Sentrie stepped out of the small wooden house where he had been resting since he woke from his injuries.
He was wearing the white cloak Serin had given him — light as air, soft as silk, yet strangely warm when touched by the sun.
As the morning light filtered through the clouds, its radiance danced across the fabric, making it shimmer faintly like snow beneath sunlight.
The breeze carried the scent of wet soil and pine after the previous night's rain, and his long white hair swayed gently with every breath of wind.
He walked slowly through the narrow paths of the village.
The air was calm, peaceful — filled with birdsong echoing through the trees and the distant laughter of children playing near the wells.
Every corner of the place felt alive.
It was a world seemingly free of pain, a place where joy and simplicity intertwined.
But within Sentrie's chest, there was no warmth, no hint of peace.
His golden eyes reflected only stillness — the silence of calculation and the cold of logic.
He did not look at the people or the beauty around him; his mind was elsewhere, sharpening itself like a blade.
He had only one goal — to escape this place.
He began thinking methodically.
The way he analyzed things was almost mechanical, every thought precise and deliberate.
His eyes glimmered faintly as he murmured to himself,
"There are several ways…"
The first — to destroy the realm itself.
The second — to kill the master who owned it.
And the third — to leave through special means: teleportation, rituals, or hidden exits buried somewhere within this world.
He chose the first one — destruction.
It was direct, efficient, and final.
Sentrie closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He reached into the core of his being, calling upon the power that defined him — his ability to levitate.
But when he tried to rise, nothing happened.
No movement.
No sensation of magic flowing through his veins.
It was as if the very air had turned to lead, weighing him down.
A sharp shock ran through him. His brows furrowed slightly.
The golden hue in his eyes flickered with disbelief.
"What…?" he thought, tightening his fist.
He could feel something around him — an unseen pressure, like a force field woven into the fabric of the world itself.
Not an ordinary magic barrier. Something deeper, older… the kind of suppression that worked at the level of existence itself.
He thought fast, mind shifting gears like a storm.
"Could it be… the owner of this realm has a power that nullifies all mobility?"
His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile.
"How cautious."
His tone was quiet, but edged with frost.
He tried again — this time not to move, but to destroy.
He raised his hand and focused, calling forth his explosive energy.
A spark that could normally erase mountains, cities, even gods.
But again, nothing happened.
No sound, no flash, not even a tremor in the air.
It was as if the universe itself refused to acknowledge his command.
He stared at his hand in disbelief.
The silence felt suffocating.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, under his breath, he muttered,
"…Impossible."
His jaw tightened. The failure didn't make sense — unless someone, or something, had deliberately sealed him.
Then, the memory came — the letter.
The one that had summoned him here.
The name of the sender was never revealed, but Sentrie had felt their aura through the paper itself.
Whoever that person was, their power was far beyond his expectations.
To suppress him — completely — meant they wielded control over laws far greater than mere magic.
He let out a faint sigh, half irritation, half grudging respect.
"Whoever you are… you've done well."
He murmured to himself, voice laced with dark amusement.
Then, calmly, he dropped the idea of brute force.
"If destruction is impossible, then I'll find another way."
And with that, he began walking again — deeper into the heart of the village.
He passed through crowds of people — merchants bartering, families sharing food, children chasing one another.
The world around him was warm, glowing with life.
The smell of fresh bread filled the air. The sound of chatter and laughter intertwined with the rustle of the wind through the trees.
Everything here seemed… almost too perfect.
He watched for a while, silent.
His gaze wandered from one smiling face to another, yet no emotion stirred within him.
He felt neither envy nor affection — only detachment.
All of it felt artificial, like a painting made to distract the eyes from the truth behind it.
He continued onward, past the last houses on the edge of the settlement.
He could feel the faint hum of the world's boundary nearby — an invisible wall where reality grew thin.
He was about to step beyond it when a voice called out from behind him.
His hair was pure white, his eyes soft and golden like the light of dawn.
He carried a wooden staff that looked older than him, its surface worn smooth by time.
His clothes were simple — a white shirt, long black trousers, boots caked with dust.
But his smile… it was bright, kind, even cheerful.
"Where are you headed, my lord?"
The old man asked in a light, almost playful tone.
Sentrie didn't answer immediately.
Instead, his gaze deepened.
Those golden eyes — once bright and calm — now turned sharp and piercing, as if cutting through the old man's very soul.
He studied everything: the way the man breathed, the trembling of his hand, the faint aura around him.
Then, he spoke — quietly but coldly.
"Who are you?"
The words were soft, but the chill in them was enough to make the air heavy.
People nearby turned to look.
Their expressions shifted — some showed fear, others curiosity, and some… hope.
Hope.
That was the one emotion that caught Sentrie off guard.
Why did they look at him as if he were something divine?
He hadn't done anything for them. He hadn't even spoken kindly to a single one of them.
Serin's words came back to him.
"You must be from another world, aren't you?"
Perhaps that was why.
Perhaps they saw him as a symbol — a visitor, a savior, or a curse.
But what unsettled him most was the question that followed:
How did they know?
The old man chuckled softly, breaking the tension that hung in the air.
Despite Sentrie's coldness, his smile remained warm.
"I am the head of this village," he said politely.
"My name is Ventigo Mesquite. It is an honor to meet you."
He bowed slightly, his movements slow and careful — respectful, even fearful.
Sentrie's lips curved upward faintly.
The village chief himself, hm? They must be expecting something from me.
Ventigo stepped closer, still smiling, and gently placed a hand on Sentrie's shoulder.
The air grew still.
He closed his eyes, channeling a subtle detection spell — a simple ability to sense magical presence.
It was harmless, but precise.
However, the moment his magic touched Sentrie… there was nothing.
No energy.
No life force.
No flow of power.
Only a void — vast, silent, infinite.
Ventigo's eyes flew open, shock flashing across his face.
For a second, he forgot to breathe.
His voice trembled.
"This… this can't be…"
But Sentrie simply stood there, motionless, watching him —
a faint smile ghosting his lips, unreadable and terrifying all at once.
Sentrie noticed what the old man, Ventigo, was doing — the way his wrinkled hand rested gently upon his shoulder, the faint glow of curiosity hidden behind his golden eyes — yet he made no move to stop him. There was no point. He already knew, deep within his mind, that he was powerless now.
The warmth from that frail hand was oddly human — trembling, cautious, and sincere. It carried a strange weight, as if the old man was trying to measure something beyond the flesh, reaching out to sense Sentrie's essence itself. Yet what he found was a void — a hollow silence that devoured all energy like a bottomless pit.
Ventigo's eyes trembled for a brief second before he slowly withdrew his hand, his fingers curling slightly as if the emptiness had left a chill in them. His expression shifted from confidence to confusion, from reverence to uncertainty. The look in his eyes spoke volumes — he could not comprehend what he had just touched.
He had expected to feel the aura of a powerful being, yet all he found was stillness, emptiness… and an unsettling calm that somehow felt more terrifying than raw strength.