Approaching Westhaven
The forest canopy had been thinning for the past two hours, deciduous density giving way to managed woodland that indicated proximity to human settlement. John's ki perception tracked the changes through acoustic signatures—fewer bird calls suggesting reduced wild habitat, more regular spacing between trees suggesting deliberate forestry management, the distant sounds of human activity that grew progressively louder as they approached their destination.
Kiran had been walking beside him for three days now, the boy's presence creating constant low-level irritation through his inability to maintain silence for extended periods. Every observation about their surroundings required verbal articulation, every animal they encountered prompted excited commentary, every kilometer traveled generated questions about their destination and John's plans once they arrived.
The terrain began its final transition from forest to agricultural land—cleared fields visible through John's perception as open spaces where acoustic reflection behaved differently, where wind patterns changed due to lack of tree coverage. The dirt path they'd been following widened, became more defined, showed evidence of regular cart traffic through the worn grooves John's enhanced tactile awareness could detect.
Then the walls appeared in his perception. Not vision—John's world remained absolute darkness punctuated only by the spatial relationships his ki cultivation constructed from non-visual inputs. But the walls were unmistakable: stone construction approximately eight meters high, extending in both directions beyond his fifty-meter perception radius, creating acoustic barrier that divided managed farmland from whatever lay beyond.
Westhaven. The settlement Kiran had been guiding them toward, the first major population center John had approached since his reincarnation into this weak body.
"We're here!" Kiran's voice carried excitement that seemed disproportionate to the accomplishment of reaching a destination after three days of walking. "Look at the walls! They're huge! I've never seen anything this—oh." He stopped mid-sentence, apparently remembering John's blindness. "Sorry. I mean, can you sense how big they are? The walls?"
"Yes," John said curtly. His perception had already mapped the gate structure ahead—wooden doors reinforced with metal banding, currently open to allow traffic, guard positions on either side where armed individuals stood monitoring the flow of people entering and exiting. "I can sense them."
They joined the queue of people awaiting entry inspection. John's enhanced hearing tracked multiple conversations simultaneously: merchants discussing inventory and pricing, farmers negotiating with buyers about crop deliveries, travelers exchanging information about road conditions and lodging availability. The ambient noise created dense auditory environment that his perception had to filter and process continuously.
Kiran was practically vibrating with barely contained energy. "There are so many people. And the buildings inside—I can see roofs, different heights, some are two stories, maybe three—" His running commentary continued despite John's obvious disinterest.
"You're repeating yourself," John interrupted. His tone carried the flat irritation of someone whose patience had been systematically eroded over seventy-two hours of constant companionship. "Every observation requires vocal expression. Every sight generates excited response. You're acting like a child who's never encountered civilization."
"I am a child," Kiran protested. "I'm ten. And I've literally never been to a city before. My parents—the people who kept me—they never took me anywhere except deep forest for gathering supplies. This is my first time seeing buildings taller than one story, my first time seeing more than five people in the same place, my first time—"
"I understand," John cut him off. "First time. Novel experience. Exciting. The point is made without requiring continuous verbal reinforcement."
Kiran was quiet for approximately thirty seconds—a duration that felt luxurious compared to his usual communication frequency. Then: "You know I'm technically a werewolf, right? For my kind, ten years old is basically infant age. We mature slower than humans. So acting like a child is developmentally appropriate."
"You're a human with Beast Uncos who can transform into wolf form," John corrected. "That's different from actual werewolf species, which are mythological constructs that don't exist in documented reality."
"Still counts," Kiran muttered.
They reached the gate. One of the guards—male, approximately thirty years old based on voice characteristics, armed with spear and wearing what sounded like leather armor—stepped forward to conduct the entry inspection John had been observing through other travelers' experiences.
"State your business in Westhaven," the guard said, his tone professional but carrying underlying boredom of someone who'd asked the same question hundreds of times.
"Trade and resupply," John responded. The lie was simple, verifiable through their appearance as travelers rather than through actual evidence of trade goods. "We're passing through toward the eastern territories."
The guard's attention lingered on John's eyes—the stillness that indicated blindness, the way John's gaze didn't track toward the speaker's face. "You're blind."
"Observant," John said.
"You're traveling alone? Just you and the boy?"
"Yes."
The guard made noncommittal sound, then stepped aside. "Entry fee is five copper per person. Keep to main thoroughfares, don't cause trouble, city watch patrols at two-hour intervals. Next."
Kiran paid the entry fee from the small collection of coins John had taken from Soren during their fight—not enough to be significant wealth, but sufficient for basic expenses. They moved through the gate, and John's perception was immediately overwhelmed by the sensory density of urban environment.
Westhaven was not large by the standards of major cities—maybe fifteen thousand permanent residents based on the settlement's acoustic footprint—but compared to the isolation of forest travel, it was overwhelming assault on John's enhanced senses. Hundreds of simultaneous conversations, construction noise from multiple building sites, the sounds of carts and horses navigating cobblestone streets, merchants calling out prices and product descriptions, children playing, dogs barking, the complex layered cacophony of human civilization concentrated in limited space.
John's perception radius, which had been sufficient for forest navigation, became almost useless in this environment. Too much information, too many overlapping signals, his brain struggling to filter relevant spatial data from irrelevant noise. He had to reduce his awareness to approximately fifteen meters just to maintain functional orientation.
Kiran was providing running commentary again, his voice adding to the auditory chaos. "There's a building that's three stories! And that one has balconies! Oh, there's a fountain in the square! People are selling food—I can smell bread baking, and something with meat, and—"
"Focus," John interrupted. His attention was directed elsewhere, toward the commercial district where his perception had detected the specific acoustic signatures of magical goods vendors. The shops produced distinctive sounds—crystalline tones from artifact displays, the particular frequency patterns that mana-charged objects generated, even the specific way vendors pitched their voices when describing mystical properties to potential customers.
He navigated toward that district, using Kiran as visual guide when necessary, letting the boy's excited descriptions supplement what his ki perception couldn't resolve in the dense urban environment. The commercial district occupied Westhaven's eastern quadrant, identifiable by the concentration of permanent structures with display windows and the higher density of foot traffic.
John entered a shop at random—well, not random. His enhanced smell had detected trace mana emanations from this location, suggesting they sold actual magical items rather than purely mundane goods. The interior acoustic signature indicated medium-sized space, maybe ten meters by eight meters, with shelves along three walls and a counter near the back.
"Welcome, travelers!" The shopkeeper's voice was male, older, carrying the particular enthusiasm of someone whose income depended on convincing customers to purchase overpriced merchandise. "Looking for something specific, or just browsing today's selection?"
John moved toward the nearest shelf, his left hand—the functional hand—reaching out to examine the items through touch. His fingers found what felt like small crystalline structures, maybe five centimeters in length, arranged in organized rows. The moment his skin made contact, he felt it: the absolute absence of real mana, replaced by trace contamination that suggested these crystals had been near genuine magical items but possessed no inherent power themselves.
Fake.
His perception shifted to the next shelf. More crystals, these ones larger, wrapped in cloth that the shopkeeper probably claimed was "preservation material" or "mana-conductive fabric." John's enhanced touch detected the cloth's mundane composition—simple cotton, nothing special. And the crystals themselves, while prettier than the first batch based on their surface texture, were equally devoid of real power.
He moved systematically through the shop, examining items on every shelf, using his combination of enhanced touch and mana sensitivity to assess each object. The crystals marketed as "mana accumulation focuses" were colored glass with no mystical properties. The "essence circulation rings" were plain metal with decorative engravings. The "spiritual enhancement pendants" were carved stone with embedded minerals that looked impressive but did nothing.
Everything was fake. Not necessarily intentionally fraudulent—some vendors probably believed their products worked—but fake nonetheless. These objects possessed no real power, no capacity to help with mana cultivation or Uncos development. They were props, placebos, mechanisms for extracting money from desperate people who wanted access to power but couldn't distinguish genuine artifacts from convincing replicas.
John's mind supplied context from his memories as Kami Van Hellsin. Five hundred years ago, shops like these had sold legitimate cultivation aids—crystals that actually stored ambient mana, rings that enhanced circulation efficiency, pendants inscribed with formations that guided spiritual development. The items had been expensive but functional, tools that accelerated progress for those wealthy enough to afford them.
But these modern equivalents were degraded versions, shadows of what they'd once been. Either the knowledge required to create genuine articles had been lost over the centuries, or the natural mana required to empower them had depleted to levels where effective manufacturing was no longer possible. Probably both—the systematic loss of power he'd already observed in plants like Vitalis leaves extended to crafted objects as well.
The world was dying. Not dramatically, not in ways most people would notice year to year, but systematically, the fundamental energy that sustained magical phenomena draining away decade by decade until what remained were these hollow shells—objects that looked right but contained no substance.
John's fingers traced across one final item, a pendant that the price tag claimed could "awaken dormant Uncos potential." The metal was tarnished, the supposed mana-conductive crystal at its center was ordinary quartz, and the formation inscribed on its reverse side was decorative nonsense rather than functional cultivation array.
This world had forgotten what real power looked like. Had adapted to steadily decreasing baselines until people accepted these pathetic imitations as genuine. The Divine Prohibitions had closed off knowledge of legitimate cultivation methods, and natural mana depletion had made traditional artifacts impossible to manufacture, leaving population that was systematically weaker than their ancestors while believing they were operating at normal capacity.
"See anything that interests you?" the shopkeeper asked, his tone suggesting he'd interpreted John's careful examination as serious consideration rather than analytical assessment of widespread fraud.
"No," John said flatly. He moved toward the exit, Kiran trailing behind after apparently browsing the shop's inventory with genuine fascination rather than John's critical evaluation.
They exited into the street, and John was already redirecting his attention toward finding legitimate resources—not magical artifacts, those apparently didn't exist in functional form anymore, but information. Libraries, if Westhaven had them. Scholars or historians who might possess knowledge about the world's current state and the locations of resources that could aid his development.
His perception detected them before conscious thought could process the threat: familiar presences at the edge of his awareness range, moving with purpose through the crowd, their positions suggesting coordinated search pattern rather than casual movement through the city.
One presence in particular carried the specific combination of size, movement efficiency, and that undefinable quality that marked someone as predator. John's body recognized Soren Blackwood before his mind confirmed the identification through acoustic signature matching.
They'd followed him. Had tracked him across three days of forest travel, had navigated to Westhaven through whatever methods professional hunters used, and were now systematically searching the city streets for their target.
"Run," John said quietly, his hand finding Kiran's shoulder. "Now."
"What? Why—"
John was already moving, pulling Kiran with him, navigating away from where his perception had detected Soren's group. The crowd was dense enough to provide temporary concealment if they moved quickly, if they could put distance between themselves and the hunters before visual confirmation occurred.
But Kiran's question had cost them three seconds, and three seconds was apparently sufficient for one of Soren's companions—the female whose presence John had noted at the group's periphery—to detect something.
"I smell him!" The woman's voice carried across the street, cutting through ambient noise with urgency that made nearby civilians pause. "The blind one, close, within fifty meters!"
John's perception tracked her position: northeast, approximately forty meters away, moving toward them with speed that suggested enhanced physical capabilities. Soren's presence shifted immediately, redirecting toward their location, his Bloodlust Uncos apparently already activating based on how his movement patterns accelerated.
The crowd was obstacle now, civilians occupying space John needed to navigate through, their confused reactions to the sudden commotion slowing his escape. His ki perception was struggling with the sensory density, unable to map optimal route when every direction contained multiple moving bodies creating constantly shifting spatial relationships.
Then something massive impacted the ground five meters ahead of John's position. Cobblestones cracked under kinetic force that exceeded what human muscle should generate. John's perception mapped the impact crater, the displaced stone fragments, and standing at its center: Soren Blackwood, his Bloodlust Uncos fully active now, making him faster and stronger than he'd been during their forest encounter.
"Found you," Soren said, his voice carrying savage satisfaction. "Did you really think you could hide in a city? Did you think I wouldn't track you across the entire fucking continent if necessary?"
Civilians were scattering, recognizing the situation as dangerous even without understanding specifics. The crowd's density decreased rapidly, creating open space that benefited the hunters while eliminating John's concealment advantage.
Soren moved. Not technique, just pure physical assault—his right fist driving toward John's torso with velocity that John's perception detected but his body couldn't react to quickly enough. The impact caught John's left shoulder, not center mass but close enough. The force sent him backward three meters, his feet leaving the ground, his body hitting cobblestone with impact that drove air from his lungs and sent pain signals through his already-damaged back.
John rolled immediately, not away from Soren but toward him—counterintuitive movement that put him inside Soren's reach before the man could wind up for a second strike. His left hand found Soren's boot, his grip weak but sufficient to disrupt balance momentarily.
It bought him two seconds. John used them to scramble backward, creating five meters of distance, his perception frantically mapping exit vectors while his conscious mind processed that he couldn't win this fight. Couldn't even stall effectively. Soren was faster, stronger, powered by Uncos that amplified his capabilities specifically through desire to harm John. Direct engagement meant death.
Kiran transformed. The ten-year-old's body shifted through the violent restructuring that accompanied Beast Uncos activation, bones extending and rearranging, muscle mass redistributing, skin sprouting dark fur. The process took four seconds—too long for combat transformation but fast enough that Soren's attention divided between two targets.
Wolf-form Kiran was small, maybe forty-five kilograms, but his teeth were legitimate weapons and his speed exceeded his human configuration. He darted toward Soren's left flank, not attacking directly but creating threat that demanded response.
John used the distraction to run. Not tactical retreat with maintained defensive awareness—full sprint in whatever direction his perception indicated as least obstructed. His damaged right hand throbbed with each jarring step, his malnourished body protesting the cardiovascular demand, but survival instinct overrode physical limitations.
Kiran's wolf form was beside him within three strides, matching his pace, his enhanced quadrupedal locomotion easily keeping pace with John's desperate human sprint.
Behind them, Soren's voice: "Scatter formation! Cut off their exits! Don't let them reach the residential district!"
Three more presences joined the pursuit, moving with coordinated precision that indicated extensive experience working as hunting team. John's perception tracked them: the female who'd detected his scent was fastest, taking a flanking route that would cut off their eastern escape. The large male presence moved with brutal efficiency despite his size, following John's exact path with the confidence of someone who could crash through obstacles rather than navigating around them. The third pursuer—another male, smaller than Soren but carrying himself with the kind of disciplined movement that suggested military training—was positioning to block western exit vectors.
They were being herded. Professional hunters didn't chase prey randomly—they guided prey toward predetermined kill zones, used terrain and controlled panic to create tactical advantages.
John's perception detected a street branching north, narrower than the main thoroughfare, lined with buildings close enough together that his acoustic mapping suggested limited aerial approach vectors. He redirected, Kiran following, both of them plunging into the tighter confines where their smaller size might offset the hunters' physical advantages.
The narrow street created acoustic complications—sounds echoing off stone walls, creating false spatial data his perception had to filter through. But it also constrained the hunters' approach vectors, forced them into linear pursuit rather than encirclement tactics.
Something hit the building to John's right—massive impact that sent stone fragments cascading down, barely missing his head. The large male pursuer had apparently thrown something, probably a piece of street furniture or detached building element, using raw strength to create area-denial effect.
"Kael, you're destroying civilian property!" the female hunter called out, her tone carrying frustration rather than genuine concern. "The city watch is going to—"
"Don't care!" the large male—Kael—responded. "Brennick wants the blind one recovered or dead. Property damage is acceptable collateral."
John's perception detected cross-street ahead, intersection that would provide escape vectors. He pushed his body harder, legs burning with lactic acid accumulation, lungs pulling insufficient oxygen, the physical weakness of this twelve-year-old frame becoming critical limitation as the chase extended past what his conditioning could sustain.
They reached the intersection. John started to redirect east, but Kiran's growl—urgent warning—made him abort that vector. His perception confirmed why: the female hunter had predicted that move, was already positioned thirty meters down the eastern street, her body language suggesting readiness to intercept.
North then. John redirected, no longer making tactical decisions but simply reacting to immediate obstacles, his long-term escape planning degraded to moment-by-moment survival.
The street widened again, opening into what his perception indicated was small plaza—open space approximately fifty meters square, civilian foot traffic moderate, several large structures creating acoustic dead zones that limited his environmental awareness.
Bad tactical position. Open space meant the hunters could coordinate without obstruction. But John didn't have energy reserves to maintain sprint velocity much longer, and stopping in the narrow street meant being cornered against walls with no escape.
He committed to the plaza, hoping to cross it quickly and reach whatever streets existed on the opposite side.
Soren was faster. His Bloodlust-enhanced speed let him close the distance John had maintained through desperate flight, let him reach the plaza's center while John was still fifteen meters from its northern edge. The man positioned himself directly in John's path, his stance relaxed but ready, his breathing barely elevated despite the sustained chase.
"End of the line, blind boy," Soren said. His right hand was drawing his sword—the same thin blade that had pinned John's hand during their forest encounter, its edge catching sunlight John couldn't see but could sense through how the metal's presence affected his spatial awareness.
John stopped. Not choice—his legs wouldn't support continued running, his cardiovascular system couldn't supply additional energy, his body was done. Kiran-wolf positioned himself beside John, teeth bared, stance aggressive but undermined by how his flanks were heaving with exertion.
The other three hunters emerged into the plaza, taking positions that created four-point containment. John's perception mapped their arrangement: Soren directly ahead at seven meters, the female—her presence carried distinctive scent markers that suggested feline Beast Uncos, probably leopard or similar predator species—positioned southeast at twelve meters, Kael the large male southwest at ten meters, the military-trained third male—call him Marcus based on how the others addressed him—northeast at fifteen meters.
Professional positioning. No gaps, overlapping fields of engagement, each hunter capable of supporting the others if John somehow broke through one position.
City watch presence was approaching—John could hear their organized movement, their calls for crowd dispersal, the specific acoustic signature of multiple armed individuals responding to civil disturbance. But they were at least two minutes away, maybe three. Long enough for this encounter to resolve.
"Elara," Soren said, addressing the female hunter without taking his attention off John. "You're certain this is him? Your nose hasn't led us wrong?"
"It's him," the woman—Elara—confirmed. Her voice carried the particular quality of someone with enhanced sensory capabilities, probably olfactory specialization based on how she'd tracked John through the crowded city. "Blood scent matches what I sampled at the estate. Blind child, approximately twelve years old, accompanied by younger boy with canine Beast Uncos. Positive identification."
"Good." Soren's grip on his sword adjusted, positioning shifting from ready to active engagement. "I told you I'd find you. Told you I'd dedicate my life to hunting you if necessary. Did you think I was being dramatic? Did you think I wouldn't follow through?"
John didn't respond. His mind was processing available options, finding none that led to survival through direct action. He couldn't fight—Soren alone was beyond his current capabilities, and there were four trained hunters. He couldn't run—his body was exhausted and they had him surrounded. He couldn't negotiate—Soren's Bloodlust Uncos was already active, making him progressively more dangerous the longer this confrontation extended, feeding on his desire to harm John until rational thought became secondary to violence.
Kiran growled, low threatening sound that carried more desperation than genuine threat. The boy understood the tactical situation as well as John did, understood they were cornered with no viable escape.
Then something changed in the acoustic environment—new presence entering John's perception radius from the plaza's western approach. Not city watch; their movement pattern was too fluid, too deliberate. Multiple individuals, moving with coordinated silence that suggested training in stealth operations.
John's perception mapped them: six people, spreading through the plaza's periphery, taking positions that suggested they were observing rather than intervening. One presence in particular carried authority that made the others unconsciously defer—slight adjustments in their positioning that indicated hierarchy even without explicit commands.
Soren noticed them too. His stance shifted, attention dividing between John and these new arrivals. "We've got company. Marcus, identification?"
The military-trained hunter scanned the plaza's edges. "Unknown affiliation. No city watch markers. Positioning suggests tactical awareness. Threat assessment... unclear."
"Doesn't matter," Soren said. His Bloodlust was intensifying, making his voice rougher, making his movements more aggressive. "We finish this before they intervene. Kael, you handle the wolf. Elara, Marcus, prevent interference from our new observers. I'll take the blind one personally."
The hunters moved simultaneously, coordinated assault that John's perception tracked but couldn't respond to effectively. Kael closed on Kiran-wolf with speed that exceeded what his size suggested, his hands shifting as his own Beast Uncos activated—something large, something dangerous. Elara and Marcus repositioned to block the mysterious observers from approaching. Soren advanced directly toward John, his sword rising into strike position that would bisect John from shoulder to hip if it connected.
John's desperate attempt at defense—light Uncos activated from his left palm, concentrated beam aimed at Soren's face—was predicted and countered. Soren's free hand came up, some kind of artifact or prepared defense creating barrier that absorbed the light emission without effect. The man had learned from their first encounter, had come prepared for John's only offensive capability.
The sword descended. John threw himself sideways, the blade's edge missing his torso by centimeters but catching his left arm, opening a cut from elbow to wrist that immediately began bleeding profusely. Not deep enough to sever muscle or artery, but painful enough that John's perception fragmented from shock, his spatial awareness collapsing to incoherent noise as his nervous system prioritized pain signals over environmental mapping.
He hit the ground, rolled through instinct rather than planning, came up disoriented with no clear sense of where the threats were positioned. His left arm wasn't responding properly, the cut having damaged something that affected motor control even if it hadn't severed tendons.
Kiran's wolf-form yelped—Kael had caught him, was holding him suspended by the scruff of his neck, the boy's struggles ineffective against the larger man's strength. Kiran was trying to transform back to human form, but Beast Uncos transitions required concentration that pain and fear made impossible.
Soren was repositioning for finishing strike, his Bloodlust feeding on John's injury and creating positive feedback loop that accelerated his capabilities past anything John could counter.
Then the mysterious observers intervened.
Not directly entering combat—something else. One of them, the presence with authority, made gesture John perceived through how it changed air pressure patterns. Reality shifted. Not Uncos manifestation, something different, something older. The space between John and Soren suddenly contained obstacle that hadn't existed—translucent barrier similar to what Erik the Liberator had used during Amari's depot mission, but more refined, more stable.
Soren's sword struck the barrier and stopped, kinetic energy absorbed and dissipated. His expression—John couldn't see it but could infer from body language—shifted from confident aggression to confused frustration.
"What the—" Soren started.
The authority presence spoke, voice male, mature, carrying tones that suggested education and power in equal measure. "Cease your aggression. You're creating civil disturbance in commercial district under city watch jurisdiction. Further violence will be considered criminal action subject to immediate arrest."
"This doesn't concern you," Soren responded, his Bloodlust making his voice aggressive despite the reasonable warning. "We're recovering escaped property. Legal operation under Brennick estate authority."
"Brennick estate has no jurisdiction within Westhaven's walls," the authority voice countered. "And regardless of your legal claims, you've destroyed property, endangered civilians, and violated city ordinances regarding public combat. Stand down or face consequences."
City watch was arriving now—John could hear them converging from multiple directions, their organized movement patterns indicating at least twelve individuals, probably more. The hunters were being surrounded, not just by the mysterious observers but by Westhaven's official authorities.
Soren's body language showed conflict—his Bloodlust demanded he continue pursuit, demanded he kill John and finish what he'd started. But the rational portion of his mind was recognizing the tactical situation had become untenable. Four hunters against six unknown combatants plus city watch forces meant fighting would result in capture or death.
"We're leaving," Soren said finally, the words forced through gritted teeth. "But this isn't finished, blind boy. I'll find you again. I'll always find you. You can't hide, you can't run far enough, you can't escape what's coming."
The hunters withdrew in coordinated retreat, Kael releasing Kiran-wolf before backing away, all four of them moving toward the plaza's eastern exit where city watch presence was thinnest. They disappeared into the urban landscape within thirty seconds, vanishing with the practiced efficiency of people who'd evaded authorities many times before.
The city watch contingent reached the plaza, their leader—a woman wearing officer insignia—surveying the damage with expression that suggested this kind of incident occurred more frequently than she'd prefer. "Someone want to explain what just happened?"
The authority presence from the mysterious observer group stepped forward, revealing himself as man approximately forty years old, wearing robes that mixed religious symbolism with practical travel modifications. His face was weathered but kind, his posture suggesting someone comfortable with authority but not aggressive about exercising it.
"These two—" he gestured at John and Kiran, who'd transformed back to human form and was trying to help John stanch the bleeding from his arm, "—were being pursued by what appeared to be private security or bounty hunters. The pursuers created significant property damage and endangered multiple civilians. I intervened to prevent further violence."
The watch officer's attention fixed on John and Kiran. "And you two? What's your involvement?"
John's perception was still compromised by pain and blood loss, but he managed to articulate basic response: "We're travelers. The hunters claimed we were escaped property, but that's false. We entered Westhaven legally through the southern gate approximately ninety minutes ago."
"Can you prove that?"
"Gate guards can confirm our entry and payment of fees."
The officer made notes, then addressed the robed man. "Father Matthias, you're vouching for these two?"
"I'm suggesting they deserve hearing before being condemned based on accusations from people who just destroyed half a commercial plaza," the robed man—Father Matthias—replied diplomatically. "But I'm not officially vouching for them. I don't know them."
The officer considered this, then made decision. "You two—" she addressed John and Kiran, "—you're coming with me to the watch station for formal statement. The hunters violated multiple ordinances, but we need your testimony to file charges. And we need to verify your legal status before releasing you."
John's arm was still bleeding. His perception was barely functional. His body was exhausted past sustainable levels. But arguing with official authorities while surrounded by their armed enforcement seemed tactically inadvisable.
"Understood," John said.
"Wait," Father Matthias interrupted. "Officer, these two are clearly injured and exhausted. Could they at least receive basic medical attention before interrogation? There's a temple one street over—we have facilities for treating wounded travelers."
The officer looked skeptical. "You're asking me to release potential criminals to religious sanctuary before I've verified their story?"
"I'm asking you to show basic human compassion while maintaining your investigation. They're not going anywhere—one is blind and the other is maybe eleven years old. You can post guards at the temple if you're concerned about flight risk."
After brief consideration, the officer agreed. "Fine. Two guards accompany them to the temple, remain present during treatment, then bring them to watch station for statements. Father Matthias, you're responsible for their behavior during that time."
"Accepted," Matthias said.
John and Kiran were escorted—not gently, but not brutally—toward the temple Matthias had indicated. The structure was close, maybe two hundred meters north of the plaza, positioned on a small rise that gave it slight elevation above surrounding buildings.
As they approached, John's perception mapped the temple's form: stone construction, single story but with high ceiling, entrance flanked by columns that supported decorative facade, interior space that created specific acoustic signature suggesting large open chamber.
The entrance led into the main worship hall, and John's perception immediately detected the gathered group: approximately twenty people arranged in loose formation, all facing toward the hall's far wall where something stood elevated on platform or pedestal. Their posture suggested prayer or meditation, their attention completely focused on whatever they were worshipping.
Kiran, supporting John as they entered, apparently failed to notice the worshippers or the object of their devotion until too late. His foot caught on something—raised threshold, uneven flooring, something—and both he and John stumbled forward, their momentum carrying them past the surprised guards and the gathered worshippers.
They crashed into the pedestal. John felt it crack under their combined weight, felt something heavy topple and shatter against stone floor. The worshippers' shock was immediate—gasps, exclamations, the sound of multiple people moving simultaneously in response to what had just occurred.
John's perception tried to map what they'd destroyed, but his cognitive functions were too compromised by pain and exhaustion. He registered broken pieces, fragments of what had been statue or carved figure, the particular acoustic signature of stone striking stone.
"The statue!" Someone in the crowd said, voice carrying horror. "They broke the Promised One's statue!"
Father Matthias was beside them immediately, helping them upright, his hands surprisingly gentle. "Easy, easy. It's alright. Accidents happen." He addressed the crowd: "Brothers and sisters, please. They're injured and exhausted. This was not intentional desecration."
One of the worshippers—older woman, her voice carrying authority that suggested senior position within the temple's hierarchy—moved closer to examine the damage. John heard her breath catch, heard her whisper something that his enhanced hearing captured despite her attempt at privacy: "The blind one's face... the resemblance..."
She didn't complete the thought audibly, but John's tactical mind processed implications. Statue of the Promised One. In a temple. Being worshipped by congregation. Some kind of prophecy, some figure these people believed would come to challenge or change the current order.
These people were worshipping a prophesied being. In secret temple, maintaining faith in something that official Order doctrine probably condemned or suppressed.
And apparently the statue's face had resembled John's own features closely enough that the woman had noticed despite his blindness and current condition.
Kiran, still in shock from the fall and the rapid sequence of events, looked around at the gathered worshippers with confusion. "Can you help us?" he asked, his voice carrying desperate plea. "My friend—John—he's hurt badly. The people chasing us, they're going to come back. We need somewhere safe, we need medical treatment, we need—"
"Peace, child," Father Matthias said. "You're safe here. Temple offers sanctuary to those who need it, regardless of circumstances." He addressed the congregation: "Bring medical supplies. Clean water, bandages, salves. These two need immediate care."
The worshippers hesitated—some showing concern about harboring fugitives, others apparently conflicted about helping people who'd just destroyed their sacred statue. But Father Matthias's authority apparently carried weight, and after moment of uncertainty, several people moved to gather medical supplies.
Outside, John's perception detected Soren's group circling the area. They were maintaining distance from the temple, staying just beyond range where city watch would notice them, but they were there. Waiting. Watching.
Elara's voice carried through an open window, quiet enough that only someone with John's enhanced hearing would detect it: "They're in the temple. I can smell them clearly."
"Then we go in and retrieve them," Soren responded, his voice carrying frustrated desire to complete his hunt.
"Not while city watch is posted outside," Elara countered. "And not while we're still within their jurisdiction. We try to force entry into temple sanctuary, we'll have every guard in the city responding."
Soren made sound of pure frustration. "Then we wait. They have to leave eventually. And when they do, we'll be ready."
Their presence withdrew slightly, maintaining surveillance from safer distance.
Inside the temple, John sat while worshippers cleaned and bandaged his arm. Kiran remained beside him, the boy's earlier excitement about the city completely erased by exhaustion and fear.
Father Matthias approached once the immediate medical care was complete, settling onto a bench beside John with the careful movements of someone whose body carried old injuries. "You have an interesting effect on your surroundings," he observed, tone carrying more curiosity than accusation. "Destructive hunters pursuing you through city streets, breaking sacred statues, causing general chaos. All within two hours of arriving in Westhaven."
"We didn't intend any of it," John said. His voice was rough with fatigue, his left arm throbbing despite the bandages and the salve they'd applied. "The hunters tracked us from elsewhere. The statue was accident."
"I believe you." Matthias paused, then added quietly: "Though accidents sometimes carry deeper meaning than intention. The statue you destroyed—do you know whose image it bore?"
John considered lying, decided truth was simpler. "Van Hellsin. The Fallen One. The devil who challenged the Supreme Eight five hundred years ago."
"And you have thoughts about why a temple would maintain such statue?" Matthias asked. "Why people would worship someone official doctrine condemns as ultimate evil?"
"Because official doctrine is propaganda," John said. "Written by victors to justify their authority. People worship Van Hellsin because they recognize the Supreme Eight's system is oppressive and unsustainable, and they see him as symbol of resistance even if they believe the lies about what he actually did."
Matthias's expression shifted—surprise mixed with something approaching approval. "You're more educated than most twelve-year-old travelers. Where did you learn to think critically about official histories?"
"Books," John said vaguely. "Before my circumstances changed."
The older woman who'd noticed the resemblance earlier approached, carrying a ceramic cup filled with water. She offered it to John, her hands trembling slightly. "Drink, child. You've lost blood."
John accepted the cup with his right hand—the damaged hand with its two ruined fingers, making the grip awkward. He drank, the water helping clear some of the mental fog from blood loss.
The woman was staring at his face. Not his eyes, but his overall features, her expression showing something between wonder and fear. "The resemblance," she whispered to Father Matthias, barely loud enough for John's enhanced hearing to detect. "It's uncanny. The facial structure, the way he moves despite the blindness, even his voice when he speaks with authority rather than fear..."
"Sister Helena, don't read too much into physical coincidence," Matthias cautioned. "The Fallen One has been sealed for five centuries. This is a blind child fleeing from hunters, not—"
"Not what?" John interrupted, making both adults start. "Not Van Hellsin returned? I heard what she said. You think I look like him?"
Sister Helena's expression showed guilt at being overheard, but she didn't deny it. "The statue we maintained was carved from descriptions in the oldest texts, before official history was rewritten. It showed him as he appeared during his challenge at Zenith Thronos—young, determined, carrying power that transcended physical form." She gestured at John. "Your features echo that image. Considerably younger, obviously, and the blindness changes the overall impression. But the underlying structure..."
"Is coincidence," Father Matthias said firmly. "Nothing more. Thousands of people share similar features. It means nothing."
But his tone suggested he wasn't entirely convinced of his own words.
John filed the information away for later analysis. If these worshippers maintained accurate descriptions of Van Hellsin's original appearance, and if this body's features genuinely resembled those descriptions, that suggested something about the mechanism that had brought his consciousness into this particular flesh. Not random chance. Something else. Something he didn't have sufficient information to understand yet.
The city watch guards who'd accompanied them were standing near the entrance, observing but not interfering. One of them spoke up: "Father, we need to bring them to the station within the hour. Officer Reyne was clear about timeline."
"Understood." Matthias turned back to John and Kiran. "You're being offered temporary sanctuary here, but we can't protect you from legal process. If you've committed crimes—"
"We haven't," John interrupted. "The hunters claim we're escaped property. That's false. We entered the city legally, paid entry fees, have done nothing that violates Westhaven's ordinances beyond accidentally breaking your statue. Which we'll compensate for if possible."
"The statue is irrelevant," Sister Helena said quickly. "It's the symbol that matters, not the physical object. If anything, its destruction while you sought sanctuary here feels... significant. Like the divine making statement about old forms versus new manifestations."
"Sister Helena," Matthias said, his tone carrying warning. "Theological speculation can wait. Right now we focus on practical concerns: these two need rest before they're interrogated, and they need protection from the hunters who are certainly still watching the temple."
John's perception confirmed Matthias's assessment—Soren's group remained in the area, their positions shifted but their surveillance continuing. They were waiting for opportunity, for moment when John and Kiran would be vulnerable.
"How long until the hunters leave?" Kiran asked, his voice small and tired. The boy had transformed back to human form within the temple, his wolf configuration apparently not suitable for indoor sanctuary environments.
"They won't leave," John said quietly. "Soren swore he'd hunt me until one of us dies. He meant it. Bloodlust Uncos users become obsessive about their targets—it's part of the power's psychological effect. He'll follow us for as long as it takes."
"Then we need to arrange your departure from Westhaven in a way that doesn't give them easy opportunity," Father Matthias said. He was thinking, his expression showing someone processing multiple tactical considerations. "There are routes out of the city beyond the main gates. Underground passages used for smuggling and emergency evacuations. If we can get you to one of those access points without the hunters noticing..."
"They'll notice," John said. "The female—Elara—has enhanced olfactory tracking. She'll smell us regardless of which route we take. Unless we can mask our scent somehow, or travel through environment where tracking becomes impossible."
"The sewers," Sister Helena suggested. "The smell would overwhelm even enhanced senses. And they connect to the river system—you could travel a significant distance before emerging aboveground."
John's first instinct was to reject sewage travel, but tactical assessment overrode disgust. If it prevented Soren from following, if it bought them distance and time, then it was optimal solution despite the unpleasantness.
"We'll need supplies," John said. "Food, water, basic equipment. And information about where the sewer system exits relative to major roads."
"We can provide that," Matthias confirmed. "But not tonight. The city watch still needs your statements, and you're in no condition to travel immediately regardless of route. You'll stay here tonight, under temple sanctuary. Tomorrow, after you've met legal obligations and recovered somewhat, we'll arrange your departure."
John wanted to argue that delay increased risk, that Soren's patience would outlast any sanctuary arrangement. But Matthias was right about his condition—between blood loss, exhaustion, and his damaged arm, attempting immediate travel would likely result in collapse before reaching safety.
"Agreed," John said. "One night. Then we leave."
The city watch guards escorted John and Kiran to Westhaven's administrative center later that afternoon, their presence preventing Soren's group from attempting interception during the transit. The statement process was tedious—recounting the entire chase sequence, describing the hunters' actions and the property damage they'd caused, providing what information John possessed about Soren's identity and affiliation with Brennick estate.
Officer Reyne listened with professional attention, taking detailed notes, asking clarifying questions that suggested she was building case for formal charges against the hunters. When the statements were complete, she addressed John directly.
"The hunters violated multiple city ordinances. If they return to Westhaven, they'll face arrest and prosecution. However, our jurisdiction ends at the city walls. Once you leave, I can't protect you from private pursuit." She paused, then added: "For what it's worth, I believe your account. You don't strike me as escaped slaves. But proving that to satisfaction of territorial authorities would require documentation you probably don't possess."
"We don't," John confirmed.
"Then my advice is to leave Westhaven quickly and travel toward territories where Brennick estate has no influence or legal standing. The eastern coastal regions, maybe, or the southern islands. Somewhere distance and jurisdictional complexity make continued pursuit impractical."
John nodded acknowledgment, though privately he doubted distance would deter Soren. Bloodlust Uncos users didn't think rationally about cost-benefit analysis once their obsession took hold.
They returned to the temple as evening settled over Westhaven. The congregation had prepared sleeping accommodations—simple pallets in one of the side chambers, clean blankets and pillows that represented more comfort than John had experienced since his reincarnation. Food was provided: bread, cheese, vegetable stew, portions generous enough to begin addressing the nutritional deficit both he and Kiran carried.
Kiran fell asleep almost immediately after eating, his exhausted body claiming the rest it desperately needed. John remained awake longer, his mind processing the day's events and planning tomorrow's departure.
Father Matthias visited before midnight, carrying an oil lamp that created warm illumination John couldn't appreciate visually but could sense through heat radiation. "Can't sleep?" the priest asked, settling onto a bench near John's pallet.
"Thinking," John said.
"About the hunters? About where you'll go?"
"About everything." John was quiet for a moment, then asked: "Why do you worship Van Hellsin? What do you believe he represents?"
Matthias considered the question carefully. "The official history says he was devil who tried to overthrow the gods and brought war and suffering to the world. But the oldest texts, the ones that predate Order censorship, tell different story. They describe someone who challenged the Supreme Eight because their system was exploitative, because they'd replaced Mother Nature with structure that prioritized divine power over world's health. Someone who fought not for personal ambition but because the gods were slowly killing everything to fuel their own authority."
"And you believe that version?" John asked.
"I believe truth is always more complex than either narrative allows," Matthias said. "But yes, I find the censored version more credible than official propaganda. And I believe the world needs people willing to challenge power structures when those structures become harmful. Whether Van Hellsin succeeded or failed, whether his methods were justified or excessive, he at least tried to change systems that everyone else accepted as immutable."
John filed that perspective away. "What if he did return? What if the Fallen One somehow came back after five centuries of imprisonment? What would you want from him?"
"Hope," Matthias said simply. "Not salvation—we don't need a savior. But hope that change is possible, that the Supreme Eight's authority isn't eternal, that there are alternatives to the systems they've built. Even if he failed again, even if the attempt cost everything, the trying would matter. The demonstration that someone still believes resistance is worthwhile."
"That's a lot of weight to put on one person," John observed.
"It is," Matthias agreed. "Which is why it's fortunate that person is probably dead or sealed beyond return, sparing him the burden of all these projected expectations." He stood, preparing to leave. "Get some sleep, John. Tomorrow you have a city to escape and hunters to evade. You'll need your strength."
After Matthias departed, John lay on his pallet in the darkness that was identical to the darkness he always experienced, listening to Kiran's steady breathing and processing everything he'd learned.
The world was dying from mana depletion. The Supreme Eight had created systems that consumed more than the world could regenerate. People worshipped Van Hellsin as symbol of resistance despite believing distorted histories about his actual goals and methods. And somewhere out there, another Van Hellsin was operating—someone using his name, someone powerful enough that the Order took the threat seriously.
Too many variables. Too much complexity. But underneath it all, one fundamental truth: John needed to become strong enough to challenge gods. Again. Despite everything being against him, despite the Divine Prohibitions closing off traditional paths to power, despite his weak body and damaged hand and complete blindness.
He would find a way. He always had. The fact that it seemed impossible was irrelevant.
Kami Van Hellsin had spent six centuries refusing to accept impossibility as answer.
That hadn't changed just because his circumstances had.