Gotaya felt the man before her radiated danger. Instinctively, she reached for the bow on her back. Her hand found only empty air.
The Black Crow observed the elven girl's movement but showed no reaction. He simply turned and walked away.
Seeing this, Gotaya let out a small sigh of relief, her eyes fixed on his figure until he vanished into the mist shrouding the deeper parts of the town. Only then did she properly survey her surroundings. The large settlement felt unnervingly devoid of life.
"Does no one live here?" She murmured the question to herself as she stepped onto the cobblestone path, walking softly.
Reaching the road, she looked down its two branches: one leading out of town, the other winding deeper into the fog. Perhaps spurred by curiosity, she chose the path inward.
She hadn't gone far when the door of a large, three-story house beside her creaked open. A tall, powerfully built old man emerged. He held a steaming metal mug.
The old man raised the cup to his lips for a sip. His eyes, cold and indifferent, swept over the unfamiliar elven girl who had turned to look at him. "If you value your life, stay away from the deep town."
"Who are you?" Gotaya asked, her voice edged with wariness.
The old man gave her a look that bordered on contemptuous dismissal. He casually dumped the remaining liquid from his cup into the yard, then turned and went back inside without another word.
A flicker of irritation crossed Gotaya's face, but she held her tongue. She turned her gaze back towards the path ahead. The outlines of the houses dissolved into the encroaching mist. It hadn't seemed threatening before, but after the old man's warning, Gotaya felt an oppressive sense of something deeply terrifying lurking within the fog.
Reconsidering, Gotaya wisely decided against continuing. She turned around and started walking back.
As she walked, a prickling sensation began crawling over her skin – the subtle, unnerving feeling of being watched from every direction. Every hair on her body stood on end. Panic started to claw at her throat.
This subtle awareness had been there all along. She'd just been too relaxed after waking to notice it before. Just what kind of place is this?! Her mind screamed the question as she hurried back to the safety of Glen's house. ——— The deer-pulled cart trundled slowly along the rutted, muddy track. About a hundred meters behind, two men on horseback followed discreetly.
The bald, burly man rubbed his smooth head as he watched the cart ahead, his voice thick with doubt. "Zamat, why didn't we bring more men? Just the two of us probably can't handle whoever snatched Fang, right?"
The wiry mercenary, Zamat, chewed thoughtfully on a stalk of grass. "Who said anything about handling him? We're just here for show."
"For show?" "Exactly. Doesn't matter if he's the guy or not, we ain't getting close. We follow for a bit, then head back. Tell the boss we 'interrogated' him and he's clean. If the client gets mad, we won't be the ones catching hell."
The bald man's eyes widened with sudden comprehension and admiration. "Oh! That's the smartest thing I've ever heard!"
Zamat visibly puffed up, basking in the praise. Unbeknownst to them, every word of their conversation drifted clearly to Glen at the front of the cart.
Clever indeed... Glen thought, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he guided the deer.
Tia, sitting beside Glen, noticed the slight upward curve of his mouth. "What are you smiling about, Mr. Glen?"
"Hmm?" Glen quickly schooled his expression. "Oh, nothing much. Just remembered a joke." "What joke? Tell me!" Tia leaned forward eagerly, her curiosity piqued.
Glen paused momentarily, then dredged up a few simple anecdotes from his memories of a past life.
Tia's laughter threshold was notoriously low. Glen had barely finished the first, simplest joke when she was already clutching her stomach, tears of mirth streaming down her face. Her laughter rang out, clear and bright, easily carrying back to their pursuers.
"What's so funny? What are they laughing about?" the bald man asked, bewildered.
"Who cares? Not our problem," Zamat replied dismissively, spitting out his grass stalk.
True to their plan, as the journey lengthened and the distance from town increased, the two mercenaries drew their horses to a halt after only a short while. The deer cart continued on, soon disappearing from their view.
Glen and Tia arrived without incident at the outskirts of Baiyek Town. Glen instructed Tia to head back to the manor alone. He then followed his usual routine, heading towards the pig pens.
The weeds underfoot were trampled down into the mud from frequent passage, forming a distinct little trail winding into the deep forest. Glen followed this familiar path to the clearing.
Night Howl was engrossed in devouring some unfortunate animal it had hunted, its muzzle bloodied. Sensing Glen's approach, it lifted its head and offered a soft, guttural sound of greeting in his direction.
Raever, his unruly mop of curly hair instantly recognizable, stood beside the pig pen. He was methodically scooping slop from a bucket with a wooden ladle and pouring it into the trough. He seemed utterly oblivious to Glen's arrival.
The scene tugged strangely at Glen's memory, reminiscent of rural life in his past world... if only Raever weren't dressed in his distinctly noble attire.
"You're getting quite proficient," Glen remarked, his tone lightly teasing.
Raever turned sharply at the sound of his voice. Seeing Glen, he quickly looked back at the pigs, his lips twisting in a barely concealed grimace. Only because you forced me to... he thought resentfully.
Ignoring the young noble's reaction, Glen stated his business. "You don't need to come here tomorrow. I've found... well, a temporary worker. I have something else in mind for you."
Raever's reaction wasn't the relieved delight Glen expected. Instead, his face fell with distinct reluctance. "Why?! I mean... I've only been doing it a few days. Sure, maybe I messed up some things, but..."
Glen was momentarily stunned. "Wait... what? You should be glad not to have to do this anymore. Didn't you hate it?"
Raever stiffened, his eyes darting around nervously. He forced out an explanation. "I never said I liked it! It's just... I believe in doing things properly once you start. That... that's what my father taught me."
Glen wasn't fooled for a second by such a flimsy excuse, though he didn't press the point. He just raised an eyebrow mockingly. "Really? Didn't realize your father was such a stickler for professional dedication."
"Y-yes... he always was... very dedicated... a good father..." Raever stammered, each word sounding forced.
Glen simply stared at him, his expression utterly deadpan. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Raever's face flushed crimson, spreading down his neck. He'd never felt such excruciating awkwardness. Even Night Howl seemed to sense the tension, its chewing slowing down as its eyes flicked curiously between Glen and the mortified noble.
After a solid six or seven seconds, Glen finally looked away. "The task isn't permanent. Once I recruit someone else, you can come back."
"Fine," Raever mumbled, desperate for the conversation to end.
After checking the state of the pig pen's structure, Glen left. He didn't head back towards town, but instead turned towards the woodcutting site. He planned to build the lumber shed today. The pile of logs wouldn't last long if they got soaked in a rainstorm. ——— Back in Dud Town, the Hunter Mercenary Group's efforts had yielded nothing. The attack had been too sudden, too clean. No matter how many people they questioned or corners they searched, no substantial clues surfaced.
Night had fallen. The scar-faced man gathered his entire crew in the dimly lit tavern backroom. One by one, the mercenaries reported the scraps of useless gossip and dead ends they'd collected. Furious, the scar-faced man could only conclude the obvious: they had nothing.
It wasn't entirely their fault. These were hired swords, not intelligence gatherers, and complacency was rampant. But logic offered no comfort to their leader.
"Worthless! Absolutely worthless!!" The scar-faced man roared like a maddened beast. His rage spilled over into violence – a brutal slap here, a savage kick there – as he paced among his cowering subordinates. He ranted and raved, the same venomous insults and accusations looping endlessly for nearly an hour.
Zamat, head bowed low amid the tide of abuse, couldn't help but marvel inwardly despite the fear: The Boss really has incredible lung capacity.