Chapter 151: Chapter 151: Rustgard and the Return to Bakasa

​Rustgard turned out to be no ordinary town.

​That morning, as the caravan stopped at the edge of town, Dayat was the first to disembark and was immediately greeted by a sight of stark contrasts. To the left, rows of market stalls were beginning to bustle with merchants opening their wares—vegetables, fabrics, simple metal tools. The smell of spices and salted fish blended into one. To the right, narrow alleys led to densely populated settlements with wooden houses huddled together, while in the distance, several two-story stone buildings with glass windows were visible—a sign that even in this small town, there was a chasm between the haves and the have-nots.

​Dola stepped down behind him, stretching her body after sleeping on Dayat’s shoulder all night. Her hood still covered most of her face, but her electric blue eyes were briefly visible before she pulled it lower.

​”Are we here?” she asked, her voice still a bit raspy from just waking up.

​”Yeah. Rustgard.” Dayat observed the crowd around them. “Seems fairly large.”

​Dola scanned the surroundings quickly. “A stopover town. Not too big, but busy enough because it’s on the trade route. North goes to Terragard, south to Bakasa.”

​Dayat nodded. His eyes searched for something—perhaps an information board, or a merchant he could ask. “Want breakfast first? Or find a caravan immediately?”

​”You decide.” Dola leaned her shoulder against Dayat, a bit affectionately. “I’ll just follow your lead.”

​Dayat sighed, but the corner of his lip curled up slightly. “Alright, let’s find a caravan first. We’ll eat later.”

​They left the caravan parking area, walking through the market that was starting to get crowded. Merchants shouted, offering their goods. A small child ran by carrying a basket of eggs. Two Dwarf women were busy haggling over the price of fabric.

​Dayat approached one of the merchants—a middle-aged man with a leather apron and his hair tied back. “Excuse me, Sir. Just asking for a ride.”

​The merchant turned, his eyes scanning Dayat briefly—a hooded traveler, ordinary. “Asking what?”

​”Are there any caravans to Bakasa? Or at least one that passes near Bakasa?”

​The merchant shook his head. “Nothing today, kid. Usually, caravans to the south leave every three days. There won’t be one until the day after tomorrow.”

​Dayat furrowed his brow. “The day after tomorrow?”

​”Yeah. Want to wait or walk? It’s still dozens of kilometers away.”

​Dola stood silently beside Dayat, just observing. But behind the hood, her eyes were calculating and analyzing.

​Dayat sighed. “Waiting two days is too long. We’ll just walk.”

​The merchant shrugged. “Suit yourself. But be careful, the road south is prone to bandit groups. They target travelers passing through alone.”

​”Thanks for the info.”

​They walked away from the market. Dayat glanced at Dola. “No protest?”

​”Protest about what?”

​”Walking dozens of kilometers.”

​Dola smiled behind her hood. “I can walk further than that, Husband. As long as you’re with me.”

​Dayat shook his head in amusement. “Alright, let’s get some supplies first. We’ll buy some bread or something.”

​They stopped at a small stall on the edge of the market, buying a few pieces of meat-filled bread and drinking water in leather pouches. Dayat paid with copper coins—normal prices, no need to show off gold coins.

​After that, they walked out of Rustgard.

​Outside the town, the scenery changed into dry fields with plants Dayat didn’t recognize. Occasionally they passed farmers at work, or other travelers walking alone. The dirt road stretched straight to the south, surrounded by stunted shrubs and withered trees.

​One hour passed. Two hours.

​Dayat kept walking, occasionally looking back to make sure no one was following. Dola walked steadily beside him, never complaining.

​After they were far enough—perhaps three or four hours—Dayat decided it was safe.

​”Stop,” he said, halting at the side of the road. He looked around. There were only empty fields and a few small hills in the distance. No one was there.

​Dola looked at him. “Manifesting?”

​”Yeah. Tired of walking.”

​Dayat closed his eyes. The green gash under his skin glowed dimly. Gradually, in front of them, purple particles began to gather, forming a frame, tires, an engine. But this time, the vehicle that appeared was smaller—not a Jeep, but a kind of two-wheeled vehicle with a sidecar.

​Dola blinked. “What is that?”

​”A Tossa,” Dayat replied, opening his eyes. “Smaller, faster, more efficient. For a road like this, it’s enough.”

​Dola observed the vehicle with curiosity. “Unique. Can we both ride it?”

​”Yeah. You’re in the sidecar.”

​They got on. Dayat was in the driver’s seat, Dola in the sidecar. The engine roared to life, and the Tossa sped off, leaving dust in its wake.

​The wind blew hard. Dola held her hood so it wouldn’t fly away. “This is nice,” she commented. “Like riding an open-top car.”

​”But noisier.”

​”Yeah. But fun.”

​They sped along the deserted road. Sometimes passing farmers who stared in wonder at the strange vehicle. Sometimes passing travelers who could only gape.

​”Dol,” Dayat started, his eyes focused ahead. “Once we’re in Bakasa, we’ll look for Dalgor first.”

​”Agreed.”

​”But I’m confused about how to find Kancil’s friends. Riri, Tomas, Sany, Loy.” Dayat sighed. “I don’t know what they look like. Kancil only told me a little.”

​”We’ll gather information first. They’re probably in the Lower District.”

​”Are you sure?”

​”Street children usually roam in places untouched by the law.” Dola looked at him. “We’ll ask the people there.”

​Dayat nodded. “That makes sense.”

​They sped on in silence for a while. The wind rustled. Dust flew.

​”Dol.”

​”Hm?”

​”Thank you.”

​”For what?”

​”For being willing to follow me here. Even though you know the risks are high.”

​Dola smiled—a smile that wasn’t visible behind the hood, but Dayat could feel it. “You’re my husband, Dayat. Wherever you go, I follow.”

​Dayat didn’t answer. But his hand reached for Dola’s for a moment, squeezing it tightly.

​The journey continued for about another hour. The road began to wind between small hills. Trees became sparse, replaced by thickets.

​Suddenly, from behind the bushes on the left side of the road, a shadow appeared. Then another. Five. Ten. Dozens.

​Dayat braked suddenly. The Tossa stopped with a screeching sound.

​In front of them, dozens of men armed with makeshift weapons—rusted swords, worn-out axes, wooden clubs—stood blocking the road. They were dressed in ragged, filthy clothes, with hungry gazes.

​Bandits. A group of bandits.

​”Well, well, well,” one of them—the largest, likely the leader—stepped forward with a wide grin. “What is this? A carriage without animals? A luxury vehicle? You two must be rich, eh?”

​Dayat remained silent. His hands were still on the handlebars.

​”Get down! Get down!” another bandit shouted, brandishing a sword. “Hand over all your valuables if you want to live!”

​Dola, beside Dayat, didn’t move. But behind the hood, her eyes narrowed—counting the numbers, analyzing the threat.

​Dayat took a long breath. He was annoyed.

​”Did you hear what I said? GET DOWN!” The bandit leader stepped closer, his hand ready to grab Dayat’s collar.

​Dayat looked at him. His eyes were cold.

​Then, without warning, he hit the gas.

​The Tossa lunged forward. The bandit leader was startled, trying to dodge, but he was too slow. His body was dragged and thrown into the bushes. Other bandits shouted; some ran, some tried to block the way.

​Dayat didn’t care. He swerved, hitting one bandit who didn’t move aside, then floored the gas, leaving them behind.

​Dust billowed behind them. Several bandits tried to give chase, but the Tossa was too fast. They could only shout in defeat.

​Five minutes later, the road was silent again. Only Dayat, Dola, and the Tossa speeding along.

​Dola looked back, then turned back to Dayat. “You didn’t stop?”

​”What for?” Dayat answered flatly. “They’re bandits. If I stop, it’ll just be a fight.”

​”It’s a bit sad though,” Dola said, though her tone didn’t sound truly sympathetic. “They’re just looking for food.”

​”They chose the wrong profession.”

​They continued the journey. The tense atmosphere slowly melted away. Dayat remained alert, but at least no one else blocked their path.

​An hour later, a large wall began to appear in the distance.

​Bakasa.

​Dayat slowed down, then turned off the Tossa’s engine a fair distance from the gate. He disembarked, closed his eyes, and the vehicle slowly turned into purple particles, vanishing.

​Dola stepped down, straightening her hood. “Ready?”

​Dayat looked at the city ahead. The giant wall was still the same as he remembered—a mixture of stone, rusted iron, and haphazard patches. Smoke billowed from chimneys. The smell of pollution could already be caught from here.

​”Ready or not, we have to go in,” he muttered. “But this time it’s different.”

​”Different?”

​”Before, we entered as unknown scavengers. Now, we’re fugitives.” Dayat took a breath. “And my old identity is useless. That Class F ID Vael gave me… it’s already known by the kingdom.”

​Dola remained silent, waiting.

​”We have to sneak in.” Dayat looked toward the gate. A long queue snaked there. Guards were checking everyone strictly. Several officers in black robes—Inquisitors?—stood by, watching.

​”Can’t go through the main gate,” he decided. “Risk is too high.”

​”Alternative?”

​Dayat scanned the surroundings. In the distance, several merchant caravans were preparing to enter. Large wagons were pulled by Sus scrofa, full of trade goods.

​”Join a caravan,” Dayat said. “We’ll disguise ourselves as part of the group.”

​Dola nodded. “That works.”

​They walked toward the caravan. Dayat looked for the leader—a fat man with a thick mustache busy directing his men.

​”Excuse me, Sir,” Dayat greeted, his voice made polite. “Looking to hitch a ride with the caravan into the city. Can you help?”

​The man looked at him suspiciously. “Who are you?”

​”A traveler. Going to Bakasa for work. But I’m alone and afraid of bandits.”

​The man observed Dayat, then Dola behind him. “Your wife?”

​”Yes.”

​”Payment?”

​”I can pay.” Dayat took out a few copper coins—the right amount, not too many.

​The man received them, counted quickly, then nodded. “Get in the very last wagon. Don’t cause trouble. If we’re inspected, stay quiet. Let me do the talking.”

​”Thank you, Sir.”

​They climbed into the last wagon, hiding among piles of sacks and wooden crates. The caravan began to move toward the gate.

​A long queue. Guards inspected one by one. Dayat could hear their voices from a distance.

​”Documents?”

​”Open the wagon!”

​”What is that?”

​Getting closer. Dayat’s heart hammered. Dola beside him was silent, holding her breath.

​Finally, it was their caravan’s turn.

​”Stop!” a guard’s voice was loud. “Inspection!”

​The caravan leader—the fat man—jumped down briskly. “Well, well, Mr. Guard. What is it? We’re just ordinary merchants, carrying produce.”

​”Open all the wagons!”

​Dayat felt Dola squeeze his arm. He squeezed back, signaling: stay calm.

​Guards began inspecting the wagons one by one. They poked at the sacks with spears, opened crates, and rummaged through the cargo.

​They reached the last wagon—their wagon.

​”What’s in here?” the guard asked.

​”Trade goods, Sir. Produce from the north,” answered the caravan leader.

​The guard jumped up, starting to inspect. Dayat and Dola hid behind the piles of sacks, not moving, not breathing.

​The guard walked among the cargo. He was almost—almost—at their spot.

​Suddenly, from a distance, a shout rang out.

​”HEY! WAIT! THAT’S THE THIEF!”

​Everyone turned. A man was running, chased by several other guards. Chaos ensued.

​The guard in their wagon jumped down, running toward the commotion.

​The caravan leader acted quickly. “Move! Fast!” he shouted.

​The caravan moved. The gate opened. They entered the city.

​Dayat took a long, very long breath. Dola beside him also exhaled—for the first time, he realized that Dola had been tense as well.

​”We made it,” Dola whispered.

​”Yeah.” Dayat leaned his head against a sack. “We made it.”

​The caravan stopped at a market inside the city. Dayat and Dola got down, thanking the caravan leader. The man just nodded, then got busy with his wares.

​They stood in the middle of the bustle of the Bakasa market. The smell, the noise, the chaos—it was all familiar.

​Dayat looked around. “We’re back, Dol.”

​Dola reached for his hand. “Yes. And this time, we aren’t scavengers.”

​”We’re new players.”

​They walked through the market, blending into the crowd. In the distance, the walls of the Lower District awaited. And there, the real adventure would begin.

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