After a long, uneasy silence, Ventigo finally spoke again. His tone this time was gentler, calmer — stripped of fear, leaving only curiosity and respect.
"Forgive me for asking again, my lord," he said softly. "May I ask where you intend to go?"
The old man's voice was calm and steady now, his words flowing like the wind across a quiet field. There was no trembling in them, only the soft rhythm of politeness.
The title "my lord" echoed faintly in Sentrie's mind. It sounded both absurd and strangely distant — as though it belonged to someone else, not him. Was it respect? Fear? Or something deeper, perhaps a desperate hope disguised as reverence?
Around them, the villagers who had gathered earlier began to disperse one by one. Seeing their leader's calm demeanor, they no longer felt the need to stay. The murmur of voices faded into the gentle rhythm of everyday life once again — the laughter of children, the creaking of wooden carts, the clatter of tools.
Sentrie stood motionless, watching them return to their lives. Though his expression did not change, a faint sense of relief passed through him. It was better this way — without dozens of curious eyes staring at him like some foreign creature.
He finally spoke, his tone as cold and even as ever.
"I'm setting out to follow my purpose."
The words were brief — yet in their simplicity, they carried a strange depth. His voice was quiet, but in Ventigo's ears, it echoed heavily, like a weight that settled deep within his chest.
Ventigo nodded slowly. Understanding flickered across his face, though confusion still lingered beneath it. Without power, without guidance… how could he travel anywhere? he thought. Yet he dared not question further. Instead, he smiled faintly — the kind of gentle smile only age could produce — and bowed low.
"Then please… be careful out there, my lord," he said, his tone humble yet sincere.
The sound of his cane tapping against the earth echoed rhythmically — tok… tok… tok — as he turned and walked away. The evening sun cast his long shadow across the ground, and for a moment, that frail silhouette looked like it carried the entire weight of the village upon its back. Then it disappeared behind a corner, swallowed by the soft hum of the village life.
Sentrie watched him go without emotion. When the old man's figure vanished completely, he turned away, his face unreadable — neither warm nor cold, simply detached.
He began to walk once more. His boots pressed against the dry earth, each step producing a dull sound that mixed with the whisper of the wind. The dirt path stretched forward endlessly, flanked by tall trees whose branches arched overhead like a tunnel of shadows.
The air was cool and faintly damp from the rain that had fallen the night before. Moss grew thick upon the stones, and blades of grass swayed lazily in the breeze. It felt as if the forest itself was trying to reclaim the road, pulling it slowly back into nature's grasp.
Crickets and unseen insects sang all around — high, sharp, persistent. The sound wasn't loud, yet it drilled into the mind, a constant reminder of how silent everything else was. The world felt empty except for him, the road, and the monotonous song of the wild.
Sentrie walked with measured steps. The long white cloak he wore — a gift from Serin — fluttered lightly behind him as the wind passed. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the canopy, striking his silver-white hair and making it glimmer like threads of light.
He lifted his gaze toward the sky. It was bright and impossibly clear — a sea of blue brushed with soft white clouds drifting lazily by. The light poured down upon him, warm but not comforting, as if even the sun itself was watching, trying to understand him.
He stopped walking. Silence surrounded him once more. The forest, the path, the sky — everything seemed still.
"Where… am I?" he murmured quietly.
The words slipped out before he could stop them — a question not meant for anyone to answer. It was simply a thought, escaping into the empty air.
A faint chuckle followed. "Heh…"
He smiled faintly — a small, weary smile that carried no joy, no sadness. Just… emptiness. A tired acceptance that he truly had no idea where he was, or where he was supposed to go.
He thought back briefly to Ventigo — to the chance he had wasted. He could have asked for a map, for directions, for anything useful. But no — he hadn't. And now, stripped of his powers, cut off from any means of sensing the world around him, he was utterly lost.
All he had was the road before him. And so, he continued walking.
The sound of his steps merged with the murmurs of nature — the rustle of leaves, the whisper of wind, the distant cry of unseen birds. The rhythm of those sounds began to dull his mind, blurring the edge of his thoughts until all that remained was the mechanical motion of moving forward.
Time passed unnoticed. The color of the sky began to shift from blue to gold, and then to the tender orange of late afternoon. Rays of sunlight spilled between the branches, scattering into a thousand golden fragments that danced across his cloak and hair.
The world glowed around him — soft, fragile, fleeting. It was beautiful, in a melancholic way.
The light of the setting sun illuminated everything it touched — except the void within his heart.
For all the warmth that surrounded him, Sentrie felt nothing.
No peace.
No direction.
Only the quiet certainty that he was utterly, completely lost.
He exhaled slowly, the faint sound blending with the wind. Then, without a word, he took another step — his shadow stretching long across the fading light, following him into the quiet unknown.
Even after standing still for a few moments, Sentrie eventually began walking again.
He knew that if he simply kept following this dirt path, no matter how long or winding it might be, it would surely lead him to another village someday.
The soles of his boots met the ground in a slow, steady rhythm — crunch… crunch… — each step sounding like the quiet heartbeat of a traveler with no destination.
The road beneath his feet was rough and uneven, scattered with tiny stones and patches of cracked soil that had dried under the relentless sun. The air was hot, yet the forest canopy filtered the light into soft golden beams that painted the path ahead.
Those sunbeams spilled gently across his white cloak, causing it to shimmer faintly with every movement. The edges of the fabric fluttered in the breeze like a small flag carried by a lonely wanderer.
A warm wind passed through the woods, carrying the scent of earth and leaves — the pure, untamed smell of nature untouched by civilization. It brushed against his hair, lifting a few strands of silver-white to dance lightly in the air before settling again across his shoulder. The only sounds accompanying him were the distant chirps of insects and the faint rustling of branches swaying overhead.
For a long time, that was all there was — silence, wind, and the rhythmic whisper of his footsteps.
Then, the peaceful quiet broke.
Up ahead, Sentrie saw several figures walking toward him. The sound of their laughter reached his ears before their faces came into view.
It was loud, coarse, and careless — the laughter of men too comfortable in their own arrogance.
He noticed the metallic clinking of weapons at their belts, the harsh ring of steel brushing against steel.
Sentrie's golden eyes flicked toward them briefly, then turned away again.
He had no interest.
He did not slow his pace, nor did he change his expression. He simply walked forward, intending to pass them by as though they didn't exist.
But as he drew closer, one of the men suddenly stepped out from the group, blocking the path.
The man had a wild, almost predatory grin stretching across his tanned face. His orange hair glowed under the sunlight, and his eyes burned with the same fierce hue. He wore a crude fur vest over a stained undershirt, long pants coated with dust, and a knife strapped to his waist.
"Hey — you," the man called out, voice rough and taunting.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Before Sentrie could respond, a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. The grip was firm, almost crushing.
Sentrie froze for a brief moment, his senses instantly alert. That single touch told him everything he needed to know — these men weren't friendly travelers. They were trouble.
The air around them grew heavier, the peaceful forest replaced by an invisible tension that coiled like a snake waiting to strike.
Behind the orange-haired man, several others began to laugh among themselves, exchanging mocking whispers that carried through the trees.
An older man, tall and scruffy with a long unkempt beard, spoke next. His voice was slow, deep, and coated in mockery.
"You know," he said, chuckling, "it's dangerous for a kid like you to wander around these parts alone."
Their laughter swelled again — ugly, echoing, filling the once-serene forest with noise.
Sentrie stood still, silent and unmoving. The sunlight flickered across his face, his expression unreadable.
The man gripping his shoulder laughed louder, the sound sharp and unpleasant. His hand tightened, muscles straining as he pressed his fingers deeper into the fabric of Sentrie's cloak. Veins bulged across his wrist from the effort.
Then, with a calm, almost indifferent motion, Sentrie brushed the man's hand away.
The sound — thump! — was soft, but it struck the air like a thunderclap.
The man's grin vanished instantly, replaced by a cold glare of irritation. His companions shifted in response, their playful laughter turning into an eager, malicious curiosity.
Shouts rose from behind him — the voices of men hungry for a fight.
"Hey, boss! You just gonna let that slide?"
"That kid can't do anything anyway!"
"Or are you scared of him?"
Each taunt fed the man's pride like fuel to a flame. His face twisted with rage as he grabbed Sentrie's collar and yanked him close. The white fabric bunched tightly in his grip.
"I was trying to be nice!" he snarled, his breath hot with anger.
"And this is how you act!?"
Sentrie said nothing. He didn't resist, didn't strike back — he simply looked at the man for a fleeting moment, his golden eyes calm and emotionless, before turning away and beginning to walk again as though the man wasn't even there.
The man's fury boiled over.
Without warning, he unleashed a burst of raw energy — a crimson aura flaring violently from his body. The air vibrated, and a powerful force yanked at Sentrie from behind, dragging him backward.
"You think you can just walk away after picking a fight!?" the man roared.
Sentrie's body jerked slightly from the impact, his cloak fluttering violently in the wake of the attack. He glanced down and saw a small tear forming along his sleeve — and beneath it, a shallow wound, blood glistening like liquid fire in the sunlight.
His mind processed the situation in an instant. The man had attacked first.
In a single, fluid motion, Sentrie twisted his body — and his leg shot out like lightning.
Thud!
The kick landed squarely against the man's abdomen. The impact reverberated through the air, sending the orange-haired man stumbling backward several steps before barely managing to stay upright. His breath escaped in ragged gasps — "Hhkk… hahh…" — as pain twisted his expression.
Dust swirled between them as the two locked eyes.
The sunlight filtering through the trees cast long shadows across their faces — one burning with fury, the other calm as ice.
For a brief moment, the world around them seemed to stop.
No wind.
No birds.
No sound.
Only the heavy stillness of two beings facing each other, ready to strike again at any second.
The air itself grew dense, pressing down on the space between them. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath. The quiet stretched endlessly, carrying with it the electric tension of an unspoken challenge.
Two figures — one trembling with rage, the other standing in eerie calm — stared each other down in the middle of a lonely road, surrounded by nothing but trees, sunlight, and silence.
And in that frozen moment, the clash between chaos and composure began.