At dawn the next day, the cold mist began to fade, slowly retreating before the gentle advance of early light, leaving behind dewdrops that shimmered like jewels on the leaves. The trees, which had resembled dense walls of darkness, gradually regained their natural appearance, shedding their towering silhouettes and allowing rays of light to weave through their tangled branches. Threads of light descended upon the young man's face, revealing features worn by fatigue, as if exposing the toll taken by a long night of endless walking.
Parts of his clothing were torn, hanging loosely from his body like spectral rags, soaked in dry mud and stained with patches of dirt and clinging grass. Scratches marked his face—traces left by thorns and sharp twigs, remnants of a recent struggle. His left arm was bound, wrapped in herbal straps he had crafted himself, with a sturdy vine tied over his shoulder to support the limb, granting it some stability and relief.
He had pressed on quickly through the night, determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and the danger behind him. It wasn't just fear of the giant that pushed him forward, but also the belief that the forest could harbor creatures far more formidable. His light load aided his movement; he carried only a small bag containing a bottle of body wash, a few small cartons, and a single water flask—barely enough for a short journey.
The change in environment around him was unmistakable. The trees appeared smaller, no longer resembling the massive ones he had previously encountered. The ground had grown more uneven and rugged, while the tree branches were more spread apart, allowing the cool breeze to flow freely, carrying with it a fresh, cleaner scent, far removed from the stifling odor that had plagued him deep within the forest. Even the sounds had changed—life had begun to stir again around him. Birds chirped between the branches, and small creatures moved nimbly through the grass. This relative shift gave the young man a sense that the immediate threat had lessened, though he did not allow himself to fully relax.
After hours of walking, his throat grew parched. He retrieved the water bottle from his bag and hesitated for a moment before drinking—uncertain how much farther he had to travel before finding another water source. He sipped sparingly and continued walking, alert to every movement, every whisper. The light had not long illuminated the path around him when a new glow appeared ahead—not just a faint glimmer, but a radiant shimmer, glowing clearly like a gate to an intriguing unknown.
He stared at the light with weary eyes, but the hope swelling in his chest dispelled the exhaustion. Hope that somewhere on this planet, humans might still exist—an idea reinforced by the hateful words of the ogre he had encountered. Cautiously, he stepped toward the emerging light, and when he finally crossed through it, a cold breeze swept across his face. The air was breathtakingly pure, devoid of the acrid scent that had haunted him before. He inhaled deeply, as if drinking the very air itself, filling his lungs freely. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sensation wash over him, then opened them to behold the view ahead: vast green plains stretching endlessly once more.
He felt a hint of disorientation gazing at the endless expanse, yet he began to unwrap the vine binding his arm. He flexed his fingers one by one, testing their strength before clenching and opening his fist several times, sensing the return of vitality to his muscles. He rotated his wrist slowly, then his elbow, whispering hoarsely—a blend of fatigue and relief in his voice:
"Seems it's healed quite well..."
He lifted his head and gazed into the horizon again, scanning the limitless field of grass. Soon, he caught sight of a distant wall—not as colossal as the forest barriers he had passed, but smaller, more plausible. Behind it, his eyes detected various structures—some with dome-shaped tops, others pointed, and a few entirely flat.
There could be no doubt—they were signs of civilization. Without hesitation, he began moving toward them. At first his steps were unsteady, but they quickly became a sprint. With every step, hope swelled within him, stirring his emotions and propelling him forward. He didn't know what awaited him there, but he knew one thing—he wouldn't stop until he reached it.
As he drew closer, more details of the wall emerged. It appeared to be a natural extension of the forest, crafted from the same massive tree trunks he had encountered before, though reduced in scale. In the center stood a massive wooden gate, sturdy despite the grooves carved by time. In front of it, a line of people stood waiting patiently for their turn to enter.
The moment he could distinguish some of their features, he gasped softly, as if the words had fled his trembling lips. Then he whispered to himself, in a tone of stunned joy he had never known:
"T-They're... human!"
No sooner had he said it than he rushed toward them—but suddenly halted. Instinct compelled him to crouch behind a nearby rock, concealing himself completely except for his eyes peeking over the edge, watching the scene with the wariness of a hunter—or perhaps the hunted.
The individuals before the gate looked human, but their lives had clearly not been easy. Most wore simple, worn-out clothing marked by years of labor, while others had cleaner, more orderly attire. Some stood in silence, lost in distant thoughts, while others exchanged whispers and laughter—both soft and loud—seemingly unfazed by the burdens on their backs.
Yet what truly caught his eye were those who appeared different. These individuals were physically imposing, brimming with strength. Both men and women, they looked like warriors, clad in outfits fortified with metal components. Their weapons weren't mere tools—they were extensions of their bodies: long swords, sharp blades, curved daggers, and towering spears.
Even more surprising were the rare few among them who bore features that weren't entirely human—horns protruding from their heads, and tails swaying behind them, not as accessories, but as natural parts of their anatomy.
He also noticed two guards stationed at the gate, seemingly verifying the identity of each newcomer before allowing entry. Some were let in without question, as if the guards possessed an innate ability to discern who belonged and who didn't. After seeing all this, the young man sat behind the rock, cloaked in its shadow. He quietly opened his bag and examined its contents before beginning to rearrange them.
He placed the black weapon at the bottom of the bag, next to a pouch of small grenades wrapped in dark cloth to avoid detection. Once secured, he layered other items on top: the body wash bottle, followed by three small cartons, and finally the water bottle on top. That was all he had. He arranged them carefully so that the bag appeared like any other traveler's belongings—nothing suspicious.
However, he realized the bag's appearance alone might draw attention. As for his military dagger, he left it strapped visibly to his belt—an expected item for a traveler, not something to arouse concern.
He then brushed his clothes with his palms, trying to shake off the dust collected during his long trek. He had no spare, clean garments, but at the very least, he wanted to look presentable enough not to stand out.
Rising to his feet, he glanced toward the guards. They were deep in conversation, not seeming to pay attention to anyone in particular. Seeing the opportunity, he stepped out from behind the rock and walked steadily—not too fast to seem anxious, nor too slow to appear hesitant. He reached the end of the line and finally allowed himself a moment of calm. He took a deep breath, then lifted his gaze forward—only to be met by a man who was impossible to overlook.
The man was massive, inhumanly so. He stood at least two meters tall, his broad shoulders forming a wall that blocked the view of anyone in front or behind him. His bald head gleamed like a mirror, reflecting light so strongly that the young man had to squint against the glare. His dark skin, the color of rich earth after rain, bore the marks of a hard life—every inch etched with scars, some minor, others deep. His muscles didn't just look strong—they pulsed with vitality; the kind one could only earn from surviving battle after battle.
Still, it wasn't the man's size or appearance that captivated the young man most—but rather the object slung across his back. Nearly as long as its bearer, it hovered just above the ground, wrapped in a frayed white scarf.
Questions stirred in his mind, but they were soon overtaken by a more pressing concern—how would he communicate with the inhabitants of this planet? On his home world, languages varied by country, even by region. How could one expect to understand the people here? Could he even learn their language? His thoughts spiraled with uncertainty.
Just then, he felt a light tap on his back—a gentle touch that barely brushed his distracted awareness. He ignored it at first, but another tap followed, firmer this time, accompanied by a soft, delicate voice:
"Excuse me, sir… may I have a moment?"
He snapped out of his thoughts and turned quickly—but saw no one at eye level. He looked down… and there she was. A small girl, fragile like a spring blossom, stood before him with a gaze that held both innocence and wisdom.
Her large, golden-emerald eyes reflected the daylight with a soothing calm. Her short, golden hair fluttered in the breeze, brushing against her soft, blush-tinted skin—like dew resting on the petals of a blooming flower. A serene smile illuminated her face, as if she radiated a gentle light from within.
A crimson scarf draped over her head, flowing gently over her hair and adding to her charm. Her dress, though simple in design, possessed its own quiet elegance. Amid the crowd dressed in dull, worn clothes, her attire gleamed like a lone flower blooming in parched soil.
The young man stood mesmerized by the warmth she exuded. But then, another detail about her caught his attention—the enormous, tattered backpack she carried on her narrow shoulders. Covered in patches of various colors—some vibrant, others faded—it looked as though it had seen many years of use.
The entire image suggested it was more than just a backpack—it was like a portable archive of untold stories. He wondered how such a delicate girl could carry something so large. It seemed as though her entire life was packed into it, her only home the contents strapped to her back.
"Excuse me, are you talking to me?" he asked, noticing her eyes studying him intently, as if trying to read something in his appearance. She replied:
"Yes, sir! I just wanted to ask if the spot behind you is taken by someone?"
Despite the simplicity of her question, he felt she was inquiring about more than just a place in line. He blinked twice, trying to process her words, then replied hesitantly, feeling the weight of her unblinking gaze:
"Uh… no… I don't think so. I just arrived and stood behind this man. He didn't seem to mind."
Upon hearing that, her lips spread into a wider, warmer smile—more than just polite. It was a mix of gratitude and reassurance, as if his words had brought her unexpected comfort. She nodded lightly and said brightly:
"I see! Thank you, sir."
Yet her eyes didn't stop scanning him, as if trying to absorb every detail in a single glance. He felt a twinge of self-consciousness but masked it with a neutral nod. He glanced down at his clothes, barely better than rags, then looked back at her. She stood there in her beautiful dress and crimson scarf, as if she belonged to a different world than his. Yet somehow, he felt an inexplicable connection to her—something he couldn't define.
As he turned away, he felt her gaze still on him, filled with unspoken questions. The moment was strange—both unsettling and oddly compelling. He tried to ignore it, to refocus on what had occupied his mind before. He tilted his body slightly and scanned the distant, animated faces, attempting to understand how these people communicated.
The line buzzed with overlapping voices—some loud and sharp, others barely audible. He strained to catch bits of conversation, to grasp fragments that might help him understand, but the noise was overwhelming, and the distance made it harder.
He realized he couldn't rely on words alone—but also on body language. He studied facial expressions, noting gestures that might convey what mouths did not.
Suddenly, a realization hit him. A cynical smile crept across his face as he looked up at the sky—gazing at its infinite expanse as if seeing it for the first time. He realized the truth had been in front of him all along. It felt as though a layer of gray mist had lifted from his mind—as if he had lived inside a translucent shell, and now he could finally see from the outside.
He turned and looked again at the little girl, who returned his gaze with a curious smile, full of innocent wonder and subtle caution. He studied her face as if seeing it anew. Silence lingered between them, charged with questions, until she broke it with a tremble in her voice—a reflection of her unease beneath the friendly smile:
"U-um, sir… is something wrong?"
"No…" he paused, then turned toward her and added,
"But… we're speaking the same language, aren't we?"
Her mind seemed to echo his words, trying to grasp their meaning. For a moment, she appeared to be searching for clarity, like a blind person feeling through darkness. Then finally, she replied with a puzzled tone:
"Yes… we are?"
Silence returned, but this time it carried tension and awe. He pondered—how could he converse so easily with the people here? How did they all speak one language? A childlike astonishment filled his eyes as his thoughts scrambled to make sense of this new awareness.
Then, unexpectedly, a voice echoed from deep within his memories. Familiar words, spoken long ago, resurfaced—phrases his subconscious had never forgotten. They seemed, in that moment, to tie the scattered pieces of the puzzle together.
And yet, amid this sudden clarity, a cold sadness crept into his heart—a heavy sorrow mixed with regret. How could he have forgotten those words for so long? How had he allowed his memory to let them fade? It felt like an unintended betrayal of the dearly departed soul who once spoke them.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his breath slow. Then, a faint smile appeared on his lips—one tinged with buried regret—before he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible:
"I can't believe I forgot that."
Across from him, the little girl tilted her head, her delicate features marked by a curious expression. She seemed to be trying to dive into his thoughts, attempting to read the story unfolding behind his eyes, awaiting an explanation for what was occupying his mind. When he noticed her confusion, he realized he might have appeared odd to her. He cleared his throat gently, then offered her a kind smile and said:
"Sorry, I must have seemed strange."
His words were simple, yet they brought a sense of ease to the girl. She placed a hand near her mouth, as if to stifle a hesitant giggle, then closed her eyes and said:
"No need to apologize. We all do strange things sometimes."
Her voice carried a light note of playfulness, as if she were sharing a secret with the young man. Suddenly, the calm atmosphere around them shifted. Loud voices rose from the front of the line, mingled with scattered murmurs. The young man turned, and the girl leaned slightly as if both were drawn toward the commotion.
There, at the gate, There was what looked like a little child with messy green hair was writhing in the grip of one of the guards, struggling wildly to break free in a manner that showed no trace of respect. Near the gate, stood a small donkey, braying in distress amid the chaos. Observing the distant scene, the girl shrugged, then offered a sideways smirk tinged with sarcasm and said:
"Looks like the line's going to be delayed for a while."
While the young man was still staring, taken aback by the scene, the girl took the opportunity to study him again—this time more closely, more attentively. Her eyes, which had sparkled moments ago with childlike energy, now glinted with a curiosity that could not be concealed. She looked him over from head to toe, then, without warning, asked:
"Excuse me, sir... are you from a foreign land?"
He turned to her, raising his eyebrows, surprised by the unexpected question. But he quickly formed a faint smile and asked in his calm voice:
"Why would you think that?"
She tilted her head slightly, as if gathering her words carefully, then replied with childlike enthusiasm:
"Well, it's just that there aren't many people with black hair around here. But actually, that's not what caught my attention—it's your clothes!"
His eyes lit up for a moment. He glanced down at his attire as though seeing it for the first time. His brow furrowed slightly, as if her observation had stirred a kind of unease. The girl noticed this clearly and grew flustered in turn. She raised her small hands in a quick motion, waving them before her as she said:
"I'm sorry, dear sir! I didn't mean to offend or anything like that! What I meant was—the design of your clothes… it's unlike anything I've ever seen."
Her words poured out quickly, eager to explain herself before being misunderstood. Her wide eyes watched him carefully, searching his face for any sign of offense. But to her relief, he didn't seem angry or upset at all. Instead, that same calm smile returned to his lips, as if meant to reassure her—or perhaps to conceal his own thoughts.
"Indeed, I come from a distant land," he said softly. Then, as though trying to gently halt her growing curiosity, he added with measured tone:
"And before you ask, I can't tell you its name or location… for personal reasons."
His words carried a veil of mystery that only deepened the girl's curiosity. Yet this time, she didn't ask further. She simply looked at him, as though trying to read in his features a story he wasn't willing to share. Her delicate eyebrows rose briefly before lowering again, a flicker of disappointment passing over her expression. Her hazel eyes sparkled with unspoken questions, but when she finally spoke again, her voice was more subdued:
"And do people in your country wear clothes like that?"
"Yes, there are garments similar in style. In fact, what I'm wearing now is quite simple—or at least it was, before I had an accident that ruined it."
Upon hearing that, the girl's expression changed. Concern spread across her face. She parted her lips slightly, then placed her tiny hand over her mouth before exclaiming:
"How awful! Are you alright?"
The young man waved his hand gently with a reassuring smile, as if to dispel her worry the way a breeze scatters fallen autumn leaves. Then he said in a warm tone:
"It was nothing more than a few scratches. No need to worry."
She fell silent for a moment, reflecting on his words. From the looks of him, it didn't seem like a minor incident. She sighed and said:
"Well, I'm glad you're okay. Still… it must've been quite the accident if you lost your shoes."
"Huh?"
The sound escaped him faintly. He looked down at his feet and saw that he was indeed barefoot—wearing only his dirty black socks. He blinked several times, searching quickly for an explanation. Only one came to mind: the harsh impacts with the ground must have been the cause. What puzzled him most was how he hadn't noticed until now. On the other side, although the girl wasn't fully convinced by his explanation and felt he was hiding much more than he'd revealed, she chose to let it go. Her gaze wandered across his clothes again. Then, in a dreamy voice tinged with quiet passion, she whispered:
"I hope to visit your country someday, just to see the clothes there. They must have beautiful designs."
The young man smiled once more, this time with a questioning look as he tilted his head slightly:
"Why are you so interested in clothing?"
Her cheeks flushed with a shy hue upon hearing the question. She took a step back, grasping the edge of her dress and lifting it slightly in a respectful gesture. Lowering her head, she replied in a formal tone, touched with a trace of embarrassment:
"Forgive me, sir. I haven't introduced myself yet. My name is Emilia Joti Blamin, and I'm a seamstress from the town of Shilda."
In that moment, he understood her interest in the details of his attire. He gave a polite bow in return and said with a voice full of gentle warmth:
"A pleasure to meet you. My name is—"
He paused, as though the words had frozen on his lips. He drifted into thought, his eyes fixed on the ground as if searching for something lost. Emilia raised her eyebrows in silent wonder, questioning his hesitation. He looked up at her again, lost in her childlike gaze. Then, straightening himself, he took a deep breath, placed a hand on his chest, and said:
"My name is Ace, a traveler from a distant land."
After this introduction, he extended his hand toward her in a clear invitation to shake. Emilia stared at his outstretched hand for a few moments, as if she too had drifted off. Ace noticed the hesitation on her face and asked gently:
"Is something wrong?"
The girl closed her eyes briefly. The pause was short, but when she opened them again, they gleamed with a different spark. Her lips curved into a smile, and in a soft voice laced with warmth and secrecy, she said:
"No, it's nothing… I just remembered something."
Then, she reached out her small hand, as if building a silent bridge between them. They shook hands—her touch was warm, her skin a strange blend of softness and roughness, as though it bore both the traces of a pampered childhood and the mark of labor no small hand should yet endure.
They held each other's gaze for a few moments. In that instant, it felt as if everything around them had faded away—as if the world had stepped back to give them a moment of their own. But reality would not let them linger too long. From afar, a voice called out, snapping them back:
"Hey, you two! Are you planning to stand there all day or what?"
They both turned toward the sound, only to see something unexpected—the long line that had been slowly crawling ahead of them had completely vanished. Time seemed to have leapt forward while they were lost in that fleeting moment. Quickly, they moved toward the gate, where the guard was calling them. As they approached, Ace leaned slightly toward Emilia and asked in a hushed voice:
"Do I need a permit or something to enter the town?"
Emilia raised her head and looked into his eyes with calm assurance, as though trying to ease the tension in his voice. In a soft yet confident tone, she replied:
"No, you don't have to worry. The guards just check luggage to make sure visitors aren't carrying anything suspicious. As long as you're not hiding anything, you'll be fine."
Despite her reassuring tone, her words weren't enough to calm his nerves. He knew that if his bag were opened, its contents would raise questions. But even so, he had no choice but to move forward.