Seeing the guy actually trying to climb in through the window, Pernerth shrieked, "Ah! Get away! Don't touch this! Get down from the carriage! You reek!"
"Outrageous! Steward! Steward!" Even the noblewoman inside widened her eyes, clearly alarmed. "Get this bold commoner off the carriage this instant!"
A slightly portly, bearded steward in livery immediately hopped down from the driver's seat, grabbed Glen's pants, and yanked hard.
Feeling the fabric start to give, Glen stopped playing along and went with the pull.
He plopped onto the ground, looked up at the panicked girl, and doubled over laughing, clutching his stomach.
The chubby steward flushed red with fury. Seeing Glen laughing hysterically on the ground, he was livid and raised his fist to strike.
But the noblewoman's voice rang from inside the carriage, "Hopps, forget him—let's head home."
Obeying, the steward shot a venomous glare at the rolling-on-the-ground commoner, then climbed back up and drove the carriage away.
Inside, the noblewoman resumed her usual unshakable composure. With a slight turn of her eyes, she glanced at her daughter, whose cheeks puffed like little dumplings and lips stuck out in a pout, and reminded her, "Don't make such inelegant faces, Pernerth. You're a noble—mind your manners."
"Yes, Mother," Pernerth replied, forcing her expression back, though she still looked very annoyed.
…
After laughing his fill on the ground, Glen wiped his eyes, stood up, dusted off his backside, and kept walking.
No sooner had he entered the forest on Bayek's outskirts than a cloud of dust rose in the distance.
Glen grinned—he knew who was coming.
True to form, a gust of wind hit him, and Night Roar's single eye loomed inches from his face.
Pushing that huge face aside, Glen walked around him and asked as he went, "How's the pig feeding going? Any accidents?"
"Awooo…" Night Roar puffed out his chest proudly—no problems.
"Good." Glen nodded. "Let's check the pigpen first."
As Night Roar had "said," the pigpen was fine, just messy, with pig fodder scattered everywhere.
Glen didn't fuss—it was enough that Night Roar kept the pigs fed.
Next, he went to a separate enclosure housing the captured moose‑like creature he still hadn't figured out what to do with.
"Hmm… feels like a waste to just slaughter you. Judging by your size, you're about as big as a horse. Wonder how strong you are? Maybe… next time you can pull the cart?"
Standing by the fence, Glen spoke as if addressing the creature, or maybe just thinking aloud.
The moose creature walked over, thinking Glen had food—completely unaware of what Glen was suggesting.
Gently patting its head, Glen turned and headed toward town.
Just inside Bayek, he spotted a hunched figure in gray robes slowly making her way along.
Glen recognized this townsperson—or rather, his predecessor had. She was an incredibly aged old woman; when the original Glen met her, he'd tried to strike up a conversation, but she'd treated him like air.
After that failed, the old Glen had stopped talking to townsfolk altogether, unintentionally following local custom.
Glen only paused briefly, then kept walking. As he passed the old woman, her eyes suddenly flicked toward him.
With his sharp senses, Glen noticed, but outwardly showed no reaction and continued on.
That gaze stayed on him until Glen entered his house, then vanished.
Did she sense something? Figured out I'm a werewolf? Very possible… Glen rubbed his chin, analyzing as he shut the door.
…
Chesveno Town.
Closer to the regional capital, Chesveno was larger and more bustling than Doud.
In a club dedicated to magical discussion, inside a mystically decorated room—
The old man, dressed in hunter's gear, pulled aside the curtain and entered.
"I've been waiting for you, Bol."
A woman in her forties, wearing an exquisite mage's robe, dignified and beautiful, lowered her book, her voice smooth. "Good day, honored Lady Defa."
The old man gave a slight bow.
"Judging by your face, you went on another run?" Lady Defa said with a hint of exasperation.
"You already know—should've seen it in your divination," the old man replied, sitting on a nearby sofa and opening his pack.
"Such a pity…" Defa's eyelids drooped slightly, showing fatigue.
The old man placed several crumpled parchments on the table before her. "These are yours. I've already double‑checked them—spells and arrays that don't work are all marked."
Defa gave them a cursory glance, then looked to the side. "Bol, listen to me. Let it go. I'm sorry for what happened to you, but no one can live their whole life in hatred…"
"I choose to live in hatred. You've never lost family or loved ones, Mage, so of course you can say that."
The old man cut her off, his tone firm.
"Sigh…" Defa exhaled deeply.
"Even so, I'm grateful you divined the enemy's location. I mean no disrespect," the old man added.
"We're old friends. It's only right," Defa said with a light wave of her hand.
Silence fell.
"That man has a Level‑4 Dark Mage with him," the old man said flatly after about ten seconds.
"What?!" Defa's head jerked up, eyes wide in disbelief. "A Level‑4 Dark Mage? How is that possible? That's…"
She was baffled. "Level‑4 Dark Mages in the Zern Kingdom should all be in the capital region—how'd one end up in such a backwater?"
"No idea. But he's probably a newly fallen dark mage. The dark spells he used still bore traces of orthodox magic," the old man offered.
"Maybe I should check recent disappearances among Level‑4 mages," Defa said, her expression growing grave.
She looked back at the old man, puzzled. "How did you escape a Level‑4 Dark Mage? That's not something…" She pointed at his chest. "…your inside thing can handle."
"Heh…" The old man gave a faint smile. "I hired a skilled fighter."
"A fighter who can take on a Level‑4 mage? Where'd you find him? The price must've been steep," Defa asked, clearly intrigued.
"An annoying little guy. At first I didn't know he had… well, not 'take on,' but kill power against a Level‑4 mage."
"Kill?!"
"Even though that Level‑4 mage didn't go all out, his power should still be above normal Level‑4s."
Defa's eyes widened in astonishment; she was speechless for a long moment.
"As for the price…" Finally, the old man broke the silence. "I paid him twenty silver coins."