Chapter 13: A Brewing Trouble
Chapter 13: A Brewing Trouble
Year 0002, III Month: The Imperium
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1,000 km Away From Maya Village…
The closest village to Maya, located on the northernmost part of the Lonelywood Forest just outside the great forest's dominion, was Kirka—a small yet significant frontier settlement under the Principality of Lord Gremery of Ogind County. It was one of several outpost villages established as an early warning system for the county's southern border that is near the famed great forests. Positioned strategically, Kirka served as a buffer against external threats such as the powerful beasts that prowled the ancient woods. Here, soldiers and villagers alike lived in tense anticipation of possible incursions, their eyes constantly scanning the treeline for signs of danger.
Despite its functional purpose, life in Kirka was far from fair, especially under the iron-fisted rule of its currently appointed overlord, Acting Village Chief Rommel. The village that had once been a community built on mutual protection had transformed into a fiefdom of fear and oppression.
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Village Manor Kirka
Inside the Village Manor, Chief Rommel sat at the grand oak dining table, gorging himself on a lavish afternoon meal. His thick, gluttonous fingers tore into roasted pheasant, grease dripping from his multiple chins as he stuffed his face with reckless abandon. Rommel was a rotund man with a permanent crimson flush to his cheeks, a testament to his excessive consumption of both food and spirits. His entitlement wasn't born of true nobility but rather a product of privilege rather than merit. He was the adopted son of a wealthy merchant who had secured a baron's title through financial contributions to the county, earning Lord Gremery's favor and a peerage that had nothing to do with noble lineage or leadership skills.
Around him stood his slaves, their hollow eyes fixed on the polished floor, bodies too weak to do anything but wait for his commands. Their skeletal frames were barely concealed by threadbare garments, rib cages painfully visible beneath malnourished skin that had long lost any healthy glow. Faint purple and yellow bruises marked their arms and legs, remnants of past punishments for infractions real or imagined. The harsh winter months had only worsened their suffering; food had grown scarce for everyone except Rommel and his inner circle, and the cold had claimed the lives of the weakest among them. Any misstep in this household—whether real or imagined—could cost them their already miserable lives.
Rommel, however, was oblivious to their plight. As he took another large bite from a succulent chicken leg, he chuckled to himself, wine sloshing in his goblet as his shoulders shook with cruel mirth. He was recalling an incident from months ago—a night of excessive drinking where his actions had led to a decision that would eventually haunt him, though he was too foolish and self-absorbed to realize it yet.
One of the slaves, an older man with silver-streaked hair and sunken eyes, dared to step forward with a pitcher of wine when he noticed the chief's cup nearing empty. His hands trembled visibly as he approached, praying to whatever gods might listen that he wouldn't spill a drop.
"M-more wine, m-my lord?" he whispered, his voice cracking from disuse.
Rommel barely acknowledged him with a grunt, shoving his goblet forward without pausing his feast or his reminiscing. The memory playing in his mind was far more entertaining than the broken people serving him.
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Banishment of the Ross Family
Sometime during the first coldest nights of the first month of the winter season…
That fateful winter night, Rommel had been deep in his cups, celebrating his annual grand feast with his equally arrogant friends. The great hall had been filled with raucous laughter, the scent of roasted meats and freshly baked breads mingling with the sharp sting of imported spirits. Tapestries depicting heroic battles that never happened hung from the stone walls, commissioned by Rommel himself to bolster his fictional legacy. The mood was high, nobles and self-styled knights roaring in drunken merriment as serving girls darted between them, refilling goblets while trying to avoid wandering hands.
Then, amid his inebriated haze, Rommel slammed his jeweled goblet onto the table with such force that wine splashed across the polished wood. His eyes were bloodshot with fury, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth as he shouted.
"THAT WOMAN! WHO DOES SHE THINK SHE IS TO REJECT MY GOOD GRACES? I COULD FEED HER, CLOTHE HER, AND GIVE HER A COMFORTABLE LIFE IN MY CHAMBERS!" he bellowed, slurring his words as he swayed slightly in his ornate chair. His face had turned an alarming shade of purple, veins throbbing visibly at his temples.
His friends, equally intoxicated, laughed boisterously at his misfortune. They were men cut from the same cloth—merchants' sons and minor nobles who had inherited rather than earned their positions, and some from the darker side of the world, the underworld where crimes and vices were a daily occurence and killing is a business, and selling people for profit is a huge economy, and they all united today by their shared vices and disdain for those beneath them.
"Perhaps she prefers a real man, Rommel!" one of them jested, a thin, weasel-faced man with greasy hair plastered to his scalp. "One who can still see his toes when standing!" His comment elicited more drunken laughter that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
Rommel, fueled by both rage and liquor, was not in a forgiving mood. His face contorted with fury as he turned to his slaves cowering in the shadows of the hall.
"SLAVES! COME HERE!" he commanded, his voice reverberating through the room, silencing the laughter momentarily.
The weak and starving servants, trembling in fear, crawled toward him on hands and knees, heads bowed in submission. They knew better than to stand tall in his presence when he was in such a mood.
"Y-Yes, sire?" they mumbled weakly in unison, eyes firmly fixed on the floor.
Rommel sneered, his nostrils flaring as he looked down at them with undisguised contempt. "Go to the head guard. Tell him that his lord commands him to banish that woman and her wretched daughter from this village at once! Let them freeze in the wilderness! Let the wolves have them! See how she would crawl to me and plead for mercy!"
The slaves hesitated, exchanging quick, fearful glances, for even they understood the cruelty of this order. The woman, Lady Ross, had done nothing wrong except maintain her dignity. She was a widow, her husband sent to war at Rommel's behest a couple of months ago, never to return. Her only crime was resisting Rommel's unwanted advances with quiet, steadfast refusal. Yet, defying their master was unthinkable—it would mean a death far more painful than the one that might await Lady Ross.
With no other choice, they bowed their heads even lower until their foreheads nearly touched the cold stone floor. "As you wish, sire..."
They dragged their frail bodies to the head guard's quarters across the courtyard, the biting winter wind cutting through their thin garments like knives. Upon arrival, they relayed the order, voices barely audible over the howling gale outside.
The head guard, a veteran soldier named Gareth Rufus who had seen twenty winters on the frontier, was taken aback. He ran a weathered hand through his graying beard, conflicted loyalty evident in his furrowed brow.
"Didn't the chief... err, lord, fancy this woman?" the head guard asked, rubbing his temples as though trying to massage away an impending headache. He knew Lady Ross—a kind woman, a village healer who had once tended his wounds when he returned from a border skirmish.
"He did, sir, but he was too drunk to realize what he's doing," one of the slaves replied, a hollow-cheeked woman who had once been the village healer and wife of Jonathan Ross, before Rommel had sent him as a forced volunteer for the Empire's war, a certain death sentence. "And we can only follow his orders unless we wish to suffer his wrath ourselves... You know how he gets when drunk."
The Head Guard Rufus sighed deeply, his broad shoulders slumping under the weight of the command. He knew Rommel's tyranny well, had witnessed it grow worse over the years, but there was little he could do without endangering himself and his men. His loyalty was supposed to be to his Lord Kirka First then the Ogind County Second, not to this adopted bastard who is now playing as lordship of the village of Kirka, but reality was rarely so clean-cut.
"Bennet, take Danny with you and throw the Ross family out," he finally ordered, unable to meet the eyes of his subordinates. "The lord commands it." His voice was flat, emotionless—the only way he could deliver such an order without his conscience overwhelming him.
The guards nodded solemnly. "Yes, sir." Their hands rested uneasily on their sword hilts as they prepared to carry out a duty that went against everything they had sworn to protect when joining the village guard.
With heavy steps that matched their heavier hearts, they marched toward the Ross residence through knee-deep snow, their torches sputtering in the relentless wind.
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A Cruel Winters Night
The door to the Ross home was pounded upon mercilessly, the sound echoing like thunder in the quiet night.
Bang, bang, bang!
Odessa Ross stirred from her light sleep, clutching her ten-year-old daughter closer beneath the pile of woolen blankets they shared for warmth. Their small hearth had burned down to embers hours ago, and a thin layer of frost had formed on the inside of their window panes. She quickly wrapped herself in a thick shawl, a gift from her late husband, before answering. As she opened the door, two guards stood before her, their breath visible in the frigid air, forming small clouds that dissipated into the darkness.
"Lady Ross," Bennet said flatly, though his eyes betrayed a hint of regret, "we have orders. By command of Chief Rommel, you and your daughter are to be banished from Kirka. Effective immediately."
The words hit her like a hammer. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed onto the cold wooden floor, the rough-hewn planks scraping her palms. Tears welled in her eyes, but she bit back her cries, knowing they would do no good. There was no appealing a direct order from Rommel—no justice to be found in a village where his word was law.
"Why...?" she whispered, but she already knew the answer. The question was more for herself than for them.
She had rejected Rommel too many times, had maintained her dignity despite his persistent advances and veiled threats. She had hoped he would eventually tire of the pursuit, find some other object for his unwanted affections, but it seemed his pride had finally won out over his desire.
The guards, though they held no personal grudge against her, remained outwardly indifferent. They had families of their own to protect, mouths to feed that depended on their continued service. Questioning Rommel's orders would only put them in danger, potentially leading to their own banishment or worse.
"I suggest you gather what you can carry," Bennet said, shifting uncomfortably as Lady Ross's daughter appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes with tiny fists. "The cold won't show you mercy, and neither will the beasts in the forest. Head north if you can—there are settlements that might take you in."
But she knew not to follow such advice, the clutches of Rommel are deeper than anyone thought. She would take her chances down south.
With shaking hands, Odessa Ross packed what little food and warm clothing she had into a small bundle. She wrapped her daughter in every layer they owned, until the child looked more like a bundle of cloth than a person. Clutching her daughter's small hand, she stepped into the freezing night, her breath shaky and uneven. The village gates loomed ahead, torches flickering on either side, and beyond them lay an unforgiving wilderness covered in thick snow that gleamed silver in the moonlight.
The guards escorted them beyond the walls, their torches providing one last moment of warmth before the inevitable separation. Danny, the younger guard, secretly pressed a small pouch into Lady Ross's hand—a few coins and dried meat that might keep them alive for a few days longer. Without another word, the guards shut the gates behind them, the heavy wooden barrier closing with a finality that echoed in the still night air.
Lady Ross and her daughter stood alone, staring into the endless, white void stretching before them. The wind howled through the trees at the forest's edge, a mournful sound that matched the despair growing in her heart.
And then, they walked.
For weeks, they wandered, enduring hunger, exhaustion, and the relentless cold. They had no destination, only the will to survive. The little girl's coughs grew worse with each passing day, and Lady Ross found herself carrying her more often than not. They sheltered in hollowed trees, abandoned hunters' blinds, and once in the remains of a cart with a broken wheel. They ate what little they could forage—winter berries, the occasional rabbit caught in desperate snares made from Lady Ross's unraveling clothing.
Their path took them deeper south into the wilderness, away from Kirka and its cruel master, but toward an uncertain fate that grew more perilous with each sunset.
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The Aftermath of a Drunken Decision
Rommel, in his usual state of indulgence and self-absorption, remained blissfully unaware of his own folly in ordering the banishment. The morning after the feast, he had awakened with a pounding headache and little recollection of his vindictive command. Life continued as normal for him—days filled with excess and nights with debauchery.
It wasn't until several days later—when he decided to pay Lady Ross another visit, his desire rekindled after a particularly dull afternoon—that reality finally caught up with him.
Striding toward her home with the confidence of a man who believed himself irresistible, he was met with an eerie stillness. The small cottage that had always been meticulously maintained despite its humble nature stood abandoned, its windows dark and lifeless.
The windows, once gleaming with careful upkeep, were now clouded with dust and frost. The door creaked ominously when he pushed it open, revealing a hollow space devoid of life or warmth. The faint scent of old wood and the stale remnants of a once-lived-in home lingered in the air. No warm fire crackled in the hearth. No sign of movement disturbed the thin layer of dust already beginning to settle on the sparse furniture.
His heart pounded as confusion turned to dawning realization, then to anger that burned hotter than any forge.
"Where are they? Where is she?!?" His voice echoed through the empty house before he turned sharply toward the slaves who had trailed behind him, keeping a cautious distance.
They flinched at the wild fury in his eyes, their bodies tensing in anticipation of violence, knowing what was coming with the certainty of those who had survived countless such outbursts.
"M-Mi... mi-lord," one of them stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, thin hands clutching at the frayed hem of his tunic. "You... you... you ordered us to banish them a few days ago... During the feast. You said the wolves could have them." The last words were barely audible, spoken with eyes downcast, preparing for the inevitable explosion.
For a moment, Rommel froze. The words sank in like ice water poured over his head, fragments of memory returning in disjointed flashes—his shouting, the laughter of his friends, the command given in drunken rage. Then, in an instant, his face contorted with unbridled rage, lips pulling back to reveal teeth clenched so tightly they might shatter.
He clenched his fists, his blood boiling, and in his frustration, he lashed out at the nearest targets for his wrath.
The slaves had no chance to react or flee. His fists and boots met their frail bodies, delivering blow after merciless blow. They crumpled to the ground like autumn leaves, shielding themselves as best they could with arms that were little more than skin stretched over bone. Their pleas for mercy went unheard as Rommel showed no restraint. The sound of muffled cries and pained gasps filled the abandoned cottage as fresh bruises bloomed beneath his relentless assault.
When he finally stopped, breathing heavily from the exertion, his knuckles ached and were speckled with the blood of his victims. He scowled down at their trembling forms, disgusted—not at himself or his actions, but at them, as though they were the ones at fault for his own drunken decision.
With a deep, ragged breath, he straightened his fur-lined coat and turned toward his chief guard, Gareth, who had been standing rigidly at the doorway, watching the scene unfold with a carefully neutral expression that concealed his growing disgust.
"Find them," Rommel ordered, his voice sharp and cold, leaving no room for argument or interpretation.
The chief guard hesitated, weighing his words carefully. "But, sire... they've been gone for days. If they managed to survive the winter at all, they could be anywhere by now. At worst, they might already be dead—perhaps taken by the cold or devoured by the wolves that prowl these lands."
Rommel's eyes darkened at the hint of defiance. Without warning, his hand struck the guard's weathered face with a sharp crack that seemed to hang in the air between them.
The room fell silent, save for the shallow breathing of the beaten slaves on the floor.
The chief guard's jaw tensed as he clenched his fists at his sides. His pride stung more than his cheek, and for a brief moment, his hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword—a motion that didn't go unnoticed by Rommel, whose eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Did you just question me?" Rommel sneered, his voice dripping with menace as he stepped closer, invading the guard's space. "Perhaps you'd like to join them in exile? I'm sure your wife and sons would fare well without your protection." The threat lingered between them like a drawn blade.
The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, then lowered his gaze and bent into a shallow bow that spoke more of necessity than respect.
"No, sire," he answered stiffly. "I will do as you command. We will find them—dead or alive."
Rommel's lips curled into a cruel smile, revealing teeth stained with wine. "Good. Use whatever resources necessary. I want that woman back here—the child doesn't matter." His tone left little doubt as to his intentions once Lady Ross was returned to Kirka.
Without another word, the chief guard turned on his heel and marched out, bellowing orders to his men as he crossed the snowy courtyard. The hunt had begun, even as Gareth privately hoped that Lady Ross had found sanctuary far beyond Rommel's reach.
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Present Day in the Village of Maya
Hundreds of kilometers away, in the peaceful village of Maya nestled within the protective embrace of the ancient forest, Angeline and August had grown more comfortable with each other. Their initial awkwardness had faded as they shared their stories and experiences under the watchful eyes of the villagers who had taken them in.
Angeline had been a vital component in their daily lives, she was now the manager of the fields and most of the house chores. While August commands their defenses along with his newfound power The "System".
August, with his mysterious past as the remaining survivor of the village and quiet strength, had found purpose in helping protect what remained of the isolated village, his skills with the bow proving valuable during hunts and patrols along the forest's edge.
Together, they were building new lives, finding healing in the conversations that they had. There were moments, in the quiet of the evening as they sat by the central hearth of the house, when their eyes would meet and linger, hinting at possibilities neither was yet ready to voice.
But far away, beyond the safety of Maya and its mystical barriers, trouble was brewing in the form of Rommel's relentless hunt.
The village chief had not forgotten his obsession, and his reach extended further than they knew. He had dispatched scouts and mercenaries to every settlement within a month's journey, offering rewards for information about the widow and her child. In which to his disappointment Odessa was no longer alive.
And soon, his shadow would fall upon them in the near future, threatening the peace they had only just begun to find.
In the far distance, the first of Rommel's scouts approached the borders of the ancient forest, unaware of the dangers that lurked within its depths—dangers far greater than any human threat they had been trained to face.
To which end would they brave the boundaries between life and death? For a mere order that doesn't involve them personally. How much will they risk in a venture where they had nothing to gain?
Questions that stirred the minds of men, tasked with orders they cannot refuse, fell upon the poor soldiers and guards who guard the village by a madman sitting on the usurped seat. It was a lose-lose situation.