled around his shoulders perfectly, light yet firm, as if made precisely for him.
Then, before leaving, he looked back at her. Their eyes met.
There were no more questions, no more words left to exchange. Only silent understanding.
"My name is Sentrie," he said finally.
"Just another adventurer."
He turned toward the door. The old hinges creaked softly as he opened it.
Sunlight spilled into the dim room, stretching his shadow across the wooden floor.
For a brief moment, his white hair shimmered like silver beneath the morning light.
And then — without another sound — he stepped out into the world beyond, leaving the quiet house and the woman behind.