Departure (2)

After the man agrees, Sulien stands up. "Then prepare yourself," he says, his tone casual but firm. "I won't wait for stragglers."

The man watches him leave the tavern, and for a moment, his fingers still wrapped around his untouched drink. There's something unreadable in his eyes, hesitation, regret, or maybe something else entirely. But eventually, he gives a small nod.

That night, as Sulien rests in carriage, he reviews everything he remembers about this man from the novel. A skilled but broken individual, discarded by society, his talent buried beneath his self-inflicted exile. In the original story, Aiden, the protagonist, was supposed to find him much later, nursing his wounds and drowning in his misery.

With Aiden's help, the man eventually became a crucial mentor to the protagonist, sharpening his swordsmanship and guiding him through the path of battle. Though initially reluctant, he found a sense of purpose once more, standing beside Aiden in the war against darkness.

However, fate was cruel. When the Miasma Crypt Order, a notorious criminal organization, launched a devastating assault on the capital. He was one of the few who held the line. Outnumbered and outmatched, he fought until his last breath, sacrificing himself to ensure Aiden and the others could survive.

His death became a turning point in the story, fueling Aiden's resolve and pushing him toward the heights of power.

But now, Sulien had intervened. Had the threads of fate already begun to unravel? Would the man still meet his tragic end, or would this new path lead to something entirely different?

He closes his eyes.

The timeline has already changed.

The question is, is it for better or for worse?

The next morning, as the sun rises, the man stands at the village outskirts, a small bag slung over his shoulder. He looks tired, as if he didn't sleep at all. As Sulien's carriage approaches, he takes a deep breath, then steps forward.

No turning back now.

***

The rhythmic creaking of the carriage wheels and the distant chirping of crickets blended into a peaceful night's melody. Sulien leaned back against the cushioned seat, fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh. Every few seconds, his gaze flickered toward the glove on his left hand, as though ensuring it was still perfectly in place.

The journey had been dull so far, until the coachman suddenly yanked the reins, bringing the carriage to an abrupt halt.

"Young Master, there's trouble ahead!" the coachman called out, his voice tense.

Sulien frowned, pulling back the curtain. The sight before him was anything but ordinary.

A luxurious carriage with golden trims stood in the middle of the dirt road, its horses restless and neighing in distress. Around it, knights bore wounds and tattered armor, their swords raised against cloaked figures wielding gleaming daggers. The air smelled of iron, thick with the scent of blood. The lifeless bodies of three assassins lay sprawled on the ground, but four remained, their movements sharp and calculated as they circled the injured knights like wolves ready to strike.

Sulien clicked his tongue.

The sight of disheveled bodies, the messy splatters of blood staining the once pristine dirt road. It made his skin crawl. He clenched his jaw as an unpleasant itch clawed at his mind, a suffocating discomfort that wouldn't go away unless the chaos before him was dealt with.

How troublesome.

Stepping down from the carriage, he adjusted his gloves, ensuring they sat just right on his hands. The moment his boots touched the ground, an assassin flicked his gaze toward him.

"A witness?" the assassin muttered, his voice laced with displeasure.

Sulien ignored him, raising his hand. A pulse of blue light flickered in the air, and a short sword materialized in his grip. He adjusted his grip twice, just to make sure it felt perfect. The weight was familiar, the cold steel an extension of his will.

One of the knights, a man with blood dripping down his temple, gasped at the sight of the crest pinned to Sulien's uniform.

"Y-You… that emblem… You're from the Wald family?"

Sulien didn't answer. His focus remained locked on the assassins, their stances shifting in perfect unison. Professionals. No wasted movements, no unnecessary bravado. They were efficient killers, and they had already decided he was a threat.

One of them moved first, vanishing in a blur. Sulien felt the rush of wind, and a dagger flashing toward his throat.

His eyes sharpened.

With a flick of his wrist, his sword met the incoming blade. A sharp clang echoed through the night as steel clashed against steel. Sulien twisted his weapon, forcing the assassin back, then stepped forward in a blur of motion.

Another assassin lunged from behind. He didn't need to look. His body moved on instinct. In a single fluid motion, he ducked, spun on his heel, and drove his sword through the attacker's chest.

The warm, sticky sensation of blood splattered onto his glove. A sharp, sickening discomfort rippled through him.

His breath hitched.

Sulien exhaled slowly, methodically, as he pulled his sword free. His fingers twitched. A tremor of disgust coursed through him at the sight of his now-tainted glove. He wanted—no, needed—to remove it, to replace it, to rid himself of the filth. But there were still enemies. It wasn't the time.

His face remained blank, but his movements turned sharper, more precise. He couldn't allow himself to be touched again.

The remaining assassins hesitated. They had miscalculated.

Sulien exhaled, adjusting his grip again, carefully ensuring that the blood on his glove didn't spread further.

"Let's finish this quickly," he muttered, taking another step forward.

And then, the night was painted red.

As the last assassin fell, silence settled over the battlefield, broken only by the ragged breathing of the injured knights. The thick scent of blood clung to the air, and the dirt road was stained crimson.

But Sulien barely registered any of it.

A wave of revulsion surged through him as he stared at the dark splotches marring his gloves and sleeves. His breathing quickened. The sticky warmth on his skin made his stomach churn, his thoughts drowning in an unbearable itch that refused to fade.

Without sparing the injured knight approaching him a glance, he swiftly opened his inventory. A flicker of blue light revealed a small glass bottle and a fresh pair of gloves. With practiced precision, he removed his soiled gloves, his fingers twitching at the sensation of blood-stiffened fabric.

The moment his hands were bare, he doused them in alcohol, the sharp scent momentarily cutting through his discomfort. He rubbed his palms together, ensuring every trace of filth was erased. Even after the cool liquid evaporated, he repeated the motion, as if the blood still clung to him.

It took another deep breath before he finally reached for the new gloves, slipping them on with meticulous care. Only when they were snugly fitted, perfectly aligned, did he finally acknowledge the knight waiting before him.

The man, despite his injuries, stood with practiced discipline, one hand pressed against his side where blood seeped through his armor. His expression was a mix of exhaustion and deep gratitude.

"Sir… You have my utmost gratitude," the knight said, bowing slightly. "Had you not intervened, we would have been dead."

Beside him, a young girl stood, likely no older than seventeen. She had long, dark auburn hair, her dress torn at the edges, and her wide, golden eyes darted between Sulien and the lifeless bodies of the assassins.

"I-I second that," she stammered. "Thank you… truly." 

Sulien studied them both, his expression unreadable.

"Who are you?" he finally asked.

The knight straightened despite his injuries. "I am Sir Callen, a knight in service to House Evern." He glanced at the girl beside him. "And this is Lady Larissa Evern, the sole daughter of Duke Evern."

A duke's daughter? Sulien's gaze lingered on the girl. No wonder the assassins had targeted them.

Larissa hesitated under his stare before clearing her throat. "We were on our way to the academy when they attacked. It was so sudden... we barely had time to react before the knights were overwhelmed." She clenched her fists. "They wanted to take me alive. If sir hadn't come…"

Sulien remained silent.

So it was a kidnapping attempt. The assassins were precise, but they hadn't accounted for an outsider appearing. Whoever ordered the attack must have known the Everns' route in advance.

His eyes flickered toward Callen. "How many knights remain?"

"Only three of us can still stand," the knight admitted. "The others are too injured to continue without treatment."

Sulien exhaled. He had no interest in getting tangled in noble conflicts, but leaving them here in this condition wasn't an option. He would at least make sure they made it to the next town.

After a long pause, he finally spoke.

"Then I suggest you move quickly. The smell of blood will attract unwanted attention soon."

Larissa and Callen exchanged glances before nodding.

Sulien turned, already walking back to his carriage. He had wasted enough time here. And yet, as he reached for the door, he could still feel their lingering gazes on his back.

---

Later, as the carriage resumed its journey, Sulien sat stiffly, his gaze glued to his freshly cleaned gloves. He had wiped them again and again until not a single trace of blood remained. Yet, the phantom sensation lingered, an unbearable itch beneath his skin.

Flinn, the man he had recruited earlier, sat across from him, watching with thinly veiled curiosity.

"That was quite the spectacle," Flinn mused, resting his elbow against the window frame. "Didn't even hesitate, did you?"

Sulien shot him a blank look. "Hesitation gets you killed."

Flinn chuckled. "Right. And here I thought you'd be more talkative after cutting down four assassins in under a minute."

Sulien ignored him, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a small cloth to wipe his fingers again.

Flinn tilted his head. "You always like that?"

Sulien's movements stilled for half a second.

"Like what?"

Flinn motioned toward his gloves. "The way you keep fixing them. The way you keep cleaning your hands."

Sulien's fingers twitched before he casually slipped the cloth back into his pocket. "It's just a habit."

Flinn raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but he let it go. "Well, whatever helps you sleep at night."

Sulien didn't respond. He simply looked out the window, watching as the trees blurred past.

This trip was going to be a long one.

***