Oren slowly drew back the room’s curtains. After scanning the bustling streets below the inn and confirming no one had followed them, he shut the window again.

“I’ve checked. No tails.”

He turned from the window and stepped deeper into the room. Dysaia sat beside Hilwen’s bed, her hand resting on his palm as faint magical light shimmered across her fingers. Yamwen and Lontan stood guard by the door, weapons ready.

“Good. No followers is best,” Yamwen murmured, her expression still tense. “But the Hammer of Humanity doesn’t rely on tracking to hunt non-humans. We can’t let our guard down.”

“Yeah. Never expected this to be easy anyway.” Oren shrugged, then turned to Dysaia. “So? What’s wrong with our prince?”

“No major issues,” Dysaia replied, withdrawing her hand. But her expression held a flicker of unease that contradicted her words. She lowered her voice. “Something disrupted his magic circulation. That’s why he’s unconscious. The Human Hammer Knight he fought inflicted irreversible damage to his mana pathways.”

*Irreversible?*

Oren’s brow furrowed slightly. “You mean… he’ll never use magic again?”

“Well, for ordinary people? Yes. His mana’s been shattered into chaotic currents. No mortal could rebuild that flow.” Dysaia leaned back, flashing a lazy grin. “But I’m no ordinary mortal. I can fix him. Just needs time.”

*Right. A millennia-old Silver Dragon Princess wouldn’t lack secret techniques.* Oren chuckled dryly at his own worry. He glanced at Yamwen and Lontan. “Think the Hammer will find us here? And why’s the prince even in this duchy? Since when did it become a non-human sanctuary?”

Yamwen and Lontan exchanged a look. Lontan grimaced. “Don’t blame us. We were sent by the Crimson Dragon to kill *you*. You just happened to flee here.”

*So it’s my fault.*

Yamwen tapped her chin thoughtfully. “As for the Hammer finding us… hard to say. We still don’t know how they locate non-humans. But they always do. This place isn’t safe.” Her voice tightened with worry. “Still… I suspect Hilwen came because news of Lacres’ capture reached the Kante Elves. He likely took the mission to rescue his brother.”

“Then once he wakes,” Oren said, “we join him.”

Dysaia raised a hand. “I see no issue. More hands make lighter work. In this human form, my magic is limited by this ‘container.’ And Lacres’ prison will be heavily guarded.” She shrugged lightly. “Besides, we have a pact with William.”

Oren nodded. Yamwen gave a noncommittal shrug. Lontan’s stance mirrored hers.

“Settled then.” Oren stretched lazily and stood. “We leave as soon as Hilwen wakes. Before the Hammer knights kick down our door.” He mimed raising a drink to the group. “But first—I’m getting a drink downstairs. Anyone joining?”

Yamwen sighed heavily. Lontan looked pained. Only Dysaia offered a wry smile. “Just don’t get drunk.”

“Haaah~” Oren yawned, pushing the door open. He descended the stairs toward the inn’s bar. Halfway down, a muffled voice stopped him.

“Excuse me.”

At the foot of the stairs, a man in black armor stood rigidly before the bar. The innkeeper peered up from behind the counter. The armored figure’s stillness clashed sharply with the tavern’s lively hum.

“What’ll you have?” the innkeeper asked.

“Wine.”

The tone was grating. Oren’s gaze snagged on the cloak draped over the man’s shoulders—embroidered with golden tassels framing a black polearm hammer.

The innkeeper slid a cup across the bar. As the armored man sat, Oren glimpsed the weapon strapped to his back: a white stone hammer, its surface etched with intricate runes. *No one carries a rune-carved stone hammer casually.* Oren froze on the stairs.

Muttered conversations rippled through the tavern. The armored man stared at his untouched cup through his helmet’s visor. Then he spoke again.

“I seek information. Have you seen any suspicious outsiders here?”

“None,” the innkeeper muttered, eyes fixed on the hammer. “Try the streets.”

“I tracked my quarry here. He’s close.”

“I said *none*.” The innkeeper’s voice hardened—he’d caught the man’s Alliance accent. “Certain?” The armored knight’s voice dropped, thick with threat.

A scar-faced man rose from a nearby table, two thugs trailing him. He swaggered up to the bar.

“We’ve nothing you want.” His sneer was sharp. “I know that emblem. You’re a Knight of the Human Hammer. Freaks like you—*demon-blood drinkers*—aren’t welcome here. This is a civilized town.” He leaned in, shouting into the helmet. “Alliance scum. You and those damned elves and dwarves ruin everything!”

Oren sensed the tension snap. He edged backward, ready to warn the others—but the scarred man pressed on.

“Pay your tab and get out!”

The knight finally turned. “I’ll finish my drink first.”

*You haven’t even touched it,* Oren thought. The tavern held its breath.

“We’ll *help* you finish it!” the thug snarled. He swatted the cup from the knight’s hand and grabbed his sword hilt.

*THWACK!*

A spinning kick slammed the thug’s face into the floorboards. Time froze. Then—

***WHAM!***

The stone hammer descended like a thunderbolt. The floor shattered. Where the thug had lain was now a crimson smear. Chairs splintered in the shockwave. Glass shattered. Screams erupted.

The innkeeper retched, trembling. The knight hefted the gore-slicked hammer, settling into a battle stance. No one moved. Fear glued patrons to the floor like quicksand.

Slowly, the knight lifted his head. His helmet’s slits glowed hellish red as they locked onto Oren halfway up the stairs.

A muffled voice cut through the silence.

“You reek… of filth.”

The knight slung the hammer onto his shoulder and began walking toward Oren.