The air in the carriage felt heavy with exhaustion, but Miera’s voice suddenly broke the silence, filled with a rare spark of excitement. “Guys! We’re almost there!”
Arthanis leaned out of the carriage window, catching sight of the village in the distance. It was a snug collection of wooden houses and shops, huddled behind a sturdy wall of tall logs. Several guard towers rose along the perimeter, their sentries vigilant, watching for any signs of trouble beyond the safety of the walls.
Beyond the fortifications, the landscape opened up into a patchwork of golden wheat fields and lush green vegetable gardens. Cows and sheep grazed lazily in the pastures, while a crystal-clear stream ran alongside the village, glinting under the sunlight as it meandered through the edge of the forest. Villagers could be seen along its banks—some fishing, children splashing in the shallows, and women washing clothes. It was a scene of peaceful simplicity, a stark contrast to the dangers lurking just beyond the treeline.
Yet, despite the quiet serenity, Arthanis knew the village’s safety was fragile. Miera had told him about the recent ceasefire from the goblin and kobold raids, but he knew better. The goblins weren’t quiet out of goodwill; they were preparing. He had overheard their plans during that fateful ambush, catching snippets of a looming war while he was still pretending to be the real Arthanis.
As the carriage rolled toward the gates, two guards atop the watchtower noticed them approaching. One leaned over the railing, his voice ringing out.
“Hey, look! Isn’t that Miera’s carriage?”
The other guard squinted, his eyes widening in recognition. “By the gods, they look like they’ve been through hell! Open the gates, quickly!”
The heavy wooden gates groaned open, and the carriage passed into the village. Immediately, the guards descended from their posts and hurried over, eyes scanning the four passengers. They were a sight—caked in dirt, blood staining their clothes, and the haunted look of trauma weighing down their expressions.
“Miera, what happened?” one guard asked, his voice laced with concern. “Are you all right? Do you need a healer?”
Another guard stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “Do you need help? You’re injured!”
Arthanis watched as the girls shrank away from the questions, the ordeal they had just survived still fresh in their minds. He could see it in their eyes—the exhaustion, the disbelief. They weren’t ready to relive what had happened, not yet. He stepped forward, quickly diverting the guards' attention.
“Hey! Over here! We’ve got someone wounded!” Arthanis called, motioning toward Ofero, who lay limp in the carriage.
At once, several guards rushed to the side of the carriage, carefully lifting Ofero out and carrying him toward the healer’s hut. Their movements were efficient, yet gentle, recognizing the severity of his condition.
With the immediate chaos subsiding, Arthanis turned back to Miera and Ziera. He knelt down, his voice soft and measured. “Miera, Ziera, you’ve got to get these cixonberries and the medicine grass to your mother, right? She’s waiting for you. Don’t worry about anything else—I’ll handle things here.”
The girls exchanged a glance, their gratitude evident in their tired smiles. “Thank you… for everything,” they said in unison, their voices trembling with relief. Taking the basket of herbs, they hurried off toward their home, disappearing into the winding streets of the village.
Arthanis stood and watched them go, maintaining a small smile until they were out of sight. Only then did his face relax, slipping back into the calm, detached mask he had grown accustomed to wearing.
His moment of quiet was interrupted by the appearance of a blonde guard, his expression twisted in barely concealed disdain.
“So, why’d you come back, Arthanis? I thought you wanted to die in the forest,” the guard sneered, his sarcasm biting.
Arthanis raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
Before the blonde guard could answer, another guard interjected, shaking his head. “Lein, take it easy. He was just joking back then.”
Lein scoffed. “Joking? With that dead look in his eyes? You think that was a joke?”
Arthanis frowned, the confusion deepening. “Seriously, what are you talking about?”
Lein rolled his eyes. “Three days ago, you left the village in the middle of the night. I stopped you at the gates, and you told me you were going to kill yourself. You even threatened to kill me if I tried to stop you.”
The words struck a faint chord in Arthanis’s mind—a flash of memory, blurry and distant, of the real Arthanis stalking out of the village, cold and determined. He could almost hear the venom in the original's voice: “I’m going to kill myself. Don’t try to stop me, or you’ll be the one who dies.”
Shrugging, Arthanis smirked. “Well, I guess I did die. But here I am—so, does that count?”
Lein let out a frustrated snort, shaking his head. “See? He’s insane. No point talking to him.”
Arthanis’s inner thoughts turned wry. Great, so the real Arthanis was suicidal. And now this guy’s holding a grudge. Fantastic.
Just then, a new voice cut through the tension. “Lein, that’s enough.”
The guards snapped to attention as a man with a mustache and a noticeable beer belly approached, wearing the armor of a captain. His face was kind but firm.
“Captain Ulimar, sir!” Lein and the others saluted sharply.
The captain nodded at them before turning to Arthanis. “I’ve known Arthanis for a long time. He was troubled, but he’s back now, and that’s what matters.” Ulimar gave Arthanis a measured look. “Tell me, Arthanis—what happened out there?”
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Arthanis met the captain’s gaze evenly. “The girls were ambushed by goblins. They tried to escape, but their horse was hit with a poisoned arrow. I heard them, and I took out the goblins from behind before they could finish the job. You can ask Ofero for more details—he was conscious long enough to talk with the goblin before he passed out.”
Ulimar studied him for a moment, his eyes lingering on the bloodstains on Arthanis’s clothes. Then he smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good work. I’ll speak with Ofero and report this to the village chief. You’ve earned yourself some rest.”
As Arthanis turned to leave, Ulimar’s voice cut through the crowd. “Oh, and Vaendalle’s been asking for you. You might want to find him.”
Arthanis nodded, though a knot of confusion tightened in his chest. Vaendalle? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. More importantly, he had no idea where to find him—or even where his house was in the village. As he wandered through the bustling streets, the weight of unfamiliarity settled in. He was surrounded by people who knew Arthanis, yet he felt like an outsider in his own skin.
The sun beat down, casting long shadows and making the air thick with dust. The smells of the village mingled—spices, food cooking over open fires, the sweet scent of herbs drying in the sun, and the pungent odor of livestock. Laughter and chatter filled the air, but the words seemed distant, muffled, like he was observing everything from the outside. Faces turned toward him, some curious, others suspicious. He knew he was out of place, even if they didn’t.
Just as he was beginning to feel completely lost, a sharp tap on the back of his head jolted him from his thoughts. Arthanis spun around, hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there.
"Ow! What the—?"
Standing before him was a scarred old man with a white beard and a sword hanging from his belt. His eyes sparkled with mischief, despite the lines of age etched into his weathered face.
“You rascal, still alive, are you?” the old man said, his voice gruff but filled with affection.
For a split second, Arthanis was frozen. Then, a memory hit him—clearer than any before. He saw the old man, dressed in golden armor, standing tall and proud like a hero from legend. The real Arthanis had known him well. Vaendalle. This was the man who had taken the real Arthanis in when he was just a boy—his protector, mentor, and father figure.
A wave of warmth and familiarity washed over him. Without thinking, he grinned and wrapped his arms around the old man in a quick hug. “Old man! I’m glad to see you. Thought I might never get the chance.”
Vaendalle stepped back, his face a mixture of surprise and disbelief. “What… did you just say to me?”
Arthanis blinked, realizing his mistake. The real Arthanis had never expressed gratitude, never shown this kind of affection. He was too cold, too distant for that. Panic flickered briefly in his chest, but he forced a smile, trying to mask his unease. “I just meant… I missed you, Vaendalle. After everything that happened in the forest, it made me think.”
Vaendalle’s eyes widened, and for a moment, it seemed like time had stopped. His calloused hand rested on Arthanis’s shoulder, his voice trembling with emotion. “By the gods… You really missed me, boy?”
Arthanis nodded, unsure how to backtrack. But to his surprise, the old man’s face softened, a tear glistening at the corner of his eye. “You’ve changed, Arthanis. You’ve really changed. What in the world happened out there?”
Arthanis felt another flash of memory—his younger self, reckless, arrogant, treating Vaendalle like a nuisance. The real Arthanis had never thanked him, never acknowledged how much the old man had done for him. This sudden display of affection was entirely out of character, and the realization hit him like a blow. He cursed inwardly, shooting a glare toward the back of his mind where Mire lingered.
Why didn’t you warn me about this? he growled internally.
Mire’s voice was unbothered. [The memories are still being restored, Master. The process takes time.]
Arthanis swallowed the growing sense of dread and smiled nervously, trying to recover from the slip. “I’ve had a lot of time to think out there. I just wanted to tell you how much you mean to me. You’ve always been like a father to me, Vaendalle.”
Vaendalle’s rough laugh echoed through the village square, but there was a hint of emotion behind it. “You’ve never said that before, you know.” He patted Arthanis on the back. “You were always a pain in my neck. But now… I’m glad to hear it, boy. You’re the only family I’ve got.”
For a moment, something stirred in Arthanis’s chest—a feeling that wasn’t entirely his own. Was this an echo of the real Arthanis’s emotions, buried deep within the fractured memories, or something he himself had carried over from his past life? He shook the thought away. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t the real Arthanis, but for now, he had to play the part.
“Come on,” Vaendalle said, breaking the silence with a booming voice. “What are you standing around for? Let’s get you home. You must be starving after three days in the forest. And you smell worse than a goblin’s armpit! Hurry up!”
Arthanis chuckled, following after the old man as the warmth of the village seemed to envelop him. The smells of fresh bread and roasting meat drifted on the breeze, mingling with the familiar sounds of life in the village. It felt strange—comforting, even. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax, the tension of his deception fading into the background.
As they walked, the village continued to bustle around them, the people’s laughter and chatter filling the air. Arthanis watched them, feeling a strange sense of belonging for the first time since arriving in this world. He had a role here, a place to fill, even if it wasn’t his own. And for now, that was enough.
What a strange day… he thought to himself, shaking his head with a wry smile. “I’m coming, old man!” he called out, jogging to catch up with Vaendalle.
***
But deep in the forest, far from the warmth of the village, the chilling aftermath of their escape still lingered.
A tall, slender goblin strode into the bloodless clearing, his eyes sweeping across the carnage with unsettling calm. The bodies of his fallen kin lay scattered, their skin shriveled, lifeless—hollow husks drained of essence. He knelt beside one, his long fingers caressing the cold, sunken face of the goblin’s corpse with a twisted tenderness.
“Jooloo…” he murmured, his voice a low, venomous growl. “You were the brightest. A proud essence-wielder… struck down like prey. What kind of beast did this to you?”
His gaze darkened, rage flickering beneath his eyes as he rose, turning on his trembling underlings. His shadow loomed over them, menacing.
“Report,” he barked, each word a knife. “What did you find?”
One of the smaller goblins, quivering, hesitated before stepping forward, voice barely a whisper. “N-nothing, Boss. No traces of anything… just animals.”
“Nothing?” The leader’s voice hissed through the air, seething with contempt. “Pathetic!” He spat the word like poison. “Search again! Don’t return until you’ve found something.”
The underlings scattered, fleeing his wrath. Alone now, the tall goblin stared down at Jooloo’s remains, his lips curling into a slow, twisted grin. His fingers traced the clean, bloodless wounds, dark thoughts churning behind his eyes.
“No blood… no struggle. It’s as if the very life was sucked from your veins. Something dark did this... something powerful.”
The goblin’s grin widened, madness gleaming in his eyes. He could feel it—a force, a presence still lingering in the air, faint but undeniable. Something beyond the reach of his kin. But for him, this was an opportunity.
"One less rival in my way." His voice dropped to a whisper, thick with malice. "Soon, I’ll be the only one worthy of ruling this forest. And when I find whoever—whatever—did this… I’ll rip them apart and wear their bones as trophies."
His laughter cut through the silence, sharp and unhinged, echoing through the trees like a promise of death. The mark on his body flared to life, burning bright red, sending smoke curling from his skin as he turned and stalked away.