The cultist attack—neither major nor minor—simply faded into the past. The aftermath was handed to the Inquisition Tribunal and constabulary. Fate had no clue how they classified it, but given the nature of the incident, it would surely be escalated upward.
In the following days, the outskirts’ patient quarters were raided. Rumor said everyone there had transformed into monstrous horrors without exception. The suburban zone was now sealed off by the Inquisition Tribunal—entry strictly forbidden.
As for Reed, the boy vanished completely after the incident. Fate searched every corner of the city but found no trace. He must have left town. Beyond quiet encouragement and well-wishes, Fate knew there was little he could offer the child. The cultist matter would be handled by current knights; once Alins heard of it, he’d take action. Retired as he was, Fate truly had no role left to play.
Weeks passed. Calm returned. Life moved on. Bati City regained its quiet rhythm, streets bustling once more. Though a count’s directly governed town, its modest prosperity paled beside the empire’s central city-states.
On weekends off, Fate strolled to the town square to observe the local Inquisition Tribunal at work. Victim families received compensation. Dilapidated homes, reported by the Tribunal, were repaired by the Ministry of Finance. Spotting a Tribunal knight directing junior staff, Fate gave a slight nod.
He had founded the Tribunal himself—to secure rights for the common folk: post-disaster aid, reconstruction oversight. Before its creation, imperial citizens were treated as nobles’ private property: taxed relentlessly, protected never. Nobles often colluded with merchant guilds to exploit the people beneath them. Bluntly put, under the previous monarch, commoners were little more than two-legged sheep—livestock stripped of rights, neglected and disposable. A rare few upright nobles offered decent lives to their subjects, but pinning millions’ fates on noble virtue? Absurd.
So Fate, upon rising to power, reshaped the empire. The Tribunal alone struck deep into the arrogant nobles’ core authority. Their hatred ran deeper than his blade—it was the power he’d carved from their grasp, the autonomy lost within their own lands. Taking a bite of someone else’s pie was like killing their parents; this? A bloodier, unquenchable vendetta.
Thus, Fate could never reveal himself. Public sentiment forced nobles to erect temples in his honor, yet in shadows, each craved to tear him limb from limb. The current empress held a blood feud—her father’s death. Stripped of former strength, surrounded by enemies across the empire, safety was a distant dream.
Why stay in such peril? Truth was, he’d offended far beyond the empire’s throne. Elven nobles of Dreamwood Forest shunned him; the Elven Empress bore a personal grudge, and elven pride bred deep xenophobia. Sanlan Kingdom had cleared his name—but after *that* incident, trust remained fragile. The Empress of Nine Provinces watched him like a wolf at the gate; few great clans held goodwill. The Far North? Too harsh for retirement. Smaller duchies? Mostly hostile, some burning with old hatreds. And Exiled Immortal Province? Absolutely not. Merely thinking of it sent a faint shiver of PTSD through Fate. Beyond these, few lands welcomed humans. When no refuge existed across the Alren Continent… anywhere felt the same.
A soft sigh escaped Fate’s lips. In a way, Christine was right. Twenty years of life-and-death struggle—and not one true friend. Not even a home.
Shaking off the gloom, he tilted his head. He’d sworn to let go… yet memories clung. *Sigh.* No matter. He was just an ordinary slacker punching the clock now—not the awe-commanding Dawnbreak Knight-Captain of old. Leisurely retirement was his theme. Let juniors and successors wrestle the thorny worries.
As usual, he fastened his iron helmet, changed into a plain, unremarkable outfit, and stepped out. From the storage room, he retrieved a discarded canteen, cleaned it, slung it over his shoulder, and walked through the cathedral gates marked “Day Off,” strolling down sun-dappled streets.
Though the cathedral was closed, merchants thrived on rest days.
“Yo, Fate! Off shift?” called a tavern vendor, spotting him with canteen in hand. They’d grown familiar through repeated chats.
“Not working today.”
“Haha, right! Same as always—a half-canteen of iced blueberry wine?”
“I brought my own,” Fate said, handing it over. “Yours is too small.”
“Hah! Got it—filling it to the brim now!”
“Mm.”
Fate disliked alcohol—but iced blueberry wine was the exception. An imperial specialty, it tasted more like fruit juice. With shockingly low alcohol, even Fate—who’d normally pass out after three cups—could drink several canteens without blushing.
The attendant returned the full canteen.
“Keep the change.” Cool, berry-scented vapor drifted to his nose. A rare, faint smile touched Fate’s lips as he tossed copper coins onto the table. On a scorching day, a gulp of chilled fruit wine was pure bliss. The old Fate never had this freedom—drinking banned on campaign. Now? No soldier. No knight. Do as he pleased. Even collapsing drunk on the street drew only a constable’s scolding for “spoiling the city’s appearance.”
*Gulp… gulp…* Fate tipped the canteen for a long swig.
The young shopkeeper’s mouth twitched.
Not the first time he’d seen it—but drinking through an iron helmet still felt like avant-garde performance art.
*How does he not spill it everywhere?* he wondered.
