The Omen of War

Dirt and murky water from the ponds splattered onto Sollivan's already soiled clothes and shoes. He gripped his bag tightly, maintaining his full focus. No one paid him any attention or mocked his peculiar speed in fleeing, as everyone was too busy running and escaping—both men and women alike. They gathered their essential belongings and fled their homes.

Some frantic women began searching for their children, screaming their names in panic, while others carried their sick loved ones on their shoulders or backs, taking only the bare minimum to avoid slowing themselves down. Everyone ran, and within minutes, the alleys of the impoverished district were filled with people.

The haphazard accumulation of makeshift houses made the district densely packed, and now that everyone had poured out, the alleys became congested and impassable. No one attempted to organize the escape or even paused to check on others. Each person looked out for themselves, revealing their selfish instincts. Chaos erupted, and thieves and thugs began looting properties and breaking into homes.

As for Sollivan, he watched his escape route quickly fill up and exhaled in frustration. He had anticipated something like this and had prepared his belongings in advance to shorten his escape time. Yet, he was still delayed and could only curse his bad luck.

For the city's residents, the ringing of the bell signified four things: one ring indicated either dawn or dusk; two rings signaled the arrival of an important figure in the city; three rings were a warning of war and an imminent enemy attack; and four rings meant a savage tide was emerging from the forest. Since the bell was a low-level arcane tool, its sound traveled for dozens of miles in all directions, reaching even nearby villages and some neighboring cities.

The region, in general, had been unstable, with several conflicts erupting along the borders over the past forty years. However, a small city like Red Bell City had remained somewhat removed from the conflict due to its proximity to the Black Death Forest and its lack of strategic importance. Nevertheless, it had been attacked twice in the past six years. These attacks were minor and strategically aimed at drawing troops away from certain areas or provoking the mayor. Despite their limited scale, they had left several casualties among the common folk, particularly the poor. This was why panic had spread through the impoverished district.

Due to its proximity to the city walls, the poor district where Sollivan lived was within range of the enemy's catapults, which were not designed to destroy fortifications like cannons or regular catapults but rather to bombard a wide area and kill as many soldiers and civilians as possible.

Thud!

Screams!

Crashes!

Collapses!

Those who had carts loaded them with their belongings and pushed them forcefully, adding to the congestion and making the narrow district even more cramped. Helplessly, Sollivan slowed down and struggled to see his path. Sitting in his wheelchair, his field of vision was limited and narrow. Some hurried people didn't even notice him due to his low position, bumping into his chair and causing it to wobble. Yet, he didn't flinch or panic, maintaining his caution and composure.

Ironically, this was the first time he had to flee his home, even though there had been two attacks since he moved here. During the first attack, he had been visiting a quack doctor who claimed he could cure him but instead drugged him, stole all his money, and left him in a narrow alley before fleeing. Despite being swindled, Sollivan felt no resentment, as his misfortune had spared him from the chaos.

During the second attack, he had been engrossed in his work. Although he knew a fierce battle was raging around the city, he didn't move, as the inner district and the main street were relatively safe.

The alley grew more crowded, and his pace slowed until he eventually came to a complete stop, trapped in the chaos.

Thud!

The disturbances intensified, and his chair shook violently. Some kicked his chair in anger and cursed him, while others pushed him aside. If not for Noctis firmly stabilizing him, he would have tipped over. He desperately tried to move and free himself, but to no avail, remaining stuck in place. Mud splattered around him, covering his entire body. His clothes were soaked and dirtied to the point of losing their original color.

Drip!

A few drops fell from the sky, and the world seemed to grow darker. Yet, the atmosphere remained tense. Amid the chaos, he suddenly felt someone tugging forcefully at his bag. Reacting quickly, he pulled the bag back with all his strength, causing it to slip from the thief's hands and return to him.

He clutched it tightly with both hands and hugged it to his chest. He raised his bowed head and looked around in confusion. His vision was blocked, and all he could see were the tall, crowded bodies towering over him. For a moment, he felt helpless and afraid. He tightened his grip and trembled. The sounds of screams and arguments coming from all directions added to his chaotic emotions, preventing him from thinking clearly.

Despite his strong mental fortitude and wisdom-like composure, and even after increasing his strength, this moment and the scene before him shattered his illusions. He was reminded of the inadequacy he had felt not long ago. Even though his mind refused to surrender, hesitation always finds cracks in one's defenses.

The faces around him turned into shadows, and the sky's haze and the rain's moisture faded. The screams and arguments became distant murmurs that gradually faded away. His mind cleared, and he became eerily calm. Then, he let out a long sigh and muttered in confusion, "What's the point?"

Noctis, fused with the wheelchair, sensed the turmoil within his master and sent a wave of confused thoughts, as if asking, "What's wrong?"

Sollivan raised his head high. The shadows regained their colors, and the sky's haze lightened as water fell on his face. The distant sounds returned to disturb his ears. With a faint and peculiar smile, he replied, "Nothing, my friend. I just remembered how vile this place is."

"Yes, I've sunk into this pit, and I'll climb out of it even if I have to crawl through the filth." His words were filled with ambiguity, as if he were making a vow to himself. He paid no attention to the chaos around him and continued to stare at the hazy sky, as if seeing his distant goals looking down at him with arrogance.

He loosened his grip and placed the bag between his thigh and the wheelchair's armrest, instructing Noctis to hold it. The blackness from the chair extended and covered the bag with several strange black straps. Though not strong, their numbers made up for it.

He calmed his thoughts and regulated his breathing. He looked around with sharp, alert eyes, searching for gaps to slip through. Slowly and efficiently, he directed Noctis toward less crowded areas, using the strong people and large carts as barriers. As long as they moved, he stuck close to them; if they stopped, he quickly changed course. However, his progress was slow, and he was hindered several times, with people attempting to steal his bag or forcefully hitting his chair.

As he struggled to escape, he felt an ominous premonition behind him. He tried to move and tilted his head to the left, but his physical condition hindered his movements. Before he realized what was happening, he was struck hard on the head, causing him to lurch forward and nearly fall. His vision blurred, and his ears rang. He didn't understand why or who had hit him, or for what reason.

He clenched his fist in anger to the point where his short, mud-covered nails pierced his skin. A few drops of dark blood seeped out and mixed with the dirt. When his head cleared and his vision returned, he laughed loudly like a madman, even drawing the attention of the people around him for a moment.

'Yes, what a fool I am. Why was I so pleased with my slight increase in strength? In my condition, it's useless.' He silently lamented his miserable state, and all his resentment and anger faded, leaving only his usual calm. Though he deeply wished he could set everything around him on fire and reduce it to ashes, he accepted reality and refused to let his insight be clouded by such moments.

After calming his fist, he slowly moved his chair again, following the path of a large man ahead of him. Yet, the feeling of fear and helplessness that had returned to him didn't want to leave easily, leaving him hesitant and anxious. Even the simplest sounds and breezes caught his attention. He turned his head and looked around suspiciously and cautiously whenever he sensed something.

As the minutes passed, the battle everyone expected didn't begin. The war drums didn't sound, and no horns were blown. Moreover, no soldiers appeared. Typically, the poor district was the second line of defense due to its narrow alleys and suitability for street fighting. Soldiers would spread out here in case the walls were breached or the southern gate destroyed.

The terrified poor began to feel that something was off. Their panic lessened, and they were no longer in such a rush. As a result, their rationality returned. Some slowed their pace and looked around suspiciously. But Sollivan didn't care. He continued to push his wheelchair urgently, wanting to escape the congestion that was suffocating him and making his chest tighten. As he silently slipped through the crowd, he felt a hand touch his shoulder. Quickly, he turned around, clenching his fist in anger.

But as soon as he saw Devlin's familiar face, his muscles relaxed, and he felt a hint of happiness and great relief. His heart eased, and though he felt a surge of positive emotions, his face remained stern, and he didn't utter a word.

"Mr. Sollivan, I've been looking everywhere for you," Devlin said in his usual anxious tone, but his gentle expression twisted for a moment when he saw Sollivan's soaked and dirty body. Unconsciously, he clenched his fist in anger and moved his lips, cursing silently.

Without speaking, Sollivan hurriedly said, "I'll clear the way for you. Follow me." Without hesitation, Devlin showed his full strength and began pushing people aside without any courtesy or respect. He didn't care if it was a woman, man, or even a small child in his way—he pushed them all equally. The only thing that changed was the force he used.

Despite his young age, Devlin had reached the halfway point of the fifth level of body strengthening, while the strongest among the common people in his path were only at the fourth level. Yet, he felt a hint of anxiety and involuntarily glanced at Sollivan's face, fearing his master's disapproval. But all he received was an indifferent look. He didn't realize the depth of the hatred that had taken root in his dear master's heart. Even if Devlin were to crush the skulls of the passersby, Sollivan might not flinch and would continue pushing his wheelchair indifferently.

Sollivan noticed Devlin's quick glance and asked coldly, "Is something bothering you?"

"No, nothing," Devlin replied, turning back and continuing to push people aside to make way for Sollivan. Within minutes, the two emerged onto a wide street that wasn't as crowded. Both took a deep breath and felt relieved.

"Follow me," Sollivan said, pushing his wheelchair. But Devlin quickly moved, grabbed the handles, and pushed it himself to spare Sollivan the effort. Though he noticed the chair's slightly different color and shape, he didn't dwell on it.

The two walked through the crowded alleys, and within a few minutes, they reached the main street, which seemed stable and relatively empty. Only armored soldiers were scattered around. The shops were closed, and people hid in their homes, as they were safe and far from the conflict. They would only be harmed if the enemy breached the walls.

When they arrived at the familiar library, Sollivan took out his spare key and opened the door, greeted by the pleasant smell of books. Though faint, a relaxed expression appeared on his face, and his tense muscles loosened. Even the fear and shock in his heart lessened slightly.

"I'll take it from here. You go light the candles," Sollivan said, signaling Devlin to let go of the wheelchair's handles and pointing to a small shelf with matches and good-quality candles reserved for the shop. Matches were popular among the middle and upper classes but didn't suit the frugal lifestyle of the poor, who relied on flint stones that lasted long and didn't run out after a few uses.

Quietly and with a mind weighed down by chaos, Sollivan slowly pushed his wheelchair to an empty corner, leaving a wet, muddy trail from the wheels. He parked his chair and leaned back wearily, looking at the ceiling with empty eyes. He sat like this for a long time, lost in thought.

Devlin didn't interrupt him. Instead, he brought a chair and a book and sat opposite the door. He watched the wide, paved alley outside with serious, mysterious eyes that seemed out of place for his age. He, too, became lost in thought, his vision blurring until he heard the sound of heavy footsteps and a faint tremor in the ground, snapping him out of his reverie.

Thud!

Through the partially open door, he saw dozens of armored soldiers marching in organized rows. Their steps were strong and synchronized, causing the ground beneath them to tremble. Puddles rippled, and even the falling rain seemed to change its trajectory.