"Mmhh… mh…"
"Hey, wake up. Hey! Hey!"
A coarse, rustic voice shattered the fragile cocoon of sleep Jaehyun had wrapped himself in. Stirring groggily, his face scrunched in annoyance.
"What now…" he grumbled in a daze, irritated by the intrusion. Everything was a mess, even his dreams. Why couldn't the universe let him have peace for just one night?
He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the same rustic room—the dim lighting, the old furniture, and the unmistakable scent of damp wood. The very room where he'd nearly met his end. It sent a chill down his spine.
Standing before him was the old man from the civil office, his gruff expression etched with impatience. A scar ran across his weathered face, and his brows furrowed deeply.
"You brat! Why are you glaring at me like that?" the old man barked, crossing his arms.
Jaehyun blinked a few times, still disoriented. "Why… why are you in my dream?"
The question hung in the air as silence stretched between them.
Slowly, the realization hit him. This wasn't a dream. He was back in that room—the same one where his life had taken a drastic turn. His breath hitched, and panic began to bubble beneath the surface.
The old man noticed Jaehyun's pale face and sighed. "Relax, kid. I'm not here to hurt you. I came to check on you since you didn't show up for work. Thought maybe that gunfire incident scared you off for good."
Gunfire. The memory of that day was still fresh, the sound of bullets ricocheting and the sheer chaos of it all. Jaehyun's fists clenched involuntarily as the scene replayed in his mind.
The old man scratched the back of his head, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Anyway, I figured you might need someone to make sure you hadn't, I don't know, dropped dead or something."
For a moment, Jaehyun stared at him, stunned. No one had ever bothered to check on him before. Not like this. He wasn't used to it, and the unexpected warmth behind the man's words tugged at something buried deep within him.
"…Thanks," Jaehyun muttered, forcing a small smile.
The old man softened, his rough demeanor cracking just a little. "Don't mention it," he said, helping Jaehyun to his feet and guiding him to a chair.
"You know," the man continued, "this part of town isn't all sunshine and rainbows. Sure, it might look lively on the surface, but underneath, it's crawling with trouble—killers, thieves, witches, and worse. That gunshot? Not exactly a rare occurrence around here."
Jaehyun frowned. "What do you mean?"
The old man's face grew serious. "That incident wasn't random. Turns out, it was a setup. The mayor's son didn't want someone other than his wife's family getting the job. You were just unlucky enough to be in the way."
Jaehyun felt a cold shiver run down his spine. His rank—just one step higher—had been the reason his life was nearly snuffed out. The weight of it settled heavily on his shoulders.
"Listen," the old man said, leaning closer. "Why don't you move somewhere else? I could arrange some kind of help?"
Jaehyun's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"
The old man's sharp gaze met his. "Because you look burned out."
"Huh?"
Jaehyun's chest tightened as the old man's words sank in, carrying a weight that felt foreign, almost intrusive. Care—real, unspoken, genuine care. It wasn't something he knew how to process, not after a lifetime of hardened indifference and guarded solitude.
"Burned out?" Jaehyun murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes darted away, refusing to meet the old man's. It felt too exposing, too raw.
"Yeah," the man replied, his tone gruff but not unkind. "You looked like you were dragging yourself through life, just going through the motions. I know those eyes. I've seen them before—hell, I've had them before. That's why I couldn't just sit back and do nothing."
Jaehyun's fingers curled against his knees, gripping tightly as if anchoring himself. The words hit a nerve he didn't even know existed. It wasn't just the observation—it was the truth behind it. He was tired. Tired of surviving, tired of pretending he was fine, tired of being alone in a world that seemed to chew him up and spit him out for sport.
"You don't even know me," Jaehyun said finally, his voice strained. "Why would you care?"
The old man chuckled, low and gravelly, a sound that seemed to carry years of stories and regrets. "You think I need to know your life story to see what's written all over your face? Kid, I've been around long enough to recognize someone who's drowning. Doesn't matter if it's in the deep end or shallow waters—drowning's still drowning."
Jaehyun's jaw clenched. He hated how much sense the old man's words made, hated how they made him feel vulnerable. But most of all, he hated that a part of him wanted to believe them.
"Look," the man continued, leaning back slightly. "You remind me of someone I used to be. Someone I wish someone had reached out to. I couldn't save myself then, but maybe I can save you from going down the same damn road."
Jaehyun swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. The man's words weren't flowery or poetic; they were rough, jagged edges of truths that Jaehyun didn't want to confront but couldn't ignore.
"I don't know if I can be saved," Jaehyun muttered, his voice almost breaking.
The old man leaned forward, his gaze steady and unyielding. "You don't have to figure it all out today, kid. Just don't let the world convince you there's no point. If you stick around long enough, you might just find something worth fighting for."
For the first time in years, Jaehyun felt a flicker of something—hope, maybe, or a faint curiosity about a future that didn't feel so suffocating. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep him sitting there, letting the weight of the old man's words settle.
"Thanks," Jaehyun said, the word awkward on his tongue.
The old man smirked, patting him on the shoulder. "Don't thank me yet, kid. Life's still gonna throw punches. Just try not to fall down so hard next time."
For the first time in what felt like forever, Jaehyun didn't feel completely alone. And maybe—just maybe—that was enough. For now.
As the old man rose from his chair, he left a folded letter and a small bundle of currency—100 seri—on the table next to Jaehyun's hand. The gesture was quiet but deliberate, and Jaehyun could only stare at it, uncertain whether to feel gratitude or unease.
"This is your payment," the old man said, his voice rough but steady. "For resigning. You're lucky to get this much." He paused, his gaze softening just a little before continuing. "If you go behind your own house, you'll find a small mercenary group preparing to leave for different parts of the country. Find them, show them this letter, and they'll take you in. Just don't cause them too much trouble."
Jaehyun's eyes flicked to the letter, then back to the man. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice low.
The old man didn't answer right away. Instead, he adjusted his coat, as if preparing to leave. Finally, he said, "Maybe I see a bit of myself in you. Or maybe I just don't want to see another young man get swallowed up by this world. Either way, it's done now."
With that, he turned and walked toward the door. His steps were slow but deliberate, and as he reached the threshold, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Take care of yourself, kid. You've got a long road ahead."
"Hey, What's you name?"
"John...." he said with a smile.
Jaehyun watched as the door closed behind him, the sound echoing in the quiet room. For a long moment, he sat there, staring at the letter and the seri. The old man's words replayed in his mind, stirring something he couldn't quite name.
A "messiah of hope." That's what the old man felt like. A fleeting figure in his life, someone who gave him just enough to keep moving forward. It wasn't a rescue—it wasn't meant to be. But it was something Jaehyun hadn't had in years: a nudge in the right direction, a reminder that he wasn't completely alone in the world.
He picked up the letter, his fingers trembling slightly as he unfolded it. The handwriting was rough but clear, the words simple yet profound in their intent. It wasn't just a lifeline—it was a challenge.
As he folded the letter back and tucked it away, Jaehyun let out a slow breath. The weight of his circumstances was still there, pressing down on him, but for the first time in a long while, it didn't feel completely unbearable.
"Guess I don't have much of a choice," he muttered to himself, standing up and glancing toward the door. The old man was gone, but his presence lingered in the room, like a faint echo of something Jaehyun wasn't ready to let go of just yet.
With the letter and the 100 seri in hand, he turned toward the window, the first rays of dawn creeping over the horizon.
Clark hesitated as he approached the small group of mercenaries. They were gathered near a modest carriage, the early morning light casting long shadows over their weathered forms. Two men stood by the fire, quietly chatting, their expressions relaxed but sharp. The women, seated nearby, focused on tending to their weapons, their presence imposing yet aloof.
Clark clutched the letter tightly in his hand, his palms damp with nervousness. He walked up to the men, their friendly demeanor making them seem like the safest bet.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice cracking slightly.
The older of the two men turned toward him, his face lined with age and experience but softened by a genial smile. His companion, slightly younger and broader, gave Clark a curious look but said nothing.
The older man spoke first. "You lost, lad?"
Clark shook his head, holding out the letter. "The old man who sent me here said to give this to you. He said you'd help me."
The man's smile faded as he took the letter, unfolding it carefully. His eyes scanned the words, and a chuckle escaped his lips. "Typical of him. Always sticking his neck out for someone."
The younger man leaned over to read the letter, his expression turning thoughtful. "Looks like he's vouching for you, kid. That's no small thing."
"Y-you know him?" Clark stammered, unsure if he should feel relieved or more nervous.
"Know him?" The older man laughed, the sound warm and deep. "We've known that old coot for years. He's got a knack for picking up strays and setting them on their feet."
The younger man folded his arms, studying Clark with a critical eye. "You don't look like much. What's your story?"
Clark hesitated, unsure how to answer. "I... don't have one," he admitted. "I'm just trying to get by."
The older man's gaze softened. "Well, if he sent you, there's gotta be something more to you. Name's Eron," he said, extending a hand.
Clark shook it hesitantly.
"And I'm Bram," the younger man added, nodding toward the carriage. "Get your things and climb in. We've got a long road ahead."
Clark blinked. "Things? I don't really have anything to bring."
Eron exchanged a glance with Bram, a hint of pity flickering between them. "Figures," Eron muttered, motioning for Clark to follow. "Well, less baggage means less weight for the horses. Come on, lad."
As Clark climbed into the carriage, he noticed the two women glancing at him briefly before returning to their tasks. They didn't say a word, their focus unwavering.
Bram leaned against the side of the carriage, crossing his arms. "The old man already paid your way, so you don't owe us anything—yet. But listen close: we're mercenaries, not babysitters. If you're coming with us, you pull your weight."
"I understand," Clark said quickly.
Clark walked a little ways from the camp, drawn by the stillness of the night. He gazed up at the sky, where the moon hung bright and cold. It was nothing like the moon he knew from back home—it was stark white, casting a chilling glow across the landscape. Everything around him seemed to fade into the darkness, leaving only the sharp, luminous orb above.
The camp behind him was alive with the muffled sounds of the others. The two middle-aged men were laughing, sharing stories over drinks, their voices low and rough. They were so at ease in this world of danger, their camaraderie thick in the air. Meanwhile, the two women didn't speak much, their focus unwavering as they sharpened their blades with quiet, practiced precision.
Clark let the silence settle around him, his eyes never leaving the moon. There was an unsettling beauty to it, like it held secrets just out of reach. He hadn't been able to shake the feeling of unease that had followed him since they had entered this cursed place. Everything about the forest, the legends, the people—it was all wrong.
He glanced back at the camp. The sounds of laughter still reached him, but they seemed so distant, so separate from him. He couldn't explain it, but he felt like an outsider in this world, one step removed from everything that was happening around him.
The moon didn't help. It felt like a watchful eye, its cold light illuminating things that were better left unseen.
Clark exhaled slowly, hoping the weight in his chest would lift. But as he stood there, alone with his thoughts, he felt the creeping sense that something, or someone, was waiting for him. The night was too quiet, and the world around him seemed to hold its breath.
Eventually, he turned back toward the camp, the moment passing. The others were still engaged in their own world, and Clark found himself wishing he could just slip into the safety of their chatter. But for now, he knew he had to face what lay ahead. The journey was just beginning, and with it, the strange pull of the unknown.
As the fire flickered behind him, Clark took one last look at the moon, its bright, distant gaze following him.