Obei stayed motionless in the underbrush, his body tense yet controlled, his breathing steady. The cold night air nipped at his skin, compared to his past it wasn't unusual, but he welcomed the discomfort—it kept him sharp. Every flicker of torchlight, every hushed conversation between the guards, every distant howl of the wind through the trees, he absorbed it all.
Time passed slowly. The guards at the gate swapped shifts, their tired expressions illuminated by the dim glow of their torches. Inside the fort, the movement behind the wooden walls gradually slowed, the night pulling its weary survivors into uneasy slumber.
Then, finally, an opportunity.
A patrol of three men exited through the gate, their armor worn and their weapons dulled from overuse. They moved with sluggish steps, barely talking as they trudged down the road. A night scouting mission? Or maybe a check on the bodies left behind?
Obei exhaled softly, his instincts screaming at him to remain still. But he knew this was his chance.
The gate had been left slightly ajar.
Before his death, Obei had never been one to take risks—especially not ones that could cost him his life. He had always played it safe, avoiding danger, avoiding failure. And in the end, it had led him to his downfall.
Memories of his past life flickered through his mind—the hesitation, the stagnation, the moment he lost everything. He refused to feel useless again.
This time, he would take the risk. A calculated one.
He had to move now, before another patrol returned.
Keeping low, he crept from the underbrush, each step slow and deliberate. The weight of the stolen sword at his side grounded him, a reassuring presence. He stuck to the shadows cast by the dying torchlight along the fort's perimeter, careful not to step too close to the open road.
His heartbeat pounded in his chest as the flickering lights swayed atop the palisade walls, their glow casting shifting patterns against the worn wood.
Drawing closer, he pressed himself against the rough surface of the wall, feeling its chill seep into his fingertips. He held his breath, listening—straining for any sign of movement beyond the gate.
Silence.
A deep inhale. A slow exhale.
Go.
With practiced precision, Obei slipped through the partially open gate, vanishing into the darkness within.
The air inside the fort was thick with the scent of damp wood, sweat, and lingering smoke from old fires. The flickering glow of torches along the walls provided just enough light to reveal his surroundings—makeshift tents, scattered barrels, and the skeletal remains of wooden structures barely holding together. This place was less of a stronghold and more of a desperate refuge.
Obei kept close to the shadows, his body low, movements slow and controlled. His eyes scanned the area. Most of the fort's inhabitants had retired for the night, leaving only a few weary guards patrolling near the center. Their armor was mismatched, their stances sluggish—men exhausted from battle or constant fear.
'They're on edge. Overworked. That means I have time.'
He needed supplies. Food, water, anything useful.
His gaze locked onto a stack of crates near a partially collapsed barracks. If this fort had any provisions left, they would be there. But getting to them meant crossing open ground. Too risky.
Instead, he moved toward a nearby tent, slipping inside without a sound. The dim interior smelled of damp cloth and unwashed bodies. A quick glance revealed a simple bedroll, a discarded tunic, and a small satchel resting against the tent's support beam.
Obei crouched and pulled the satchel open. Inside, he found a stale loaf of bread, a waterskin—half full—and a small iron knife. Not much, but enough to keep him moving. He took the satchel, slinging it over his shoulder before easing back out of the tent.
Just as he stepped into the open, he heard voices approaching.
His body tensed.
Two men were making their way down the central path, their conversation hushed but hurried. Daemon ducked behind a pile of broken crates, keeping himself still as they passed.
"… The old man's got another plan, but I don't trust him. We lost half our people last time."
"Do we even have a choice?"
A bitter laugh. "Not unless you'd rather die out there with the rest of them."
The voices faded as the men moved further away. Obei frowned. The old man. Someone important—someone making the decisions here. And judging by their words, not everyone trusted him.
That could be useful.
But for now, he had what he needed. There was no reason to push his luck.
With the satchel secured and his stolen sword at his side, he turned back toward the gate. The fort was a crumbling relic, its people barely holding on. Whatever had driven them to this point had left them desperate, clinging to something—or someone—who might not have their best interests in mind.
Obei had no intention of getting involved.
For now, he would wait. Observe. Let this place reveal its weaknesses before deciding his next move.
Obei retreated to the same underbrush he had hidden in before, crouching low as he watched the fort from a distance. His stolen satchel was slung over his shoulder, the weight of the supplies a reassuring presence. He hadn't been spotted, hadn't been chased. Good.
He took a slow sip from the water-skin, his gaze fixed on the palisade walls. The guards continued their rotations, the torchlight barely keeping the shadows at bay. They weren't incompetent, but they were exhausted. Weaknesses were everywhere.
The two men from earlier had all but confirmed it—this fort was hanging by a thread, relying on a leader that some no longer trusted.
Obei leaned against a nearby tree, his fingers absently tracing the hilt of his stolen sword. He had options.
He could leave. Walk away before he got too involved. This wasn't his problem, and he owed these people nothing.
Or... he could wait.
There was no telling how long this fort would last, but desperate people made reckless choices. If he stayed hidden and observed, he could learn more about the old leader they spoke of, understand the fort's weaknesses, and perhaps—when the time was right—use that information to his advantage.
Because if there was one thing David understood, it was survival. And survival meant always being two steps ahead.
He settled in, keeping his senses sharp as the night stretched on. He would wait.
The night stretched on, its stillness broken only by the distant howls of unseen creatures and the quiet murmurs of the fort. David remained motionless in his hiding spot, his sharp gaze fixed on the wooden walls. The weight of his stolen satchel rested against his shoulder, a small but vital reassurance that he had the means to keep moving.
Then, the darkness began to shift.
A glow emerged on the horizon, but it was not the light of a rising sun. Instead, an enormous hand, wreathed in vibrant flames, loomed in the distance. It radiated an unnatural brilliance, casting long shadows over the land and bathing everything in a warm, golden hue. The sudden change in atmosphere was jarring—where the night had once been cold and biting, a subtle heat now wrapped around him, seeping into his skin.
Obei's mind screamed at him to stay awake. He fought against the drowsiness threatening to pull him under, forcing his heavy eyelids open. Something was happening.
Within the fort, movement stirred. The once-dispersed guards now gathered in the courtyard, forming into tight, disciplined rows. Five dozen soldiers stood in formation, their armor glinting under the flickering glow of the great flaming hand. Some appeared resolute, their backs straight and their expressions hardened by experience. Others shifted uneasily, their nerves evident in the way their hands twitched toward their weapons.
Minutes passed before a lone figure strode to the front of the assembled men. He was an older gentleman, his powerful frame exuding authority with each step. Though his hair was already tinged with gray, it seemed to grow even lighter as he moved, as if the very weight of his years intensified in the fire's light.
He turned to face the gathered soldiers, his voice carrying through the courtyard with unwavering strength.
"Today, we march to the west. We shall be met with hostility, but do not fear, for we are protected by the Flame of God!"
His words ignited something in the men before him. Those who had once looked uncertain now stood taller, their expressions shifting to ones of grim determination. Yet, despite the fervor in some, there were still those whose hands trembled, whose faces remained pale with apprehension. But none spoke against him. None refused. One by one, they turned and began their march, their footsteps falling into rhythm as they exited through the fort's gate, disappearing into the vast unknown beyond.
Obei watched in silence, his mind racing. The fort had been left vulnerable. Only a handful of soldiers remained behind, their presence barely enough to defend such a crumbling structure.
This was his chance.
Slipping from his hiding spot, he moved with careful precision. His eyes scanned the palisade walls for any sign of movement, his steps measured and deliberate. The remaining guards were sparse, their attention focused outward rather than inward, yet lack of rest was evident in their poor movements. He kept low as he moved, retracing his earlier path toward the gate.
Pushing through the entrance once more, he found himself back inside. The fort was eerily quiet now, stripped of its strongest defenders. He made his way cautiously along the perimeter, his heart pounding in his chest—not with fear, but with exhilaration.
He had made it this far. And now, he was free to explore.
His eyes darted toward the crates near the collapsed barracks—the same ones he had seen in his past visit. If there were any remaining supplies, they would likely be there.
Each step he took was slow, calculated. He couldn't afford mistakes now.
As he approached the scattered boxes, the weight of the moment settled over him. He was inside the heart of a dying fort, surrounded by men who would kill him if discovered. But amidst the danger, a thrill coursed through him. Not just from the risk of being caught—but from the realization that he had done something he never would have dared in his past life.
He had taken a risk.
And for the first time, he was in control of his own fate.