Harten stepped out of the hut, accompanied by a barrage of bewildered, astonished, and admiring glances, laced with envy and curiosity from those around him. Yet, in all of this, Harten perceived only one thing: danger. He had never been accustomed to being surrounded by people, let alone being the epicenter of their attention and the target of such unconventional stares.
Attempting to steady his nerves, a mocking thought crossed his mind, causing him to smile inwardly: "Danger? What am I truly afraid of? I could obliterate this entire village from the face of the earth if I so desired..."
He exhaled a sigh of relief and looked ahead to find Morgos and Nora engaged in conversation. The moment Morgos caught sight of him, his eyebrow shot up in sheer disbelief, and he called out:
"Oh, Harten! Come over here."
Harten advanced toward them, his mind still preoccupied with why Arsha had fled in shock after questioning his identity just moments ago. Nora turned toward him, scrutinizing his face intently before asking with genuine curiosity:
"Who is this?"
Harten's face froze in utter disbelief. "What?! Why is this happening again?" He glared at her, his voice snapping with a sharp, startled edge:
"I am Harten! Who else would Harten be if not me? Who?!"
Only then did Nora recognize from the inflection of his voice that it was indeed him. Before the situation could spiral into further awkwardness, Morgos clapped his hands loudly, attempting to break the tension:
"To the table, everyone!"
As they made their way toward the rock table, all eyes remained locked onto them—specifically on Harten. This time, however, he didn't care; he was drowning in reflection. Why was everyone asking who he was?
"Huh? I feel like something is fundamentally different... but I can't seem to recall. A sinister, alien sensation is coursing through my body, my mind, and my very soul. Perhaps some food right now will alleviate this stress."
They arrived at the table where Arsha was preparing the meat, surrounded by the elders of the neighboring villages: three elderly men and two women in their forties.
Master Morgos muttered angrily, cursing under his breath:
"Damn it, why hasn't that wretched blacksmith arrived yet? I'll make him pay for this!"
Nora gently patted his shoulder, comforting him:
"We must focus on those who have honored us with their presence today, Master. Do not trouble yourself with those who stayed behind."
Harten left them and walked directly toward Arsha, stating clearly:
"I want a plate piled high with meat."
Arsha was stirring the meat in a massive cauldron, snapping at the bystanders:
"To hell with you all! Can't you see it isn't cooked yet?!"
She turned to look at the person demanding the food, and the instant her eyes landed on Harten, she was thunderstruck. A deep crimson flushed across her entire face, and her eyes went completely blank from absolute shock.
Harten noticed her state and raised an eyebrow in disapproval.
"Arsha... are you ill?"
She stammered, completely disoriented and bewildered:
"Ill?! No... wh—... how? Huh... when did you get here, Harten?"
He replied flatly:
"I just arrived, and I'm anxious, so I want some meat."
Attempting to gather her shattered wits, she grabbed a wooden plate, ladling out broth and chunks of meat. It wasn't a lavish meal, but it was enough to sustain life. The moment Harten placed a piece of meat drenched in golden broth into his mouth, he was startled by the flavor. Involuntarily, a genuine smile crept onto his face as he ate.
Arsha monitored his expressions intently, her cheeks still burning, as she asked hesitantly:
"Do... do you like it?"
But Harten had already vanished into another realm. He suddenly recalled the taste of the meat in the cave with Nora's lookalike, and his face instantly darkened at the recollection of that bitter past. Noticing Arsha's lingering anticipation, he thought: "What should I do now? Should I praise it or insult it? Damn it, the last time I wasn't honest, things ended catastrophically."
He looked at her and said succinctly:
"Delicious..."
Arsha's pupils dilated, and she smiled with overwhelming joy:
"Really?! I'm so happy!"
Harten shot her a bizarre look and muttered:
"Arsha, what has happened to you? Where is your usual poise? You are terrifying like this!"
Arsha's joy instantly inverted into pure fury. In one fluid motion, she hurled the plate of meat directly over his head, screaming:
"To hell with you! I try to be kind and pleasant with you, but you're a miserable bastard who doesn't appreciate anything!"
Harten wiped the broth from his head, replying tersely:
"Fine... I'm sorry."
She turned her face away with stark arrogance.
"Your apology is rejected!"
"What must I do then?"
She turned back to him with a devious smirk.
"Haha... a stroll outside the village."
"Fine, agreed. I will go wash this food off myself first."
Harten turned to walk away when, out of nowhere, an anomalous sensation seized him—a bizarre constriction tightened in his chest.
"What is this feeling tearing at my chest? It feels like a claw ripping me apart from the inside! Is this because of the apology? Damn it, this hurts... what is this wretched emotion?"
At that exact millisecond, a fleeting, faint voice echoed deep within his subconscious in a cryptic, shrouded manner:
«____________ Pride__________»
Harten stopped dead in his tracks and shook his head violently.
"Pride? What on earth is that supposed to be? Damn it... I'll wash my face and sleep. I have absolutely no patience to endure these negotiations right now."
He approached the well and bent over to gaze into the water to wash his face. But the moment his vision locked onto the stagnant surface, his voice detonated across the village, heavy with pure panic and dread:
"Who is this?! This isn't my face!!"
Harten recoiled a step, his eyes wide with absolute horror at what he beheld... he was staring at an entirely altered face!
The reflection materialized upon the water's surface revealed a countenance sculpted with terrifying, geometric precision—a face that had completely shed the mantle of youth and vulnerability. His jawline had become pronounced, sharp, and unyielding, as if carved by the edge of a dagger, imbuing his visage with a coldness that oozed confidence and pride. He raised his hand, tracing the taut, rugged contours of his skin, which was devoid of any softness. Meanwhile, his eyes in the reflection glared back at him with a predatory, aggressive angle resembling a hawk; their gaze was expansive, deep, and so profoundly rooted that it seemed capable of tearing through the very soul of anyone before him without a shred of mercy or hesitation.
Above those fierce eyes rested dark, thick eyebrows, drawn at a stern, combat-ready angle that reinforced the sheer intensity of his new features. His nose had become perfectly straight and sharp as a sword's blade, bisecting his eyes with meticulous symmetry that harmonized with the chilling elegance of his face. He pressed his lips together in a firm, absolute, horizontal line—thin lips that lent his expression a deliberate coldness, as though they were engineered solely to dictate absolute commands.
The reflection displayed a flawless mask of absolute resolve: a face that synthesized a terrifying majesty with an overwhelming, magnetic allure all at once—a face that would compel anyone who looked upon it to submit and take a step back in fear.