Chapter 115: Chapter 115: Fugitives at Rest in the Northern Grasslands

​Dawn broke on the eastern horizon, slicing through the lingering shadows with golden streaks that bathed the vast expanse of high grass in Northern Verdia. The Ford F-150 Raptor’s engine gave one final, guttural roar, its heavy mechanical breathing echoing across the silence of the plains before finally fading into a low hum, then silence. The massive tires came to a halt right on the edge of a small ridge overlooking a lush, emerald valley.

​Dayat slowly released his white-knuckled grip on the dashboard. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as the adrenaline began to drain away. However, the emerald Mana-Circuits beneath his skin no longer pulsed with the violent, erratic light they had displayed at the city gates. He was recovering, albeit slowly, though his head still throbbed as if struck by a sledgehammer—a lingering reminder of the extreme Neural Strain he had endured.

​”We… we’ve gone far enough,” Dayat muttered. He turned his head toward Dola, who sat motionless in the driver’s seat. “I’m going to un-manifest the vehicle. It’s too conspicuous. If a wandering Paladin sees the glint of metal from miles away, our location is compromised.”

​In an instant, the iron monster began to dissolve. It broke down into beautiful, shimmering particles of violet light that swirled into the northern breeze before vanishing without a trace. Dayat, Lunethra, Dola, and Kancil were left standing in the center of the swaying tallgrass, the silence of nature rushing back to fill the void left by the engine.

​Dayat drew a long, deep breath. The air here was starkly different from Vaelith; there was no cloying scent of Light-Bloom flowers or the heavy, humid aroma of the World Tree. Here, it smelled of damp earth, fresh grass, and the promise of rain. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering the scattered fragments of his focus.

​”We can’t wear these prison rags forever,” Dayat said, looking down at their filthy, torn garments. “Lunethra, you look like a disgraced princess. Kancil, you look like a gutter thief. And I… I look like a walking corpse.”

​”But Big Brother, are you still strong enough?” Kancil asked, adjusting the vibro-knife at his hip. “Don’t push it if your Mana is depleted. I can hunt for us if I have to.”

​Dayat offered a thin, sharp smile—one that carried a colder edge than before. “A little more. I need us to look like respectable travelers, not desperate fugitives. Image is a weapon in itself.”

​Dayat extended his arms, his palms facing his companions. He concentrated his remaining Mana, weaving it with a finesse he hadn’t possessed before his imprisonment. Violet light flared again, but this time it was calm and fluid, enveloping their bodies one by one.

​For himself, Dayat manifested a high-collared black tactical jacket with numerous functional pockets, paired with dark grey trousers made from a durable synthetic material. Silver Thorn

, now wrapped in a sheath of coarse, unassuming cloth, was slung across his back.

​For Dola, he created a sleek, futuristic black bodysuit layered with a long, flowing white cape, giving her an aura that was both mysterious and elegant.

​Lunethra received a long green gown with gold accents that harmonized with her Elven heritage but remained practical for travel, complete with a wide-sleeved cloak.

​Kancil, meanwhile, was now dressed in a dark blue hooded jacket and tactical pants with integrated knee pads—the perfect attire for a budding assassin.

​”Much better,” Lunethra murmured, smoothing out the fabric of her cloak. She looked at Dayat with a gaze full of both gratitude and a strange sadness. “Dayat, these clothes… they are beautiful. But you look… different. You no longer look like the young man I met in that hut in the middle of the woods.”

​”The world changes, Lunethra. And I must change faster than it does,” Dayat replied curtly. He turned toward the valley below. “There’s a settlement down there. Dola, can your data detect any military presence?”

​Dola scanned the horizon, her pupils dilating as she processed various spectrums. “No large-scale Mana signatures detected within a three-kilometer radius. Only low-level biological activity. It appears to be an agrarian village.”

​”That’s Lamping Village,” Lunethra interjected, her eyes squinting at the structures in the distance. “I’ve heard whispers of this place. A village that refuses to involve itself in the politics of Vaelith. Humans, Elves, and even half-breeds live there in seclusion. It is said to be a sanctuary of peace… or so the rumors go.”

​Kancil stepped forward, his nose twitching as he caught the scent of the air. His instincts as a street urchin, now evolving into those of an assassin, began to map the environment. “I don’t feel any killing intent from that direction. Just the smell of cow dung and ripening wheat. A boring village, but safe for now.”

​”Good. Let’s play the role of wanderers for a while,” Dayat said.

​They began the descent down the hill. The trek took nearly an hour until they reached the village gates—a simple, low wooden fence adorned with climbing vines and flowering ivy. Lamping Village was like something out of a painting; stilt-houses made of seasoned wood with neatly thatched roofs, clean dirt paths, and a crystal-clear stream running through its heart.

​A few villagers were busy drying grain in the sun, while others repaired fishing nets by the water. As Dayat’s group entered, the rhythmic sounds of daily life faltered for a moment. However, there were no gazes of racial prejudice or sharp suspicion like in Vaelith. Instead, they were met with a friendly, quiet curiosity.

​An old man with a short white beard and a wide-brimmed straw hat approached them, carrying a fishing pole over his shoulder. He offered a warm smile, the wrinkles around his eyes speaking of a long, peaceful life.

​”Good morning, travelers. It’s rare to see guests in such fine attire visiting Lamping during the planting season,” the old man greeted them, his voice deep and hearty.

​Dayat stepped forward, consciously softening the rigid expression on his face. “Good morning, Elder. We are travelers from the southern reaches. Our journey has been long, and my companions require a place to rest and recuperate.”

​”Ah, southern travelers, eh? No wonder your style is so… modern,” the old man chuckled. “I am Thalor, the head of this village. If it’s only a place to rest and a warm meal you seek, Lamping’s doors are always open. We don’t have many luxuries, but our wheat is the finest in the North.”

​”Thank you, Master Thalor,” Lunethra bowed gracefully, her noble upbringing still evident in her movements despite her attempts to hide it.

​”Oho, a polite Elven lady. Come, follow me to the village square. Our healer happens to be there right now; she might want to check on your friend there—he looks a bit pale,” Thalor said, gesturing toward Dayat.

​As they walked through the village, a young woman with slightly pointed ears—the hallmark of a half-elf—came running toward them. she carried a basket filled with aromatic medicinal herbs. Her face was bright, but her vibrant green eyes locked onto Dayat with an intense, medical scrutiny.

​”Uncle Thalor! Who are they? Wow, those clothes are amazing! Is this the new trend from the big cities?” the woman asked enthusiastically.

​”These are our guests, Lyrielle. Please prepare some refreshing tonics; this man seems to have had a difficult journey,” Thalor commanded.

​Lyrielle stepped closer to Dayat, her proximity causing Dola to instinctively move forward, closing the space between Dayat and the woman. Dola stared at Lyrielle with cold, unblinking blue eyes.

​”Subject’s pulse is stable, though internal energy fluctuations are present. Local medical intervention is unnecessary unless authorized by the Host,” Dola said in a rhythmic, robotic tone that left Lyrielle stunned.

​”Eh? Her voice… it’s so strange? And she calls you ’Subject’?” Lyrielle blinked, confused but still intensely curious.

​Dayat sighed, gently pulling Dola back by the shoulder. “Forgive my companion. She is… a bit overprotective. I’m just a little exhausted from the road.”

​”Beautiful but terrifying,” Lyrielle whispered with an awkward smile. “Anyway, I’m Lyrielle. The local healer. If you feel nauseous or dizzy, just come to my hut at the end of the bridge.”

​Kancil had already begun to wander off, approaching a group of village children playing with a waterwheel by the stream. Within minutes, he had joined them, showing them how to make the wheel spin faster with a few clever adjustments to the wood’s placement. The children laughed, and for a fleeting moment, Kancil’s cold assassin’s mask slipped, replaced by the genuine sparkle of a boy who missed the simple joys of life.

​Lunethra walked beside Dayat, her fingers occasionally brushing the bark of the trees they passed. “Dayat… this place. The Mana here is so pure and calm. It feels as though no one here is burdened by expectations or rigid sanctity.”

​”That’s because they don’t treat the trees as gods, Lunethra. They treat them as neighbors,” Dayat said softly.

​They arrived at a spacious, open-air wooden hall. Thalor invited them to sit on fragrant woven mats. Villagers soon arrived with warm wheat bread, fresh butter, and cool goat’s milk.

​”Eat. In Lamping, we don’t like to see guests with empty stomachs,” Thalor said. “So, what are your plans after this?”

​Dayat chewed his bread slowly. The honest taste of the grain, free from magical enhancers, felt far more nourishing than the root-gruel of the dungeon. “We wish to stay for a few days. If there is manual labor in the fields or hunting to be done, we can offer our help in exchange for shelter.”

​”What a coincidence!” Thalor exclaimed. “The harvest season is almost upon us, and the strength of a young man like yourself would be a great help. But remember, here we work with our hands, not with magic staves that make the wheat fly on its own. We value the process.”

​”That is not a problem for me,” Dayat replied firmly.

​Dola sat beside Dayat, not touching the food. Her eyes constantly scanned every villager passing by. “Subject Dayat, population profile indicates a threat level of 0.02%. However, there is one individual in the granary sector whose heart rate became irregular upon seeing us.”

​”Ignore it for now, Dola. Don’t make them suspicious,” Dayat whispered.

​That afternoon, Lamping Village welcomed them with a warmth that felt alien to Dayat. He saw Kancil being carried on the shoulders of a burly human man to help pick apples. He saw Lunethra chatting animatedly with Elven women about weaving techniques. And he saw Dola, who, despite her stiffness, was attempting to mimic the movements of a villager folding laundry.

​In the midst of this peace, Dayat looked at Silver Thorn resting beside him. The hero’s blade was hidden now, much like his vengeance, which he kept tightly locked away behind a polite smile. He knew this tranquility was likely fleeting. Verene would not remain silent, and their bounty posters were surely spreading like a plague.

​But for today, in the lush Village of Lamping, Dayat chose to be an ordinary man. He wanted to feel what it was like to live without thinking of weapon manifestations—at least until his Mana was fully restored and he was ready to burn the world that had betrayed him.

​”Dayat,” Lunethra called softly, sitting beside him with a cup of herbal tea. “Do you think of staying here forever?”

​Dayat turned, meeting Lunethra’s hopeful emerald eyes. “Forever is a word too long for people like us, Lunethra. But for now… let’s just enjoy the tea.”

​The conversation ended with a gentle breeze carrying the scent of ripening wheat, marking the beginning of their new life as wanderers in Lamping Village. A moment of slow life, the calm before the inevitable storm.

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