The forest lay hushed under the sunset’s last gold, its shadows like silk, its light pooling warm on moss, a calm that seeped into bone.

A village sat cradled within that green ring, like a pearl in a jade bowl, and you’d think no true villain could call it home.

Even a villain, steeped long enough in this quiet, would soak up a hint of temple incense and Zen.

“Sister Caligula, do we stop here for a bit?”

Aphelia frowned, a ripple of unease before the motion.

Their band of seven halted a hundred meters short of the gate, dust drifting like smoke around their boots.

Aphelia’s gut said the peace was painted on, like lacquer over warped wood.

They were road-worn and iron-scented, with blood crusted on coats, and their killing intent hung like winter frost.

Aphelia’s white robe had turned crimson, a banner soaked in rain; he couldn’t tell demon blood from his own, and blade-rents made it a torn blood-robe.

Caligula, star chart in hand, smiled and smoothed the crease from his brow, like a palm over water.

“How many times have I said it—don’t waste a face that pretty by frowning.”

“Sister Caligula, we should—”

“Yeah, such a cute little ‘girl,’ ha!”

Galenlius, a scarlet coffin strapped to his back, slapped Aphelia’s shoulder and laughed, his mirth like a drumbeat; Aphelia shot him a sideways glare.

Galenlius didn’t look much better; the wound on his right arm threatened to split, and blood seeped through his bandage like ink.

“Told you to quit showing off. I’m out of Arcane Power. Forget advanced healing.”

Annoyance first, then motion—Aphelia swatted away Galenlius’s “reckless” hand, his face fine-cut and almost maiden-pretty, even with a shadow of worry.

He raised a hand; a low-tier healing glow stitched the tear, the light like dew; then he asked Caligula,

“If we’re resting in that village, someone should talk to the locals, so we don’t spark a mess.”

“No need.”

“Huh?”

Aphelia glanced at the star chart in Caligula’s palm, doubt fogging his eyes, his brow creasing again like a tightened bowstring.

Caligula waved him off, dusting her sleeves like shaking snow, and smiled.

“Wait. An old friend will come out to meet us.”

Aphelia didn’t relax, but the others sank to the ground like dropped sacks, all shape and no grace.

No one spoke; the fatigue on their faces was ashes after fire, hard to hide.

They said “rest,” but their fingers stayed locked on hilts and hafts, like roots gripping stone.

Aphelia sighed, the sound a thin flute in dusk; he held his tongue.

From whichever side you looked, he had no easy words to offer.

He carried a god’s blessing; his flesh felt like ironwood, not skin, and mortal weariness barely reached him.

“Aphelia, take a breather. Watching you makes me tired.”

Horagar fiddled with a clockwork doll, brass clicking like rain, his voice low and frayed.

“I’ll scout the perimeter. If any demonfolk linger, they won’t catch us napping.”

He vanished in a whoosh, leaving only a curl of dust like a fox’s tail.

“Hey—”

“Let him go.”

Galenlius tried to rise, but Caligula pressed him down, her hand landing on his wound like a stone; his grin twisted at the pain.

“Right, Galenlius. Let Aphelia be. If not now, he’d go in a minute anyway.”

Horagar slowed his hands, voice dipping to a whisper like night wind.

Karas had fallen asleep on his shoulder, the elf’s peerless face dusted with road grit, still stunning like moon over snow.

Horagar lowered his tone for that face; a rare pocket of quiet, and he wanted to cradle it, and look a little longer.

The hush held only a moment, like a bubble; then it burst.

“Everyone, sorry to keep you waiting.”

A ragged voice snapped their attention; they whipped toward the path into the village.

An old man stood there, hair white as frost, eyes bright as flint; none of them had seen him arrive.

Except Caligula, they spread out, space opening like a fan, weapons angling into perfect lines; one twitch from him and they’d strike.

Caligula laughed, her voice teasing like bells.

“Old man, quit playing ghost. You come out to greet and still put on airs.”

At her words, his menace sagged like a deflated skin; he scowled, all grumble and gravel.

“You do love trouble. All right, follow me.”

He sighed, a wind through reeds, turned to go.

“Oh, and put your weapons away.”

He stopped and glanced back, eyes narrow as knife slits.

“Why?”

Aphelia stepped from a rank of grass, the blades shivering like fish scales; he held his Holy Sword, light simmering like moonwater along the edge.

Shock flickered across the old man’s face, pupils pinning like needles, then smoothed away like ripples under stone.

“There are people here stronger than you,” he said, cane tapping earth like a metronome. “If you swagger in waving steel, you’ll give me a headache.”

Aphelia slanted a look at Caligula, but his Holy Sword didn’t dip; the line of his arm was a bar of iron.

“Honestly, this kid…”

Caligula covered her face with one hand, sighed, then stepped to his side; her fingers pinched his shoulders, light as a crane’s beak.

Aphelia shuddered; his hands loosened like leaves in wind; the Holy Sword slipped.

Caligula moved quick as a swallow, caught the hilt, and slid the blade back into his sheath.

“Relax. This old fossil won’t pull anything.”

“Cough…”

The old man didn’t dare argue; nor could he swallow it whole; he fake-coughed, urging them on with a dusty impatience.

“…Understood.”

Aphelia chose to yield a single step; his heel set, his breath like a drawn bow; his qi locked to the old man, kill-ready at the slightest twitch.

Seeing Caligula’s stance and Aphelia’s leash on his temper, the others stowed their weapons, steel kissing leather with soft, rain-like sounds.

They followed the old man’s unhurried pace into the forest-ringed village, feet tapping stone like beads on a string.

They crossed from trees into homes, and the place felt otherworldly, like a hidden peach-blossom spring in mist.

“The air’s Arcane Power is way too dense…”

Haimor doubted his senses; he pulled a gauge, its needle spinning wild like a trapped moth; the device couldn’t read this saturation at all.

The old man smiled, lips thin as reeds, and guided them through field after field, green waves rolling under wind, until the mountain rose like a sleeping beast.

He stopped by a signpost, its wood worn smooth like river stones.

“It’s… serene.”

Walking deeper, even Aphelia felt the village’s rhythm seep in; the knot in his forehead loosened like thawing earth.

“People here… aren’t reacting to us at all?”

Galenlius scratched his head; ordinarily, villagers saw soldiers and scattered like startled sparrows; their band looked worse than soldiers.

They passed field after field with no glances, no whispers; it pricked at Galenlius’s battlefield nerves like burrs.

The war with the Legends was near its end, just awaiting the final clash in their domain; strange foes and strange tricks surprised him no longer.

The old man chuckled, offering no answers; he was a hermit by choice, a cat-and-fish sort, with no right to spill anyone’s secrets.

Let the world burn elsewhere; as long as flames didn’t reach here, he wanted quiet days, simple as sunlight on water.

A stolen half-day of life—he believed in that like tea leaves settling.

He set his mind and subtly shifted their route, steps turning like a stream’s unexpected bend.

His silence sharpened Aphelia’s edge; he’d disliked the old man from the start, not for pettiness, but on instinct, like a dog bristling at unseen scent.

Soon they stood before the mountain’s foot; a winding flagstone path hugged the slope, gray-blue like river slate.

“Follow this up. There’s an old shrine to the gods. You’ll lodge there.”

He pointed at the path; his cane ticked like rain.

“A shrine? Didn’t peg you as the pious type.”

Aphelia’s voice held a slice of mockery, the smile all thorns.

“You brat… watch yourself.”

The old man blinked out of sight like a candle snuffed, then reappeared before Aphelia, hand snapping to his throat like a hawk’s talon.

“Stop!”

Caligula had guessed his intent, but she lacked Aphelia’s speed; fury burned in her pupils like hot coals.

The others were a beat late; steel rasped, arcs of cold gleam leveled at the old man.

Aphelia laughed, light and sharp; no flicker of fear, just winter moon over ice.

While the old man gripped his throat, a silver blade tip had risen under his chin, gleaming like frost, pressed to his neck.

“Attaboy!”

Galenlius whistled, crude and cheerful; his scarlet spear aimed at the old man’s heart, a blood-scent blooming like iron rain.

The gray-haired youth moved without sound; his eerie yokai blade slid free, cold as river mist, resting across the old man’s free arm.

Horagar and Haimor didn’t bother with finesse; they hauled out a legend-tier arcane cannon, its barrel like a black dragon, sight dead-center on the old man, waiting only for Aphelia’s nod.