Chapter 116: Chapter 116: Service in the Land of the Mixed

​Dawn in Lamping Village did not begin with the blaring of a phone alarm or the industrial drone of a distant factory. Instead, the morning was ushered in by the call of the Gallus-Aureum—a golden-feathered fowl endemic to northern Verdia, whose crowing resonated through the valley like the rhythmic striking of silver bells.

​Dayat woke on a woven pandan mat, its earthy, herbal scent acting as a natural balm for his frayed nerves. He stretched his limbs, feeling a dull, honest ache in his back. This wasn’t the searing agony of the Nura-Scourge or the violent pressure of an overcharged Mana-Circuit; it was the simple, human soreness of sleeping on a hard, unyielding surface. To Dayat, this ache was a luxury—a reminder that he was still alive and breathing outside of a stone cell.

​”Good morning, Subject Dayat. Your sleep cycle reached an efficiency of 88%,” Dola’s voice drifted from the corner. It was toneless as ever, but there was a subtle modulation, a mimicry of gentleness she had begun to incorporate into her speech patterns. Dayat turned to see her sitting perfectly upright, folding her white cloak with geometric precision.

​Dayat offered a faint, weary smile. “Morning, Dola. And remember what I said—stop calling me ’Subject’ in front of the villagers. We’re sticking to the plan.”

​”Request acknowledged. Transitioning to ’Traveling Companion’ social protocol,” Dola replied obediently, her blue optical sensors dimming slightly to a less intimidating hue.

​They stepped out of the wooden hut Thalor had lent them. Outside, Lamping Village felt truly magical under the first rays of the sun. The morning mist clung to the Manaferum wheat fields, making the stalks shimmer like an endless carpet of green emeralds. The air was crisp, tasting of cold mountain water and dew.

​”Hey, Big Brother Dayat! Look at this!” Kancil’s voice rang out from the direction of the stream. The boy was huddled with three village children—two humans and a young half-elf. They were focused on a small waterwheel that had become jammed by a thick accumulation of moss and river debris.

​Dayat walked over, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path. He saw Kancil, his face and hands smeared with river mud, but his eyes were bright with a genuine, unburdened excitement. The hollow, haunted look from the dungeon had vanished, replaced by the vitality of a child at play. “What’s the problem, Cil?”

​”The axle is crooked, Brother. The water won’t make it spin fast enough, and the wood keeps grinding,” Kancil complained, wiping sweat from his brow with a muddy sleeve.

​Dayat crouched by the clear, bubbling stream. He examined the wooden axle manually, feeling the grain and the points of friction. He could have easily manifested a modern lubricant or a stainless-steel bolt in a heartbeat, but he held back. He wanted to feel the world through his hands, not just through his power. Taking a small common knife, Dayat began to shave a piece of hardwood, carefully adjusting the angle of the axle so the water would hit the blades with better aerodynamic efficiency.

​”Try it now,” Dayat commanded.

​As the current caught the newly adjusted blades, the waterwheel began to spin with a smooth, rhythmic hum. The village children cheered, jumping into the shallow water with splashes of delight.

​”Whoa, Big Brother Dayat is amazing!” one of the boys shouted. “His hands are like wood-magic!”

​”It’s not magic, kid. Just a bit of calculated positioning,” Dayat replied warmly. For a second, the weight of being a “destined destroyer” felt lighter, replaced by the simple satisfaction of fixing a toy.

​The morning continued with communal service. Thalor, the village elder, approached Dayat with a hoe slung over his broad shoulder. “Morning, young man. How did you sleep? Lamping might not be as comfortable as the high inns of the southern cities, but the air here is honest.”

​”It was very peaceful, Elder Thalor. Thank you for the hospitality,” Dayat said politely, inclining his head.

​”As it happens, we’re cleaning the irrigation channels in the wheat fields today. If you wouldn’t mind lending a hand…”

​”Of course. I didn’t come here just to be a guest; I came to work,” Dayat interrupted, picking up a spare hoe with a practiced grip.

​Out in the fields, Dayat shed his pride completely. He tilled the soil, hauled heavy bundles of straw, and cleared blocked waterways alongside the other men of the village. Across the fields, he could see Lunethra sitting with a group of women artisans. The ancient Elf looked incredibly graceful as she taught the village women how to weave the ’Wind-Flow’ pattern—a style from her era—into their wheat-fiber fabrics. Her presence brought a touch of old-world elegance to the rustic setting.

​”You’re lucky to have such capable companions,” a voice said, appearing suddenly at Dayat’s side.

​Dayat turned to see a young man with slightly pointed ears and messy brown hair. His skin was bronzed deeply by the sun, and his eyes held a complex expression—a mixture of curiosity and a thinly veiled resentment.

​”The name’s Eren,” the youth said, extending a hand calloused from years of labor. “I’m the one who usually handles the logistics here. I deliver the harvests to the neighboring towns.”

​Dayat shook his hand firmly. “Dayat. Nice to meet you, Eren.”

​”Likewise,” Eren muttered. His gaze drifted toward Dayat’s tactical black jacket, which lay discarded on the edge of the field. “Your clothes… the fabric isn’t like anything made in Verdia. It’s too smooth, too strong. You said you were from the south?”

​”Yeah, independent wanderers. We move around a lot, so we need gear that lasts,” Dayat replied casually, though his internal instincts sharpened. He could feel Eren’s scrutiny like a physical weight.

​Eren nodded slowly, but his eyes quickly shifted toward Lyrielle, who was approaching the workers with a large jug of cool water. Lyrielle wore a wide, bright smile the moment she spotted Dayat, seemingly oblivious to Eren standing right next to him.

​”Dayat! Here, have a drink. You must be parched after working like that,” Lyrielle said cheerfully. “And you too, Eren. Don’t just stand there posing; help Dayat with that trench!”

​Eren offered an awkward, forced smile. “I was just about to start, Lyrielle. You know I’m not one for laziness.”

​Lyrielle laughed softly and turned back to Dayat, her eyes lingering on him with interest. “After this, could you stop by the healer’s hut? I need your help fixing the medicine racks. I heard you’re quite handy with wood.”

​”Sure, I’ll stop by later,” Dayat answered shortly.

​After Lyrielle left, the atmosphere between the two men turned stiff. Eren began to hoe the earth with excessive force, as if trying to prove that his physical strength was superior to this stranger’s.

​”Lyrielle is a good girl,” Eren said suddenly, without looking at Dayat. “The best healer we’ve ever had. A lot of the young men in Lamping have tried to catch her eye, but she’s usually… indifferent.”

​Dayat merely hummed in agreement. He had zero interest in the romantic drama of a remote village. However, he recognized the signs. Eren felt threatened. It wasn’t because Dayat was evil; it was the simple, human jealousy that occurs when the center of attention shifts to a newcomer.

​”Don’t worry, Eren. I’m only passing through,” Dayat said quietly, his hoe rhythmic in the dirt.

​Eren looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”

​”We’re wanderers. We won’t stay forever. Once my… once our energy is restored, we’ll move on,” Dayat corrected himself quickly, narrowing his eyes as he focused on a stubborn root.

​”Oh… I see,” Eren seemed visibly relieved, though his curiosity hadn’t entirely vanished. “Tomorrow I’m heading to the city to deliver the milk and grain. I could pick up something for you if you need it.”

​”I’m fine, thank you,” Dayat replied.

​In the late afternoon, Lamping Village held a small celebration in the central square. It was a routine festivity for the completion of the irrigation work, but for Dayat’s team, it was a priceless luxury. He sat on a large fallen log, chewing on warm wheat bread slathered with fresh, creamy butter.

​Dola sat beside him, her expression characteristically blank. “Subject—Dayat. Your stress levels have decreased by an additional 14%. Social integration appears to be highly beneficial for your mental regeneration.”

​”I told you, just Dayat,” he whispered, a small smile playing on his lips. “Look at Kancil. He actually looks like a normal kid now.”

​Kancil was sprinting across the square, chasing a stuffed cloth ball with the other children. His laughter was loud and free, devoid of the fear of prison guards or the shadow of death. Lunethra, too, seemed to be enjoying herself; she was listening intently as an elderly Elf told legends of Verdia’s ancient past.

​However, in the corner of the square, Eren sat alone. He watched the camaraderie between Dayat and the villagers—especially when Lyrielle sat next to Dayat and laughed at Dola’s (unintentionally) funny, stiff comments. Eren toyed with his wooden cup, his eyes showing that his ego had been bruised. To him, Dayat was an interloper who had disrupted the social order he had enjoyed as the village’s most reliable youth.

​He’s not a bad person, Dayat thought, observing Eren from a distance. Just an envious one.

​Dayat’s hand drifted toward the cloth-wrapped Silver Thorn resting by his side. He felt the hilt through the fabric, sensing the faint, rhythmic pulse of Mana within the blade. This peace was refreshing, a sanctuary for the soul. But Dayat knew this was merely a pause in a much longer, darker story. Deep within his heart, a cold resolve was hardening. He would not let anyone destroy this peace for his team again. If Verene—or anyone else—came to shatter this moment, he would no longer hesitate to become the destroyer they so feared.

​Enjoy your bread, Dayat, he told himself. Before you have to pick up the gun again.

​The sun dipped below the northern horizon, leaving streaks of vibrant orange and purple across the sky of Lamping Village. Their first full day as wanderers ended with full stomachs and hearts that were, for a fleeting moment, at rest.

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