GRIND.
Iron teeth gnashed against iron hinges. The gates of Angkara sealed shut, cutting off the world. Tuka stood in the throat of the abyss, and for the first time in his life, he wasn't a "kindly shepherd" anymore.
"Goddamn it," he spat.
The injustice was a slow-boil in his marrow. At the orphanage, he'd been the "carefree one," the boy who'd rather nap with the sheep than fight. But as he stared into the dark, he didn't want to nap. He wanted to see that Captain's blood on the stone.
Sniff.
The stench of damp stone hit first— thick, stale, and inescapable. It felt like the air itself had been rotting for years.
Drip. Drip.
Somewhere deep inside, water dripped in a steady, hollow rhythm, telling them; time passed here, but nothing changed.
"Let's increase our pace," the old man said.
Tuka walked beside him, their steps swallowed by the cavernous tunnel. His wrists throbbed from the iron's bite, bruises still fresh and ugly. He had thanked him for the help before and the old man just gave his usual smile. They keep walking with small steps relying on the faint light of mineral shards.
Minutes bled into one another until the tunnel opened into a vast, underground square.
Tuka stopped.
Abandoned structures littered the space like broken teeth. Sagging tents stitched from scraps, houses with caved-in roofs, and streets carved from cold, gray stone. In the distance, orange glimmers flickered—crude braziers casting long, swaying shadows. Jagged, broken walls rose high around the square, enclosing it. Some burn marks and broken weapon parts adorned the walls, and Tuka noticed several weathered flags with unrecognizable patterns flapping slowly.
"This looks like a castle after a long siege."
Tuka murmured, mostly to himself.
"Or a graveyard."
The old man chimed in, his usual smile plastered across his face. Tuka stared at him. He hadn't thought anyone would hear that. This old man's hearing was unsettling.
They passed a wrecked building at the center. Atop it sat a small tower with a bird-shaped bell. The Lumen Church. A holy site in a hole of sinners. The irony wasn't lost on Tuka.
"Where is everyone?" Tuka asked, scanning the empty square. "The others who came in before us—they shouldn't be this far ahead."
They had walked to the center of the square. But Tuka saw no sign of the prisoners who had entered before them.
"Maybe they're dead already," the old man said casually.
Tuka flinched.
The old man's words were a splash of cold water to his ignorance. This was Angkara. They already got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel the moment they stepped in. He needed to be more cautious.
He crouched, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the stone. It was a shepherd's habit—looking for tracks, for a disturbed pebble, for anything that didn't belong.
They stopped before a ruined two-story house. The walls were so battered Tuka could see straight into the empty rooms. Suddenly, the old man picked up a pebble and threw it, letting it bounce and clatter across several tiled roofs.
"Where are you from, Tuka?" the old man asked, whistling a jaunty tune.
"Aetheria," Tuka replied. His hand instinctively gripped a rusty iron pole leaning against a wall. The darkness made him wary. He needed a weapon, even a blunt one.
"Ah, the capital! I miss it," the old man sighed, gazing upward at the stone ceiling as if he could see the stars. "The ladies of the Midnight Tulip... such fine tulips."
Tuka stared at him. Seriously?
Men who joked in hell were either insane or the most dangerous predators in the room. Tuka put his money on both.
"Are you from the capital too, sir?"
"Born and raised—"
KYAA!
A woman's scream ripped through the humid air, snapping their heads toward the sound.
The old man moved first. He vaulted through the ruined buildings with the fluid grace of a predator, while Tuka scrambled below, pushing his lungs to the limit just to keep the man's shadow in sight. How can a fossil like that run like a wolf? Tuka wondered through his ragged gasping, his shepherd-lean legs burning as he hurdled debris.
"HELP!"
The scream was closer now, vibrating against the crumbling stone. The old man took one final, impossible leap, landing in a square several meters ahead before vanishing into the gloom.
When Tuka finally skidded into the clearing, he found a small open space choked by sagging tents and flickering torches. The old man was already crouched over a young brunette sprawled on the stone floor. Tuka approached warily, doubled over.
"Huff… what… huff… happened?"
The old man didn't answer. He was busy tightening a weathered strip of fabric around the woman's thigh. She looked exhausted, a small bruise blooming on her pale face and damp black hair plastered to her forehead with a smear of blood. The old man kept working, wiping her face and checking her vitals with a calm that bordered on creepy. But Tuka's eyes widened as he realized where the old man's other hand was resting.
"How long do you plan on holding her bosom, you perverted old man?" Tuka barked, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed red.
The old man didn't even flinch. He just looked down at his left hand, which was firmly planted on the girl's chest while his right worked the bandage.
"Oops. Sorry. I was sure I was holding her thigh before. That's weird." He shifted his hand back to the wound, letting out a nonchalant, gravelly chuckle. "Must be those two bastards' fault. They ran off before I could tear 'em into pieces."
He explained the girl had been jumped by two men, but he'd kicked them off just in time. Tuka scanned the site—scattered supplies, a dying fire pit, and a bloody dagger lying in the dirt. A woman camping alone in a place like this? Tuka thought, his grit warring with his confusion. She's either very courageous or very dumb.
"Uugh…"
The woman's eyes fluttered. She began to thrash, a panicked gasp catching in her throat. As she flailed, the sleeve of her tunic shifted, and Tuka caught a glimpse of the mark on the back of her milky-white hand. A sword sigil.
Asura.
The old man didn't seem surprised, his expression remaining maddeningly unreadable as he watched her wake. The woman lunged for the dagger, leveling it with a trembling hand.
"D-don't get any closer! Back off!"
The old man and Tuka exchanged a glance and shrugged in a strangely matching chemistry. They had enough drama for one day; besides, she wasn't so captivating that they couldn't just leave her alone.
"Let's go, Tuka," the old man grunted, turning away. "Seems she's gone and pissed herself. The lady need her privacy"
"Yeah," Tuka added, dusting his trousers. "Stay hydrated ma'am. You lost a lot of blood."
The brunette stared at them as if they'd both lost their minds. She glanced down, noticing her shredded thigh had been cleaned and expertly bound.
"W-wait!"
The old man paused, glancing over a shoulder with a bored smirk. "What? Want me to wipe it for you?"
"I didn't pee!" she snapped, her irritation momentarily overriding her fear. She slowly lowered the blade. "Did... did you do this? To my leg?"
Tuka turned back and let out a weary sigh.
Talk first, think later, he thought. He didn't know much about women—his only baseline was the sisters at the orphanage who used to scold him before he could even open his mouth. He knew it was a stereotype, but as he watched her wave the dagger around, he couldn't help but feel it was an accurate one.
"That? The kid did it."
The old man jerked a thumb toward him.
Tuka raised an eyebrow, but he'd learned quickly that it was easier to just play along with the old man's whims.
"I-is that so...?" She pushed herself up unsteadily, offering a shallow, trembling bow. "Thank you for saving me. I'm sorry for... the knife. I was panicking. Those men, they—they did..."
Her voice broke into a sob, and her knees buckled.
Swoosh.
The old man "teleported". One second he was standing idle; the next, he was anchoring the woman against his chest as she wept uncontrollably. Tuka watched with a deadpan expression as the old man's face split into a lecherous grin.
"There, there, little crow. You're safe now. We'll protect you," the old man purred. He began patting her back—a gesture that quickly devolved into blatant, wandering caresses. The woman's cries intensified, but as the old man's hand continued to roam, his grin abruptly vanished. His eyes went hollow, fixed on Tuka with a sudden, vacant stare.
Thud.
The old man collapsed onto his back like a felled tree.
Tuka flinched, lunging forward to help—but he froze.
The woman wasn't crying anymore. The sobbing mess had vanished, replaced by a cold, sneering mask of predatory satisfaction. A long, thin steel needle, barely thicker than a hair, slipped from her fingers and hit the dirt.
Clink.
"Honestly," she laughed, her voice now sharp and devoid of any tremor. "It works every single time. People are so predictably sentimental, ah–in his case, he just couldn't hold his pants."
The old man lay motionless on the ground, the suddenness of his collapse echoing in the silence that followed her laughter.