The next day, the vilge warriors began gathering the remains of the fallen knights. They id the bodies respectfully outside the vilge, hoping their comrades would come to retrieve them—but none did. In the end, the vilgers resolved to bury the dead themselves.

  The cave-in Simon had created was already filled, so the bodies were moved to a burial ground just west of the vilge, where the vilgers had already prepared the graves.

  “Did you see the boy who did this?” One of the warriors who was carrying out the burial started a conversation.

  “No... but they said he was trying to hide his identity,” it came from one of the vilgers who were there, watching around the strange visitor.

  “Well, he saved us... I don’t really know their motives... but they clearly showed their intentions,” another one of the warriors said, gesturing to the body he was pulling.

  A brief silence followed.

  The vilge had only forty-seven warriors, along with their families—most of them between fifteen and fifty-two years old. If fully armored knights had reached the vilge, there would have been little to no resistance. They knew this well; the gap in equipment alone would have been overwhelming.

  One by one, they buried the fallen knights, lighting a candle for each soul that had passed—a long-held tradition of the vilge.

  Though the knights had been their enemies, both vilgers and warriors felt a quiet pity for the dead.

  “It’s so damn hot—I hate summer,” another warrior muttered, breaking the silence as sweat soaked his clothes. Their vilge was surrounded by mountains and was usually cold all year round, which is why the people in the vilge had quite a high sensitivity to heat.

  “Summer is coming, eh?” another warrior agreed with him.

  The warriors chattered in peace as they did their work efficiently, but then from the west, a shadow appeared.

  It was of an old man, garbed in all bck.

  Continuing their work, the warriors were wary of the approaching individual. The usually rexed warriors were still in a state of excitement after the recent event; it was just visitors one after the other.

  But the veteran visitor approached them while waving, it was to show to the warriors that he was a friend, as soon as he reached them, the old man started the conversation by stating, “I’m looking for a friend.” He took out his adventurer’s card.

  The Assassins Guild was corrupted; as long as one had the money to pay, they could kill anyone they wished. That was how the guild operated in the present times, but long ago, far before the times of unprecedented peace, the assassins had a different ‘Purpose.’

  They served the higher good. As vague as it may seem, this was the mettle in which the assassins of the ancient operated. Each of the members was tattooed with a mark. This old tattoo would glow if an assassin came in touch with a ‘Banal.’

  A Banal was a human cursed from birth, destined to bring ruin to humanity—a sinner by nature, though they had not yet committed a single sin. Their being born meant that the herald of the end had come.

  Only assassins who have completed the ancient trials could be tattooed, and these ancient trials even included killing the nearest kin.

  As time passed, the true purpose of the Assassins faded. The #4 assassin was a remnant of the old and was the st of the assassins that had the mark. The mark that could track a Banal in any form of contact, even the tracks they left, would activate it.

  And it led him to the remote vilge of Ahas.

  #4 headed to the vilge pub, which, according to the warriors, also served as an inn. As he entered, he noticed another elderly man with trembling hands sitting just inside the entrance.

  He checked around and noticed the young bartender in the bar. He walked to the bar with a smile and pced two pieces of silver coins on the wooden bar counter.

  The young bartender, busy with his hands, gnced over at him. “You want to stay? That’ll cover one night,” he said.

  #4 nodded. “Yes, I’d like to rest for a day before continuing my travels,” he said, then took a seat at the counter. “Can I have some milk, please?” His request, unusual for the veteran's look, made the young bartender raise an eyebrow.

  “Coming in one sec!” And the bartender went to work. In a few seconds, a gss of milk was served to the veteran. The bartender took the silver coins and said, “That gss of milk’s on the house. We serve food in the morning too—let me know if you have any requests, alright?”

  #4 smiled; the boy was hospitable. The bartender then handed him the key. “It’s the third door on the second floor,” he said, pointing to the staircase.

  #4 noticed that even though the PUB was old, the staircase was brand new. The PUB must have been renovated.

  Drinking the gss of milk in one down, the veteran, #4 spoke, “Thanks, that would help me to sleep,” and he stood up.

  “G-guess, what’s your name?” A low mutter from the senior sitting beside the entrance of the PUB.

  The veteran gred and turned his head in the direction of the senior. The bartender noticed the change in atmosphere inflicted by the veteran guest.

  “Don’t mind him, he’s my father. He always asks the name of anyone who enters the pub,” the young bartender said, trying to diffuse the situation.

  “My name is… Angelo Cuss,” the veteran said. Angelo was in good shape for an older man, his face marked by faint scars, but both the bartender and the senior who’d asked his name could tell he was strong.

  “That damned Alphecca! He said he would bring me some good alcohol! It's been 14 years now!!” The father of the bartender suddenly cursed.

  Angelo was surprised. Alphecca was a legend among the heroes. The hero of the era who paved the way to the peace of the nds. The one who set unbeatable records that even now persisted. The Sword of Light.

  It had been a long time since anything had piqued Angelo’s curiosity, and the fact that he’d had a chance to work with a legend, even briefly, added to his intrigue. “Young man, we need a drink,” Angelo said, pulling out a bag of coins and smming it down on the counter.

  The young bartender, already knowing what the veteran meant, grabbed two bottles of fine spirits and set them down with a thud next to the coin purse. “I thought you were going to sleep? Milk and alcohol don’t mix well,” he said with a grin, his words at odds with his actions.

  Angelo took the bottles and approached the elderly man sitting near the entrance of the pub. “Sir... could you tell me some stories?” he asked.

  “G-gdly!” even though it was the alcohol that put him in such a state, the senior, the ex-owner of the PUB, would love to drink some of his poison again. Then again, he gnced at his son, and his son just smiled at him.