Karsel Village—it was supposed to be a peaceful first stop.
But what Jainal found were ruins, ash, and the stinging scent of scorched metal that bit down to the bone.
His footsteps echoed in the silence as he entered through the collapsed village gate. The wooden sign reading "Karsel" dangled from one hinge, one side charred black. No human voices. Only the wind creeping through the wreckage, whispering death.
> "This wasn't just an attack…
It was a massacre," he muttered under his breath.
Buildings lay in pieces. Household items were scattered across the ground. Blood had dried into dark stains on the earth, like ink on a twisted canvas. But there were no bodies.
Buried? Taken? Or reduced to ash with the homes they once lived in?
Jainal's eyes scanned the lingering heat in the air. He activated the steel mask beneath his cloak—its magic sensors pulsed faintly, detecting residual energy.
> "Artificial magic signatures…
Not natural. This was a military-grade magitek strike."
He followed the pattern of the blast, kneeling by a small crater.
At its edge lay a broken toy—a wooden rabbit doll.
That's when he heard it. Not an explosion. Not crumbling debris.
But… a sob.
---
Faint crying, barely audible—if not for the suffocating silence.
Jainal moved quickly, guided by instinct. He pushed aside broken boards, stepped over ruined kitchenware, and followed the sound to a pile of shattered tiles—revealing a cellar door.
It was half-shut. Jainal eased it open.
Inside, darkness. But his trained eyes caught the curled figure in the corner: a young boy, maybe seven years old. Filthy. Eyes swollen from crying.
Jainal didn't speak right away.
He simply sat on the edge of the entrance.
> "I'm not here to hurt you," he said calmly.
"My name is Jainal."
The boy didn't answer. He only clutched what remained of a cloth doll. But he didn't run. He didn't scream.
That was enough—for now.
Several minutes passed before the child finally whispered,
> "...Mama… they burned her…"
---
Jainal gently carried the boy out of the cellar. He cleaned his minor wounds, gave him water, and wrapped his small body in the inner layer of his cloak—its fabric designed to generate warmth.
The boy still hadn't said his name.
But he walked beside Jainal now, stumbling with each step.
Night fell.
Amid the ruins of Karsel, two figures sat in silence: a masked teenager, and a child of war.
> "I can't change the past," Jainal said quietly.
"But I can make sure you stay alive."
In the thick night fog, a small fire flickered to life—not for cooking,
but as a fragile light in a world losing its hope.