The sky was still gray when Reno opened his eyes. Black branches loomed overhead like the claws of giants, ready to tear through the heavens.Torn clothes. Aches all over. Slow breaths. He didn't know where he was.But nothing felt urgent.
Until...Footsteps. Heavy. Burdened.
"Ha! Thought you were a dead deer. Turns out you're a human... half-alive, I guess."
The man—middle-aged, sun-darkened skin, messy beard, voice rough like an axe splitting wood—chuckled lightly. No questions. No interrogation. Just the instincts of an old man who hadn't lost his conscience.He hoisted Reno like a sack of flour and carried him into a small wooden house, warm and full of kitchen smoke.
Ezzera Village.A name found on no map. Dirt roads. Crooked houses. A sluggish river flowing like a dying breath. Skinny children sat on stairs, staring at the colorless sky.Two guards at the village gate played dice on a grain crate. No vigilance. No hope.
And Reno just watched in silence.
"This village's system... is dead.But if only the top is dead, maybe the roots can still grow…"
In that wooden house, Reno was cared for by a young woman.Her name was Mira. Firm, yet tired. Hair tied back. Fingers scented with herbs.
"My name's Mira. I'm the one who usually treats people here. Though... well, I've had no formal medical training."
She cleaned the wounds on Reno's arm with practiced care. Not out of sympathy, but the kind of skill sharpened by necessity—not education.
"How much for the treatment?" Reno asked suddenly.Mira looked at him."Pay what you can," she replied.
A common answer, said with a common tone. But Reno heard more than that.He heard fatigue. Resignation. A kind of service no longer born of choice.
"Don't you need money to buy supplies?""I gather most of the herbs from the forest myself. And the people here... can barely afford food. I can't charge them."
She could leave, Reno thought.But she didn't. Why?
"You close with the villagers?""They're... not family. But they're like family. Tomas, for instance—he's like a father to me. Then there's..."
And Mira kept talking.And Reno just listened.
That afternoon, Tomas—the old man who had saved him—took Reno to the communal kitchen. Amid the broth smoke and old pots, appeared a skinny elderly woman with white hair.
Mother Yarra.
"So this is the young man from the forest?" she said while ladling soup."Yes, Ma'am. Quiet one. But I think he's a good kid.""If you say he's good, then he must be good."
Reno introduced himself softly.He knew exactly how to act: polite, unassuming, a little awkward. Just enough for people to open up—without growing suspicious.
And during that whole meal, Reno only listened.He soaked in Tomas and Yarra's conversation—about weather, harvests, and the past.And from that, he began to form a map:Who talks to whom.Who's trusted.Who stays silent.
That night, Tomas kept talking.About his wife who made great rabbit head stew.About his son who went to the city and never returned.About a village slowly dying.
Reno just listened.And came to a realization:All three—Tomas, Mira, and Yarra—could have left this village.But they didn't.Or couldn't.Or weren't allowed to.
And these three, with their hearts too sincere, couldn't be bought with money.
"Then," Reno thought,"I need to make this village grow.And turn them into its first pillars."
Days passed. Reno didn't stand out. But he didn't hide either.He helped carry buckets, fixed roofs, foraged herbs with Mira, hunted with Tomas, patched up the barracks' fence. Slowly, he blended into the rhythm of village life. He asked no questions. He just listened.
And from listening, he began to gather fragments of truth:– Trade routes closed.– Medicine expensive.– Harvests disappeared in transit.– Taxes rising, yet roads crumbling.– No diplomatic channel to the capital.
Two names kept surfacing:Berond — the village chief.Korr — the guard captain.
And so Reno began to infiltrate.He volunteered to help at the village office.Berond—cunning and calculative—accepted him.Within a week, Reno sat quietly in a corner, reading old records nobody bothered to check.
He found cracks:– Village fields "donated voluntarily."– Harvests "didn't arrive" due to "weather issues."– Logistics warehouse accessible only to two people: Berond and Korr.
And Reno suppressed a smile every time he found another inconsistency.He didn't speak. Not yet.Evidence isn't for looking.It's for using.
Korr was harder.Didn't like newcomers. Paranoid.
Reno fixed fences. Sharpened blades. Offered wine during night watch. Until finally...One night, Reno was invited to drink at a back cabin behind the barracks.
"Villagers gotta know their place," Korr said, laughing. "If they ask too many questions... we teach them. Once or twice, they get the message."
Reno laughed along.Then Korr went to the back.And Reno... moved.
A small chest in the corner. Locked. Not for long.
Inside:– A necklace.– A bracelet.– Lacy undergarments.– A worn notebook with names of young women.– Dates.– Red X marks.– One name: Mira. Two years ago.Marked: "Silenced."
The next morning, Reno went to see Mira.He just stood there. For a long time. Silent.Then said:
"They… record everything."
Mira stopped grinding herbs. Her shoulders tensed. Several seconds of silence."I know. But if I speak up... I won't just die. The girls... they'll be next."
Reno didn't answer.Didn't make promises.Because to him, promises weren't words.They were plans.
And from that day on—he wasn't just infiltrating.He was hunting.