Boots strike the cobblestones. Too sharp, too rhythmic to be natural. Clearly, these are high-ranking guards of this world, trained since birth to be good little watchdogs.
Two of them lead the way, red capes billowing in the wind like a trailer shot. Two more close the procession, their polished lances pointing skyward.
And me? Stuck in the middle. With Linie clinging to my sleeve like I'm her last raft.
[ Congratulations. You've officially gone from nameless hobo to national relic on parade. ]
I growl.
"Thanks, Senpai. Hadn't noticed."
Passersby step aside, gaping. Some whisper, others make the sign of devotion as if I were a divine apparition. And always that damn word floating in the air: Wolf of Azoth.
Every time I hear it, it feels like someone's tattooing my forehead with a hammer.
Well, I shouldn't understand it, but since they repeat it 24/7, it stuck anyway.
A kid dares to step closer, reaching a hand toward me, eyes shining. Before I can react, a guard shoves him back roughly.
I grit my teeth. Not the time to make a scene, but my fists itch.
[ You could smile and wave. That's how you turn a crowd into an army. ]
"Yeah… and that's also how you end up crucified if you displease them for two seconds."
Linie bows her head, crushed under the stares. I rest a hand gently on her hair, just to say I'm here.
The procession continues through decorated streets. Hanging lanterns, colorful banners, merchants falling silent mid-shout to watch me pass. I feel like a circus beast paraded on a leash.
"Great… they turned me into a tourist attraction."
[ Five-star attraction, limited edition. And free, too. ]
An old man bows with clasped hands. A gang of drunks chant my nickname in rhythm. A woman even scatters flowers in my path, as if I were some sacred bride.
Linie shivers, almost hiding behind me. Me? I walk on, stiff smile plastered, as if it's normal.
But inside, I count the minutes. Because with each step, I understand better: it isn't me they're cheering.
It's the myth they just invented.
The procession halts before a marble façade. Not a grimy inn, not a shady tavern. No. Here, the columns are sculpted, lanterns enchanted with a soft glow, and liveried servants bow as if I were a princess.
[ Correction: more like a lab rat being brought into a gilded cage. ]
I chuckle.
"Thanks for the poetry."
They motion me inside. I push the door, Linie still clinging to my sleeve. The air shifts at once: scent of rare spices, muffled noise, polished floors where my stained boots are an insult. Waiters glide between tables, but we're led straight upstairs, into a private salon.
And then, something happens.
A voice rises, clear, polite—and I understand. I understand every word.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our guest has arrived."
I freeze. Blink.
"…Wait. I understand?"
[ Confirmation. Your ear is picking up again. ]
We're led into a richly lit hall draped in silk. A laden table awaits. And already seated, three figures.
The Lord of Velen, sweating under his heavy cloak.
I recognize him at a glance—his clothes, and the way the guards bow to the man beside him. That must be his son: cold, elegant, eyes fixed on me with calm predatory focus, the resemblance to his father unmistakable.
And at the center, like a director in his theater, the Baron.
I force myself to incline my head in a stiff salute.
I may not know the rules of the game, but I'm not stupid: one wrong move here, and it's over.
The Baron smiles. Not his showman's grin. A real one. Thin. Icy.
"You're surprised to understand, aren't you?"
I don't answer, but my silence says enough.
"We've done some research on you." He lifts his wine glass, swirls it. "And we know you do not speak our language."
The Lord snorts awkwardly, the son keeps his eyes locked on me, expressionless.
I cross my arms, bare a sharp grin.
"Well… guess I can't pretend for long."
I sit slowly, settling Linie on my lap to keep her still. My eyes sweep the room, the faint runes etched into the walls, the air vibrating with magic that feels… clean. Too clean for mere decoration.
"It's the artifact, isn't it?" My voice drips with half-curiosity, half-provocation. "The one letting me understand your words?"
The Baron inclines his head slightly, smile widening.
"Exactly." He sets his glass down. "This salon is equipped with a translation artifact. Rare, ancient, and very expensive."
My teeth clench, a cold shiver runs up my spine.
Owning a personal artifact? Not some local trinket, no. A machine that forces understanding. In this world, that means power. Network. Connections.
I force a smile. "So… you planned this little stage play from the start."
The Baron lets out a brief, elegant laugh—too polished to be genuine.
"But of course. How could we invite the Wolf of Azoth without ensuring we spoke the same language?"
His eyes gleam, and for a second I understand: this isn't kindness. Not hospitality. It's a test.
And he's telling me I just walked into his gilded cage.
Linie squeezes my sleeve, I stroke her head softly.
I raise my eyes back to the Baron, answer in a dry voice:
"Then let's talk."
The Baron folds his hands before him, fingers perfectly aligned.
"Sit, please."
I'm already seated, Linie clinging to me like seaweed to a wreck. Still, I nod slightly—because I can recognize an order dressed as politeness.
The Lord of Velen clears his throat, his triple chin quivering like jelly.
"Ahem, ahem! Allow me, Champion, to present our host. This is Baron Kaltz von Riehl, emissary of His Majesty, protector of our borders and—"
The Baron raises a graceful hand.
"Unnecessary, my Lord. The Wolf of Azoth already understands the essentials."
His voice is soft, almost honeyed, but each syllable drops like a tombstone. He doesn't deny. He doesn't excuse. He lays his name down like a hammer on the table.
I cross my arms.
"So, Baron. You're a high figure in the Empire's hierarchy."
His lips curl, faintly amused.
"No more than you, it seems."
The Lord wipes his damp brow, eyes darting everywhere but at me. To his right, his son—slender, sharp, gray eyes like ice. He says nothing. He studies me, like a player weighing a new piece on the board.
The Baron lifts his glass, half-raised.
"In a single evening, you have become the most chanted name in this city. Fascinating."
I shrug.
"I just survived."
He laughs, low, but far too long.
"Survival… ah, but sometimes, that is already dominance. You may not realize it yet, but every cry in the arena is now a debt you must repay."
I grit my teeth. He doesn't speak like a puffed-up noble flaunting his title. He speaks like someone used to pulling strings.
"You hide your arrogance well, Baron."
I tilt my head, flash a predator's smile.
"But I can hear it in your words."
A second of silence.
The Lord almost squeaks:
"M-my Lady, surely this is a misunderstanding!"
But the Baron chuckles softly, almost charming.
"Hahaha… you have good instincts. I like that."
He sets down his glass, eyes gleaming.
"Then let us speak seriously."
The Baron places his cup on the table with a dry, measured click. His gaze locks onto mine, gleaming like a serpent in the sun.
"You seem to think this was nothing but a simple fight… a gladiator's trial."
A thin smile.
"But now, Wolf of Azoth, understand this: every gaze in this city is fixed upon you."
I stay silent, but my stomach knots.
"The slightest mistake," he continues, "the smallest weakness, and you will become prey. Bounty hunters are eager to enrich themselves. Other gladiators already dream of facing you. Rumors are spreading in the streets as we speak."
Linie squeezes my sleeve tighter. I stroke her head absently, never looking away from the Baron.
"You did not choose to be a legend," the Baron says, "but you are one. And a legend alone never lasts."
I clench my invisible blade between my fingers.
"And you, of course… you're offering a solution."
He laughs softly.
"I offer you support. With my patronage, no hunter will dare raise a hand against you. You'll have a roof, weapons, guards. In return… you'll know where your future lies."
His arrogance bleeds through the velvet. He doesn't say "I want to own you," but every word screams it.
I smile, slowly. Too slowly.
"So, if I understand correctly… I win a fight, survive your tampered beasts, and immediately, you explain that I can't live without you."
The Lord squeaks again, nervous. His son, though, lets a discreet smirk slip. No surprise in his eyes—only waiting. As if he wants to see if I'll bite the hook.
"You do have a talent for making servitude sound poetic, Baron," I say.
Silence. Then his smile widens.
"Hahaha… truly, you have wit."
But I can tell he isn't laughing because it's funny. He laughs because he still believes he holds the cards.
A pause lingers after the Baron's laugh. Then, calmly, another voice rises.
Not the Lord, who wipes sweat like a pig dunked in oil.
No. The son.
He doesn't speak loudly. But every word lands sharp, precise, calculated.
"There is something that intrigues me."
His gaze slides to me. Cold. Not hostile, not warm either. Just… the eye of a scalpel.
"Since you entered the arena, you've never shown your hair. Always hidden beneath that cloth, even in the heat of battle."
A shiver runs down my spine. My hand twitches on my scarf.
The son continues, relentless.
"This isn't modesty. Nor vanity. It's a habit of concealment. Which leads me to one question…"
He leans slightly toward me, gray eyes drilling into mine.
"What is so compromising on your head that it requires such precaution?"
The room freezes. The Lord opens his mouth to splutter an objection, but the Baron raises a hand to silence him. He too watches, curious, even amused, as if waiting for my reaction.
Blood pounds in my temples. Linie grips my sleeve tighter, as if she senses the danger.
I smile.
"You're observant… for someone who's only seen me once."
Silence. The son doesn't smile.
"Observation, Wolf, is the art of surviving other people's stupidity."
The Baron bursts into a short laugh, genuinely amused this time.
"Hahaha! You see, my dear… this is why I want you at my side."
But me—I understand. The Baron is dangerous.
But the son… is worse.
I keep smiling, but my fingers brush the cloth knotted around my head.
"Maybe I hide my hair, maybe I don't."
I shrug. "But if I told you, it would break the mystery, wouldn't it? And without mystery… there is no legend."
The son doesn't flinch. His gaze stays locked on mine, cold, calculating. But I feel him recording everything—even my silences.
The Baron chuckles, shaking his head.
"A legend…"
He straightens, lifts his glass, raising it slightly as if to toast.
"You are mistaken, Wolf. What you are today, others have been before you."
His smile sharpens, biting.
"Dozens of 'champions,' 'living miracles,' 'saviors of the arena.' All cheered, all adored. And yet… where are they now?"
He sets his cup down with a sharp click.
"Buried. Forgotten. Erased from songs as quickly as they entered them."
A cold chill crawls up my spine, but I stay straight, eyes locked on his.
"So savor it," the Baron continues, eyes gleaming. "Savor every cry, every flower at your feet. Because the crowd does not feed on lasting stories. It feeds on fresh flesh."
A heavy silence falls. The Lord squirms in his chair, the son remains still, but I feel his focus on me like a scalpel poised to cut.
I smile. A thin, feral smile.
"Maybe so. But unlike the others… I don't plan on ending up on the menu."
The Baron laughs again—but this time, I see it in his eyes.
He's testing me. He wants to know if I'll bend.