The man's hand jerked, gripping the coarse blanket as if trying to hold onto something slipping away. A choked gasp rattled from his parched throat, his brow pinched in pain, shadows of unseen torment etched across his face.
"...Water…"
The hoarse whisper barely broke the stillness, his voice raw and fragile. His breathing quickened, shallow and uneven, as his lashes fluttered weakly, struggling to lift.
Arlon stepped closer, his movements deliberate and calm. "Easy," he murmured, his tone soft but firm. His sharp eyes flicked to the small table nearby, where a pitcher of water sat.
Reaching for it, Arlon poured a small amount into a cup. The faint sound of the rain outside mixed with the man's quiet groans, adding an almost rhythmic backdrop to the tense scene.
Leaning down, Arlon tilted the cup slightly, letting a few drops of water touch the man's cracked lips.
"Drink," he instructed, his voice steady, almost soothing. The man's eyelids fluttered open, his unfocused gaze meeting Arlon's.
"...!"
His dull eyes widened, flickering with fear as they met the shadowed gaze beneath the mask. A cold weight pressed down on him, too weak to recoil, his chest heaving with shallow, panicked breaths.
His mind raced with apprehension—who are you? Yet, his dry throat and fragile state left him powerless to act, his only choice to lie still and hope this stranger meant no harm.
With trembling hands and hesitant movements, he finally obeyed, sipping the water slowly. Each swallow felt like fire against his parched throat, but relief followed in its wake.
Exhaustion soon overtook him, and he sagged back against the pillow, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
Behind them, the chair scraped softly against the wooden floor.
"...You're awake," Lawrence said, his voice tinged with relief as he blinked away the haze of sleep. But as his gaze shifted, it landed on Arlon, who stood calmly by the bedside.
Lawrence paused, his expression flickering between surprise and hesitation.
"Master Arlon—" he began, but Arlon raised a hand, cutting him off with a calm yet firm tone.
"Rest, Lawrence," Arlon said, his voice low but firm, his sharp gaze steady. "You've done enough for now."
Lawrence lingered by the bedside, his tired eyes darted between the man and Arlon, his stance tense, as if bracing himself against the weight of retreating. Even when his shoulders sagged, he didn't move.
"I don't mind staying," Lawrence said softly, his voice carrying quiet determination. "I can handle this."
Stubborn Lawrence, Arlon thought, faint amusement softening the edges of his sharp expression.
Arlon stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Lawrence's shoulder. His touch was firm, grounding, but not unkind. "You've done enough," he said, his voice low but carrying an undeniable finality. "You can't help anyone if you collapse first."
For a moment, Arlon allowed his thoughts to wander.
You may be the strongest piece on the board, Arlon mused, his gaze softening slightly. But even the strongest can fall. You're human—fallible, breakable, and bound by limits you can't outrun.
Lawrence looked at him, uncertainty flickering across his face. "But what if he—"
"Have you eaten?" Arlon cut in, his voice quiet but insistent.
Lawrence blinked, momentarily thrown off. "No."
"Have you dried yourself from the rain?" Arlon asked, tilting his head slightly as his sharp gaze flicked over Lawrence's appearance. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and his clothes were still visibly wet, evidence of his earlier refusal to prioritize himself.
"No," Lawrence admitted quietly, avoiding Arlon's gaze.
"Have you gotten enough rest?"
"..."
Lawrence fell silent, his shoulders slumping as Arlon's words sank in. The exhaustion he had been fighting so hard to suppress weighed heavier now, his body betraying him with the slight sag of his posture.
Arlon eyes lingered on Lawrence, watching the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the way his stance betrayed a quiet fragility beneath the strength. Even heroes need rest, he thought. Even the strongest can break if they push too far.
Arlon placed a hand lightly on Lawrence's shoulder, his touch grounding. "You're no good to anyone if you collapse from exhaustion," he said, his tone softening. "Go eat. Get some rest. I'll watch over him."
Lawrence hesitated for another moment before exhaling a reluctant sigh. "Alright," he murmured, though the worry in his voice hadn't entirely disappeared. "But promise me you'll call if anything changes."
"You have my word," Arlon said firmly, his gaze unwavering.
Before Lawrence could leave the room, a low groan broke the silence.
Both Arlon and Lawrence turned sharply toward the bed, where the injured man stirred. His fingers twitched, and his eyelids fluttered as he murmured faintly, "...the group of men... in black robes..."
Lawrence stepped closer, his fatigue forgotten in an instant. "What did you say?" he asked, leaning in.
The man's breathing hitched, his voice hoarse and uneven. "They... attacked me..." he rasped. "I don't know why, but... I think they knew... I was after the same thing they were..."
Arlon's eyes narrowed, his expression sharpening with focused intensity. "What were they after?" His voice was steady, but the weight behind it demanded an answer.
The man's gaze flickered between them, his lips trembling as though each word might shatter him. "The… mercenaries…" he rasped, his voice barely carrying. "The ones searching for… the village of treasure."
Arlon's brow furrowed at the mention, his mind racing to piece the puzzle together. Lawrence, standing nearby, straightened, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as his focus snapped to the injured man.
"What do you mean?" Lawrence asked, leaning forward, his voice low but urgent.
The man winced, his fingers twitching weakly against the blanket. "I don't know… much," he murmured. "But… the ones in black—they knew about it. About the treasure."
Arlon and Lawrence exchanged a look, tension rippling between them. "The village of treasure," Arlon said, his voice flat but edged with thought. "What else do you know?"
The man swallowed hard, his throat bobbing weakly. "Only rumors," he rasped. "Something hidden. Something… powerful."
"Why were you involved?" Arlon pressed, his tone unwavering, sharp like a blade cutting through the rain-soaked stillness of the room. "What were you looking for?"
The man's eyelids fluttered, his strength visibly waning as he struggled to speak. His breaths were shallow, each word an effort. "I... I was after the missing mercenaries," he rasped, his voice strained. "They... they have information… my boss wants."
"Your boss?" Arlon's tone remained calm, but his sharp gaze bore into the man, demanding clarity.
The man swallowed, his throat bobbing weakly. "I'm... I'm part of a merchant group," he murmured, his words faltering. "My boss assigned me... to find the missing mercenaries. They were hired for... something important."
Lawrence stepped forward, his brows knitting together in thought. "So, your boss sent you after the mercenaries, and now the Pry cult's involved too. What exactly were they looking for?"
The man's head lolled slightly, his body barely able to sustain his weight even against the bed. "Don't know... specifics," he admitted weakly. "Just heard information. They were... after something hidden... in the village of treasure."
Arlon's expression darkened slightly, his thoughts racing. "And your merchant group was after the same thing? Or just the information?"
The man's chest rose and fell in uneven jerks, each breath a fight against his battered body. His lips parted, trembling, as if every word threatened to steal what little strength he had left.
"The... mercenaries…" he rasped, his voice a broken whisper. "They took... something... Boss said… we needed it back… before anyone else…"
Arlon's expression darkened, his thoughts swirling. Great, he thought dryly. So we've got mercenaries stealing something valuable, a merchant group chasing after them, and the Pry cult swooping in to make things worse. Everyone's involved, and no one knows exactly what they're dealing with.
As Arlon mulled over the man's cryptic words, a faint shimmer danced in the corner of his vision.
"..!"
He tensed instinctively, recognizing the intrusive glow before it fully materialized—the narrator screen, weaving itself into existence like a thread pulling through fabric, uninvited as always.
Flutter—
["Boss… I'm sorry. I failed," Taron thought, the weight of the words dragging heavily. "I survived by chance, but this mission… I don't think I can go on."]
Flutter—
["Looking for something that was lost for years wasn't easy. I don't care if those magic scrolls are important, but my life is on the line, and it's not worth risking to replace anything!" Taron thought.]
Arlon's jaw tightened as the glowing text unfurled before him, its sudden appearance as intrusive as ever. His fingers twitched, irritation simmering beneath his mask. Of course. Right on time, narrator.
Always swooping in with half-truths and riddles. Yet despite his annoyance, his gaze lingered on the words, the cryptic message igniting a flicker of unease.
Great timing as always, narrator, Arlon thought with exasperation, his gaze narrowing on the words.
"Magic scrolls," Arlon murmured under his breath, his tone thoughtful. This just keeps getting more complicated.