What a mess. Zakuli is going to kill me.

I don't know why those were the first words that came to my mind as I looked around the inn, considering the situation and everything else I ought to have been concerned about.

My instincts told me to survey the area and make sure the fight was truly over, first and foremost. Sure enough, that seemed to be the case.

I couldn't spot anyone even as I took a peek from within, holding gingerly onto the inn entrance's door; only the late evening chirping of crickets welcomed me.

With an exhausted groan, I shut it, then collapsed backward against it. My mouth curled into a frustrated, exhausted pout now that I felt free to think for a moment.

Two of the inn's best tables laid in ruins after being smashed into, an old painting's canvas got punctured after being knocked off its spot on the wall, a few glasses had broken, and a few spots on the wall and floor needed some repairs.

It was safe to say that most of these problems weren't anything I could deal with – but then again, they weren't what I was focusing on.

In truth, my panicked mind was only looking for any detail to latch onto if it meant ignoring the most pertinent piece of the unsolvable puzzle before me.

Alas, I had no choice but to confront reality. I got up, walked over to where the fight had concluded, carefully leaned over, and took a closer look.

He's probably not dead, I thought to myself as I gazed down at Siridan. The wax-like construct beneath him began gradually deteriorating and fading into dust before I returned to the crime scene, just as I figured it would.

Seeing is believing, and while I never had a close personal encounter with the law in my previous life, I heard enough rumors and facts about magical innovations from arcane practitioners to have a basic grasp of Sects.

Their bodies were not made to last past their elimination. As soon as they got cut off from the magic that kept their bodies powered, their artificial bodies would get rid of themselves, granting easy access to their cores.

It made sense to me, considering no one ever expected anyone other than their creator, Ganavid, to perform their deactivation. If everything I heard was accurate, only the shards of its core would have remained in an hour.

With the comforting knowledge that the second scariest thing in the room was no longer able to rise and strangle me, I kneeled on my knees beside the collapsed swordsman who rested atop it.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

He was a mess, too. I couldn't imagine he was too used to losing fights at the time, considering that, as far as I was aware, he hadn't taken any jobs back at the adventurer's guild as of recently.

It started as a coping mechanism that allowed me to explore just a bit beyond the outskirts of Woodknock, but I eventually took a liking to researching different herbs, collecting them, and turning in any ones I felt like sparing.

I hadn't seen Siridan visit the hall or his name written on the accepted jobs list any time I came there with my regular shipments of hand-crafted potions, which only meant one thing: he stopped adventuring – just like I did.

My fingertips squeezed at my thighs anxiously. I wanted to help, but the idea of reaching my hand toward Siridan was terrifying. Instead, I slid my hand down to feel the pouch at my hip.

Thankfully, it wasn't wet, so I knew the emergency potion's vial didn't break at any point throughout the day. I had a habit of carrying at least one. I could never know which drunk dunce might've needed it.

With a small click, I opened my pouch and pulled it out, then stared at the red healing so hard, one might suspect I was trying to make its contents transfer to Siridan's mouth without directly feeding it to him.

I was praying that they would teleport in there, to be quite honest.

"Hrk—!"

A groan and a cough startled me, and if it weren't for the fact that I was sitting on bent legs, I might have jumped all the way up and clung to the ceiling like a scared and angry cat.

Instead, I scrambled to get a good grip on the potion and backed away on the floor to give him more space.

Like a man possessed, he gripped his sword first and foremost, even before opening his eyes. It was likely just a good habit, but it was the last thing I wanted to see him do.

When no aggressive reaction came, he lethargically pushed himself up with a fist and the support of its hilt, then sat up. With slow blinks, he blearily looked up, then stared at me. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke.

"…You gonna hand that over?"

I stared at him like I was stupid. I forgot just how casual and brazen he could be. Perhaps I did look like I was planning on giving it to him, but, well, good potions are worth a lot when you're not made of money.

Still, I hesitantly parted with it and placed it in his palm. He, in turn, immediately uncorked it and drank all of it down. Oh, the pain. A whole week's work – gone in an instant. I almost wanted to cry.

In my heart, I apologized with a silent prayer to all the herbalists whose work I failed to appreciate in my previous life as an adventurer.

"Thaaat hit the spot," he said with a sigh, looking less pale than before. "Now, if I wasn't hallucinating, you handled that sword pretty well." He brushed his hair away from his face with his free hand.

His yellow eyes narrowed at me like a beast looking at its prey. Judging. Skeptical. "–Gotta say, I don't think I've seen a form quite like that. Real impressive, especially for how damn weak you are."

I pursed my lips and pouted. If I wasn't on the verge of tears before that point, that changed then.

How dare!?

I stayed quiet, but I wanted to shout at him. How could he say such a thing? I knew I was weak, and though I got slightly offended despite him having the right to point it out, his words left a deep wound in my heart.

You've seen that form for yourself over a thousand times before, you liar!