Chapter Four: Careless Kobold

The closer he got to the center, the denser the crowd became. A mix of races filled the square — dwarves shouting prices over the heads of taller folk, elves strolling with hands clasped behind their backs, beastfolk darting between legs with baskets slung across their shoulders. Each of them carrying their own burdens, but none shackled like him.

As Zarou edged along the side of the street, he caught sight of a small group gathered in a crooked alleyway off the main road. Four figures — young, well-dressed, and practically radiating mana — stood in a loose semi-circle around a trembling boy barely older than Anna. The boy's clothes were patched and threadbare, his posture hunched like someone who knew how to make himself small. His hands clutched his chest, as if trying to contain something invisible inside himself.

"You really think you belong here?" one of the older boys sneered, flicking his fingers to summon a tiny, flickering flame that danced too close to the boy's face.

"Look at him," a girl added, her tone mocking. "Poor little enigma. Barely a drop of mana to his name, and no power to shape it. You're a waste of space."

Zarou's chest tightened at the word — enigma. That label again. In this world, it was a curse, spat at anyone who didn't fit into their perfect structure of power and potential. Someone who had mana but no power — no divine gift from the gods to make it useful. An unaligned. A mistake.

The boy flinched, his shoulders trembling as the flame curled closer, the heat forcing him to step back until his back hit the brick wall behind him.

"Go back to the slums," the tallest one sneered. "Crawl back to whatever hole you came from before you embarrass yourself any more."

Zarou's gaze lingered on the scene for only a moment before he turned away.

Not my problem, he told himself, forcing his feet to carry him further down the street.

But each step felt heavier, as if the weight of the chains on his wrists had spread to his chest. The word enigma echoed in his skull, sharp and relentless—digging up too many memories he had no desire to revisit. He knew that trembling stance, the quiet flinch in the boy's shoulders, the desperate grip over his own heart like his skin alone could hold back the truth of his weakness.

Zarou had stood like that once.

The cobblestones beneath his feet blurred. His chest tightened until he came to an abrupt stop, fingers curling around his own chains.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, kissing his teeth.

Without turning his head, he spun on his heel, retracing his steps back to the alley with no fanfare, no dramatic callout. Just a quiet decision sealed inside him.

He rounded the corner.

The flames flickered just inches from the boy's face when one of Zarou's chains shot forward with a sharp snap, coiling around the older boy's wrist faster than anyone could react.

There were no wasted words, no warning. With a single tug, the bully hit the ground face-first, his nose scraping the uneven stone.

"What the—"

The girl conjurer took a half step back before a second chain flicked out and looped around her ankle. Zarou yanked again, sending her sprawling onto the damp alley floor.

The other two didn't even get the chance to summon their mana before Zarou's foot pressed down on the tallest boy's knee, forcing it into an awkward, painful bend.

It was over in less than five seconds.

The group of awakened lay in a stunned heap, their mana flickers snuffed out before they could truly manifest.

The trembling boy stared wide-eyed at Zarou, lips parted in silent awe and confusion.

Zarou stood there, his hood slipping back slightly to reveal those exhausted jade-like eyes, glowing faintly from the ichor-coloured mana just beneath his skin. The chains curled back toward him, their edges glowing with the same eerie light, alive and obedient only to him.

He hadn't used a spell. No incantation, no summoned element, nothing flashy. Just chains, and intent, sharpened by too much experience.

His gaze lowered to the boy he'd dragged to the ground—the one who had held the flame to the enigma's face. The would-be tormentor lay sprawled on his back, trembling now for entirely different reasons. His well-tailored robe, woven with shimmering thread to mark his rank among the Awakened, was slightly torn from the fall, its once-pristine fabric now smeared with alley filth.

Zarou took a slow step forward, and the boy flinched, the flame at his fingertips sputtering out entirely.

"Take it off," Zarou said quietly.

The boy's brow furrowed, confused. "W-What?"

"The robe," Zarou repeated, his voice sharper now, cold and hollow like a blade left in the frost. "Take it off."

"I… why?" the boy stammered, trying to sound defiant but failing under the weight of Zarou's stare. "I—this is mine—"

One of the chains curled forward again, its end hovering just beneath the boy's chin, the faint heat of ignis-infused mana radiating from it. Zarou didn't need to say anything more. The chain spoke for him.

With shaking hands, the boy fumbled at the fastenings of his robe, pulling it over his head and tossing it toward Zarou as if the fabric itself had become cursed.

Zarou caught it, inspecting it briefly. Too clean, too polished for someone like him—but that didn't matter. He didn't want it for comfort. He wanted it for cover.

Without a word of thanks, he turned the robe inside out to hide its embroidery, then draped it over his own shoulders, pulling the hood deep over his face once again. The chains coiled back, settling loosely around his wrists like obedient hunting dogs returning to heel.

Zarou's gaze softened—barely. "It doesn't matter where you go," he said. "Places change, but people don't. The strong will always find a reason to step on someone weaker."

The boy swallowed hard, eyes flicking between the chains Zarou still hadn't fully hidden and the robe that no longer belonged to its rightful owner.

"And if they corner you again," Zarou continued, stepping closer until his shadow stretched over the boy, "don't beg. Don't cower. People like that—doesn't matter what city you're in—they'll eat you alive if you let them."

The enigma boy's ears flattened — soft, triangular things covered in short fur, twitching nervously against his tangled hair. His tail, thin and dog-like, curled slightly behind him, betraying both fear and shame — a reflex Zarou had seen before in beastfolk who'd learned to expect the worst. Still, the boy gave a hesitant nod.

Zarou's gaze lingered a moment too long on the boy's furred ears — soft despite the dust clinging to them. For a fleeting second, the image blurred, replaced by another memory entirely.

His dog.

Not a loyal beast bred for war, not some summoned familiar — just a mutt, half-starved when Zarou found him in the alley behind his old home in the Gazel Empire. That dog had been the only warmth in his world back then. The only thing that greeted him at the door when he returned from endless drills and training. Soft fur beneath his hands, gentle eyes looking up at him without judgment. A warmth that had been ripped away the day Gazel burned.

The memory stuck to him like a burr, stubborn and painful.

He didn't even realize his hand was already moving.

Before he knew what he was doing, Zarou's hand lifted awkwardly and landed on the kobold boy's head. His fingers froze for a moment — unsure whether to pat, ruffle, or simply rest there like some lifeless claw.

The kobold blinked up at him, ears flicking back and forth, tail wagging once before stopping — caught between instinctive joy and confused fear. Was this affection… or some strange, new threat?

Zarou's palm made one stiff, clumsy rub across the boy's hair. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't graceful. It felt more like a person who had seen kindness before but never quite learned how to give it. His fingers briefly tangled in fur and hair alike before he snatched his hand back, as if burned.

They stared at each other — kobold and human — both equally bewildered.

"My bad," Zarou blurted out regretfully, voice cracking at the edges.

The boy blinked, his tail swaying slightly again.

"What was your name?" Zarou asked, softer this time.

The kobold hesitated, eyes darting down the alley like he expected someone to swoop in and tell him not to answer. But eventually, his voice came, barely louder than a whisper.

"Jik."

Zarou gave a short nod, awkward but earnest. "Right. Stay safe, Jik."

Without another word, he turned and strode back into the morning light, the fine robe billowing slightly as it hid his battered clothes and the ever-present chains. The crowd swallowed him whole, leaving Jik standing alone — arms still wrapped around himself, head still slightly tilted — equally unsure whether he'd been saved, warned… or petted like a stray.

The streets practically cleaned themselves as Zarou begrudgingly worked his way through the crowd. The cobblestones were too smooth, like they'd been polished by all the footsteps walking over them, and even the sun's glare bounced off them a little too perfectly.

Zarou let out a dry laugh, muttering under his breath.

"Real fancy. Alachi's trying too hard."

He kicked a loose stone, sending it skittering into a storm drain."Back in the smaller towns near Gazel, you'd be lucky if the roads didn't swallow your whole foot. Guess the war gave someone enough corpses to pave with."

The bitterness in his voice surprised even himself, but he didn't take it back.

His fingers twitched, almost unconsciously, as he drew a thin thread of mana through his limbs. Circulation — something he used to do without thinking. Here, it felt like holding his breath underwater. The flow was sluggish at first, his veins unused to being treated like proper conduits again. But once it started moving, it remembered.

"That's better…" Zarou whispered, flexing his fingers. The faintest glow pulsed beneath his skin — ichor-coloured, half-light, half-fire — the colour of Lux and Ignis tangled together. Familiar and alien all at once.

That's when it hit him.

The smell.

It wasn't something normal people would notice — they weren't circulating their mana wide enough to catch it. But Zarou had no such filter. His mana perception stretched out instinctively, brushing against the auras of every passerby, tasting their energy in the air.

It was faint, but it was everywhere. Like rotting fruit hidden under perfume.

Demonic.

Zarou's nose scrunched in disgust, and he muttered through gritted teeth.

"They're crawling all over this place… no one even notices."

A beastfolk woman walked past, her arms stacked with bolts of cloth. She looked harmless enough, but as her mana brushed his, the taint clung to her like a second skin. Zarou staggered a step, covering his mouth with his sleeve.

"It's in them. Not possession, not full corruption… just residue. Like breathing in smoke until your lungs stop knowing the difference."

His stomach twisted. He'd felt this before — back in Gazel, when the frontlines dissolved into chaos. But here, in a so-called peaceful town, where people bartered over fruit and fabric? It was wrong. All of it.

His fingers found the chains beneath his robe, the cold metal biting into his palm.

"Either I'm losing it, or this whole damn town's already rotting from the inside out."

The Town Hall came into view — a towering structure too proud for its own good, the kind of building that wanted to remind you it mattered more than you did. A spire split the sky above it, and banners rippled lazily in the morning breeze.

Zarou narrowed his eyes at it."Where they measure you, rank you, file you away."

He snorted.

"Where they decide if you're worth anything, or if you get stamped 'Enigma' and tossed out with the scraps."

The closer he got, the thicker the stench became. Not overpowering, but persistent — clinging like oil on water. It was like standing downwind of a battlefield bonfire, that awful mix of burning flesh and magic spent too fast.

Zarou's lips curled into something halfway between a smile and a snarl."If they think I'm gonna kneel here and play nice, they've got another thing coming."

He adjusted the stolen robe over his shoulders, hiding the chains as best he could. His footsteps quickened, that strange pulse of anticipation building under his skin. The air felt heavier the closer he got — like something was watching.

Then, a faint jingle — soft and rhythmic, barely louder than the rustle of fabric.

Zarou froze mid-step.

He shoved a hand into his pocket, fingers brushing against something smooth and cool. Coins. Gold ones.

"What the hell—?" he muttered under his breath, pulling one out just enough to catch the glint of sunlight bouncing off its surface.

It was real. Weighty, freshly minted. Not some dull, half-bitten scrap coin, but the kind only someone well-fed and well-connected carried.

He turned it over between his fingers.

"Guess the idiot who owned this robe before me was rich and careless."

He tried to feel bad about it — but his stomach made that decision for him, twisting painfully in protest.

"Food first. Regret later."

Zarou veered off-course, eyes scanning the street for the nearest stall. The town square had no shortage of vendors shouting over one another, trying to pull in customers with the promise of sizzling meat skewers, honey-glazed pastries, and fried dumplings fat with unknown fillings. The smell alone made his knees weak.

"Haven't eaten since…" He paused, brow furrowing as he tried to piece together his own timeline. "…since wherever that basement was."

The mere thought made his gut churn for reasons that had nothing to do with hunger. He pushed the memory aside and drifted toward the first stand that didn't look like it would poison him.

A squat dwarven woman stood behind it, stirring a massive pot with a ladle nearly as tall as she was. Steam billowed upward, heavy with spices, broth, and the unmistakable scent of simmering meat. Flatbread sizzled on a nearby griddle, soaking up oil until it glistened.

Zarou swallowed hard, stepping up to the stand.

The dwarf barely glanced at him, her hands too busy flipping flatbreads and slapping them onto wooden plates. "Two silver a bowl," she grunted.

Zarou blinked, still holding the gold coin in his hand. "Uh…"

The dwarf's head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

"You payin' or just gawkin', boy?"

He flipped the coin between his fingers, reluctant to reveal he had something that valuable. Flashing gold in a town like this could go very wrong, very fast.

"Can you break this?" he asked, voice lower.

The dwarf's gaze flicked down, her eyes widening just slightly before she covered it with a grunt. "Fancy type, huh?" She wiped her hand on her apron and snatched the coin, biting it with a loud clink.

Zarou's stomach dropped."Don't bite it, just—"

"Real enough," she muttered, tossing him back a small handful of silver and copper. "Eat fast. This ain't a tavern, I ain't got tables."

Zarou took the change, along with the bowl of steaming broth and bread. The heat radiated through the wood, almost scalding his fingers, but he didn't care.

He stepped off to the side of the street, back pressed to a crumbling wall, and tore into the bread like a starved dog. The broth was scalding and salty, burning his throat on the way down — but it was food. Real food. Not rainwater from a crack in a wall or stale crumbs someone forgot.

It was warm.

Zarou exhaled sharply, the simple sensation hitting him harder than he expected. His body barely knew what to do with comfort.

"Better than licking moss off the walls," he muttered around a mouthful of bread, tearing into another piece with the same quiet desperation.

His chains shifted beneath his sleeves, but the robe hid them well enough — just another scruffy traveler down on his luck. Nothing to see here.

He had no idea how long he stood there, eating like a man trying to outrun hunger itself, but by the time the bowl was empty and the bread gone, his head felt clearer. The heaviness in his limbs hadn't lifted, but the fog behind his eyes receded just enough to let him think straight again.

He tossed the bowl onto a pile with the others and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, grimacing at the taste of old sweat and road dust.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, "City Hall, let's get this over with."

The road ahead still led to the same towering building, its banners rippling lazily in the breeze — but at least now, Zarou didn't feel like he was about to collapse before reaching the door.

With a belly full of warm food, stolen gold still jingling faintly in his pocket, and a flicker of ichor-light pulsing beneath his skin, Zarou took his first real step toward the center of Alachi.

He muttered again, voice low and dry.

"Let's see what kind of welcome a relic gets."

And with that, Zarou stepped into the shadow of the Town Hall, ichor light pulsing faintly at his fingertips — a ghost of the old world drifting through a city too blind to know it was already cursed.