The carriage slowed as they rolled into Henny Village during the golden hour. The late afternoon sun spilled over the fields, turning every stalk of grain into strands of gold. Villagers were returning from their day's labor, chatting and laughing in the warm light. Children darted between trees and along the road—some waving sticks like swords, others running with their arms flailing in pure joy as they chased after their parents.
It was a simple, peaceful scene—one that made the world feel far removed from the battles and politics that waited elsewhere.
By nightfall, the village inn had long since filled, forcing the group to make camp on the outskirts. A bonfire crackled in the cool evening air, its light dancing against the nearby caravan. Nolan and Dante had already drifted off to sleep, leaving Lucas seated before the fire with Hugin perched on his head, practicing his breathing exercises in the steady rhythm of the flames.
Footsteps crunched over dry leaves behind him. Lucas glanced up as John emerged from the dark, a bundle of firewood balanced easily on one broad shoulder. The burly merchant set the wood down beside the fire and lowered himself onto the log next to Lucas.
Lucas hesitated, the quiet between them stretching just a little too long, before breaking it.
"So… uhh… you got any family?"
John's eyes softened in the firelight, his gaze distant. "Hmm… family, huh? I did have a sister. She passed away some time ago. These days… I take care of her boy."
Lucas felt a flicker of sympathy, his voice low. "I've only got my grandpa. He's a bit short-tempered, but he's been there for me since my parents died. You… kind of remind me of him."
John chuckled warmly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Hah… really? Then he must be a good man."
He paused, then added with a quiet weight in his words, "Family isn't just who you're born to, lad. It's the ones you'd carry through the fire without thinking twice."
Lucas smiled softly, his voice humble as he echoed the man's words.
"…Yeah. The ones you would carry through a fire without thinking twice."
The flames reflected in his eyes as his thoughts drifted far from the camp. In so many ways, the burly man beside him reminded Lucas of the old man back home: the same quiet wisdom in their tone, the same kindness hidden beneath a gruff exterior, and the same faint shadow of sadness in their words.
Far away, in that very home, his grandfather sat before a flickering fire in a creaking rocking chair. The air was rich with the earthy scent of tobacco as he puffed from his old pipe, head tilted back in quiet peace. The firelight painted deep lines across his face, each one carved by years of laughter and hardship. Rocking gently, he gazed upward, as if the night sky above might carry to him some whisper from his grandson far away.
Then the ground shivered.
At first, it was so faint he thought it was just the chair settling. But the second tremor came with sound—a guttural, animal snarl in the distance, followed by a sharp crash of splintering wood. Birds erupted from the treeline in a flurry of wings.
The old man sighed through his nose.
He set his pipe on the table and rose to his feet, joints popping from the motion. Against the far wall, resting on a pair of wooden hooks, hung two heavy one-handed battle axes—steel heads polished to a deadly gleam despite the years, their hafts worn smooth by a lifetime of use.
He lifted both with ease, one in each hand, and stepped out into the cool night air.
And then he began to whistle.
It wasn't any song in particular—just a lazy, aimless tune that cut through the stillness of the night. The flowerbeds swayed gently beside the path as he strolled toward the treeline, the weight of the axes perfectly balanced in his grip.
The bushes rustled, and three wolf-like beasts emerged—misshapen things, fur patchy, eyes glowing a sickly green from mana corruption. They spread out, growls deepening, claws scraping the dirt.
The old man's whistle never faltered.
The first beast lunged—he met it mid-air with a horizontal swing from his right axe. Steel bit deep, splitting the creature clean through before it even touched the ground.
The second came from his left; without looking, his left axe came down in a brutal vertical chop that crushed skull and spine in one strike.
The third froze, tail tucked between its legs. It took a step back, then bolted for the trees.
The whistle paused just long enough for him to mutter, "Smart mutt. Too bad you escaped."
He turned and hurled his right axe into the shadows. The air split with a whump, followed by a sharp yelp and the wet sound of guts spilling onto the ground.
Strolling toward the corpse, he pulled the axe free and began cleaning the blades with a strip of cloth.
The noise had drawn villagers to the scene. A man with a sword at his hip and dark hair falling over a scruffy beard approached at a jog. He stopped a few paces away, bowing low.
"W-we're sorry, sir. The rookies must've not properly locked the dungeon."
The old man raised an eyebrow, still wiping down his axe. "Don't worry, Jack. I took care of it. Just be careful next time."
He sheathed one axe, clapped the man on the shoulder, and walked past him without another word.
Back inside, he slung both weapons onto their hooks, sat down, and relit his pipe.
"Lazy bastards at the church better fix that dungeon gate before sunrise…" he muttered, puffing smoke into the fire's glow.
From the open window beside him, a black cat leapt lightly onto his lap. He glanced down, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Oh, Nina… you came back, huh? Must've been a stressful day."
He stroked her sleek fur as she purred, the rocking chair creaking in rhythm with the soft tune he began to whistle again. Outside, the night sky shimmered with stars, the smoke from his pipe drifting upward into the dark.