Kain followed a narrow dirt trail winding through the forest, heading toward the town of Desmain—where his old hunter crew had been staying for the past few weeks.
Towns like Desmain often had hunting inns: places where passing hunter groups could rest and pick up work offered by the locals.
Hunter groups were unofficial and operated separately from kingdom soldiers. They were considered freelancers, traveling from town to town, hunting beasts and monsters, and taking on local jobs in exchange for lodging and supplies.
Kain had been walking for about thirty minutes before he spotted the town's gates in the distance. A wooden sign stood just to the right of the entrance, etched with faded but legible words:
Desmain –
Hunter's Inn
Markets and Farming
Desmain wasn't large in terms of population, but it was surrounded by expansive wheat and rice fields that served as the town's primary source of income. As the sign mentioned, the hunter's inn also made it a regular stop for hunting parties en route to the Malikan kingdom.
The town itself was built along one long main road that stretched between its two gates. This central street housed the hunter's inn, the market, and a handful of other businesses. Several smaller streets branched off to either side, leading to the homes of the townspeople.
Kain walked in through the gates of the town, instantly greeted by warm rays of sunlight filtering through the gaps in the tree canopy overhead. The faint rustling of leaves mixed with the low murmur of daily life inside Desmain—merchants setting up their stalls, townsfolk chatting as they passed by, and the occasional clatter of wooden wheels over stone.
The scent of fresh bread drifted from a nearby bakery, mingling with the earthier smell of farmland and the faint metallic tang of weapon oil. It was a stark contrast to the battlefield he had left behind, and the quiet normalcy of it all felt… surreal.
He kept walking.
People glanced at him as he passed—some with curiosity, others with guarded indifference. His clothes were still stained with blood, and his boots were caked with dirt. It wasn't an uncommon look for a hunter, but there was something about him—his pace, his posture, the tension in his shoulders—that made a few turn their heads for a second look.
The main road was lined with wooden and stone buildings, some patched together with mismatched materials, others surprisingly well-kept. A blacksmith pounded away at a glowing blade on an open forge, sweat running down his brow as the hammer rang out in rhythmic clinks. A few children darted past Kain, laughing as they chased each other with makeshift wooden swords.
He finally spotted the hunter's inn—a modest but sturdy building with a large, hand-carved sign hanging above the door. The letters read:
Desmain Hunters inn
Kain pushed the inn doors open, the scent of mutton stew and old tobacco smoke washing over him like a wave. The warmth inside was a sharp contrast to the forest air outside—dim lighting, the soft hum of conversation, and the clink of tankards on wood giving the place a lived-in, worn comfort.
To the right sat a long, sturdy bar carved from dark oak. A single bartender leaned against it, pipe in hand, smoke curling lazily above his head. He didn't look up—just gave a small nod, as if acknowledging Kain's presence without really caring.
There were eight or so round tables scattered across the main floor, each surrounded by mismatched chairs. Most of them were empty. Only a handful of hunters were here at this hour, nursing drinks or hunched over plates of food. A couple looked up as Kain stepped in, their eyes narrowing slightly at the bloodstained figure in the doorway. Recognition hadn't hit yet—or maybe it had, and they simply didn't believe it.
The inn was quiet, but not tense. Just tired. Like a resting beast that had seen too many battles and was finally allowed to sleep.
Kain walked up to the bar, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots.
"Where's the rest of your group?" the bartender asked without looking up, still nursing his pipe.
Kain dropped onto one of the stools and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the bar. "Dead. Some soldiers from Malika killed them. Nearly got me too."
The bartender froze for a moment, then slowly turned to face him. His expression was unreadable—blank, like he was waiting for the punchline to a bad joke.
But Kain said nothing more.
And that silence… that was what made the truth sink in.
"You're serious," the bartender muttered, his voice low and tense.
Kain gave a small nod.
"Why would kingdom soldiers do something like that?" the bartender asked, more to himself than to Kain.
"I don't know," Kain said, his voice rough. "They claimed we were trespassing on Malikan territory. Before any of us could say a word, they started cutting us down."
The bartender stood silently for a moment, lost in thought. Then, without a word, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind him and poured a shot, sliding the glass across the bar to Kain.
"It's on the house, kid."
"Thanks," Kain said, knocking back the shot in one smooth motion.
The bartender watched him for a second, then poured another. "You don't seem too shaken up. How long were you with that crew?"
"Only a few weeks," Kain replied, lifting the second glass and turning it slowly in his fingers. "But that doesn't make their deaths any less important. I'm alive because of them."
He drank again—this time slower.
'I mean, the real Kain is dead with them,' He thought.
He glanced around the room. A few of the other hunters had turned their heads. They weren't trying to hide the fact that they'd been listening—just silently watching, drinking, waiting. Kain met their eyes for a moment before they turned away again.
The inn settled back into a thick silence, the kind that hangs in the air when death is mentioned and no one knows what to say.
"Death's part of the job. A hunter knows that better than anyone," the bartender said as he poured another glass.
Kain stood up, took the drink, and finished it in a single, smooth motion. He set the glass back down and reached into his satchel, placing three silver coins on the bar.
"Thanks," he said simply, turning away without another word.
He made his way toward a door at the back right corner of the inn. From Kain's memories, he knew it led to the rooms reserved for hunters—temporary stay for those always on the move, never staying in one place for long.
Kain opened the door and stepped onto a gravel path that led toward the lodging. The evening sun filtered softly through the trees, casting long shadows across the ground, just enough light to guide his way. He followed the path for a few meters before arriving at the building.
The inn stood two stories tall, plain but sturdy. The first floor had rooms numbered one through six, while the second floor held rooms seven to twelve. A total of twelve rooms, with the last two on the ground floor reserved as the men's and women's bathrooms, respectively.
'What room am I in?' Kain asked himself before diving into his inherited memories to try and remember.
"Oh right, I should have a key," he said, rummaging through his satchel. After a moment of digging, his fingers wrapped around a small, rusted key. He pulled it out and turned it over in his hand. The number 5 was faintly engraved into the metal.
'Room five it is, then.'
Kain walked up to the door labeled 5, the wood weathered and worn from time and use. He slid the key into the lock, gave it a firm turn, and pushed the door open with a low creak.
The room was small but clean—just a single bed with a wool blanket, a wooden desk by the window, and a chest at the foot of the bed that likely held some of his old gear. Dust particles floated lazily through the orange light pouring in from the window, casting the room in a dim glow.
Kain stepped inside and closed the door behind him. For the first time since waking up in this body, he felt a brief moment of stillness.
Kain unlatched the pieces of armor from his body, letting the worn metal plates clatter to the floor. As he exhaled, relieved to be free of the weight, his eyes caught a mirror resting in the corner of the room.
He hadn't had a chance to really look at himself—not since waking up in this new body. Everything had moved too fast. Now, in the stillness, he couldn't help but look.
He stepped toward the mirror, studying his reflection.
His hair was dark brown and messy, long enough to fall just over his eyes. He leaned in closer. His eyes were a deep amber—sharp, alert, unfamiliar. But what caught his attention most was the scar.
It ran across the front of his face, a harsh reminder of a past he hadn't lived but could still remember. Kain lifted a hand and gently traced the mark, memory's flickering in the back of his mind.
The old Kain had earned this scar the hard way. Now, it was up to him to bring honor to this name.
Kain let his hand fall away from the scar, turning from the mirror with a quiet breath. The room had grown darker while he'd been lost in thought—the sun had dipped below the tree line, and only a faint indigo glow filtered in through the window. Shadows stretched long across the floor, and the air had cooled, the warmth of day giving way to the hush of early night.
He stepped outside the room and onto the narrow wooden terrace that ran along the inn. Crickets chirped in the tall grass nearby, their rhythmic sounds blending with the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. A lantern hanging from a post near the corner flickered gently, casting swaying pools of amber light across the path.
The wooden door to the men's washroom creaked as Kain opened it. Inside, the space was dimly lit by a single oil lamp mounted on the wall. The scent of damp stone and old soap lingered in the air. A few wooden basins were lined up on a counter, each with a small metal faucet above it, fed by pipes likely rigged to a nearby stream.
Kain rolled up his sleeves and twisted one of the valves. After a few sputters, cool water flowed out in a steady stream. He cupped his hands and splashed it over his face, scrubbing away dried sweat and blood. The water was cold, biting at his skin, but it felt good—like it was washing away not just the grime but the weight of everything that had happened.
He looked up into the small, tarnished mirror above the basin. Water dripped from his chin. The face staring back still didn't feel like his.
With a towel hanging nearby, he dried off and leaned forward on the sink, letting the silence settle around him. The quiet wasn't peaceful—it was heavy. This world was still unknown to him.
He sighed and stepped back, pulling his shirt back down and straightening his posture.
The inn was still and quiet now. No more laughter or murmurs from the main hall, just the occasional creak of wood settling. Kain reached his door, he pulled the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door with a soft click before slipping inside.
The room greeted him with stillness. Moonlight leaked in through the window, casting a pale square across the wooden floorboards. His armor lay where he'd left it, strewn across the floor like the remnants of someone else's war. His sword leaned against the wall beside the bed, just within reach.
Kain sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He let out a long breath and pulled off his shirt, tossing it carelessly to the side. The sheets smelled faintly of smoke and linen—worn, but clean.
He lay back slowly, his body sinking into the mattress. His eyes flicked to the ceiling, tracing the shadows the moonlight painted there. For a long moment, he just listened: to the wind brushing through trees outside, to the faint hum of nighttime insects, to his own heartbeat settling in his chest as he fell asleep.