There, at last, the middle-aged slave was with his daughter. No longer separated by suffering or fear. Only red stains on the same earth.
No one care.
No nobles ruling from behind high walls. No mages calculating Mana. No soldiers busy maintaining their positions. Even the fellow slaves did not dare to stop. Those who wore the slave collars were not considered alive; they were merely granted time until their service life expired.
To provide them with even basic clothing was considered an act of generosity.
And the burlap sacks covering the slaves' bodies were not for the sake of their dignity, but for the comfort of the onlookers' eyes. Nobles loathed the sight of filthy flesh. Soldiers did not wish to lose their appetites. The morale of the troops was deemed far more vital than a rotting body.
Once again, the Hero's Faction demonstrated perfect efficiency—using trash for the sake of other trash.
In the midst of this monotonous hustle and a gloom that had almost petrified, the slaves' workflow suddenly faltered. Shovels froze mid-air. The ropes pulling the catapults went slack. Even the soldiers' shouts, usually shrill and ceaseless, were cut short mid-breath.
A man walked among them.
His pace was neither rushed nor hesitant. Each footfall seemed measured—wide enough to show confidence, steady enough to assert that he felt no need to hurry in a place where a slave's life was valued less than the dirt they trod upon. His white hair, as white as snow untouched by the mud of war, was cut short and neat. Under the sunlight, the strands reflected a cold glint that contrasted sharply with the blood and dust surrounding him.
His violet eyes moved slowly, sweeping the environment without haste, without a clear focus. It was not the gaze of an overseer, nor the eyes of someone searching for a threat. It was more like the eyes of someone long accustomed to such places—long enough to know that nothing he saw would ever surprise him again.
A grimoire was tucked between his right arm and his ribs, its position so natural it seemed the object was destined to be there. At his waist, a magic staff set with a large blue gem was fasted securely, shimmering with every movement, reflecting light like another eye constantly watching. Not a single movement of his was excessive. No nervousness. No tension typical of a slave on a battlefield.
Only as he drew closer did a few keener eyes notice something jarring.
Beneath a midnight-blue sorcerer's robe embroidered with faintly glowing diagrams—high-level diagrams that should only be worn by elite mages—was a slave collar. The dull metal was nearly hidden, but visible enough for those who knew where to look.
The silence that followed was not born of mere admiration. It was more like the pause before an uncomfortable truth must be acknowledged.
Whispers began to creep in, one by one, low yet sharp.
"Hey, who is that?"
"Snow-white hair and violet eyes… I've heard of him."
"Isn't he the mage who escaped from Mersyah Fortress?"
"Yes. He defied the Hero's orders. The fortress almost fell because of him, too."
"I didn't expect him to be a slave…"
"They say he was trained by his own master. Once he grew strong, he killed the man instead."
"Biting the hand that feeds you…"
"And the rumors about Princess Reina—"
"The one who was almost raped?"
"Luckily the Hero arrived just in time."
"Then why is his head still on his shoulders?"
"Because the Hero defended him. Princess Reina forgave him, too."
"But not long after that—"
"Saintess Pritty."
"BASTARD!"
"Why is someone like that in the Hero's Party?"
"Because he's a Tier 10 mage. In a war like this, even morale can be sacrificed."
"This is all the Demons' fault."
"The Hero is far too kind-hearted."
"Let's hope that decision doesn't destroy us all."
In the midst of whispers thickening with hatred and anxiety, one name was finally spoken clearly—like a verdict.
"Mujun."
The name hung in the air, heavy with emotions no longer concealed. Yet the man did not quicken his pace. He did not turn. He showed no sign that he heard, though the distance and tone made it impossible for him not to know. He kept walking, passing through those voices as wind passes through a forest of thorns—touching, but never stopping.
Mujun's face remained calm. Not flat, not vacant—just calm. It was as if expression were something he chose with care, not a spontaneous reaction. The faint furrow in his brow was not a sign of confusion, but a trace of a habit of thinking too deeply. The glint in his violet eyes reflected something difficult to define: a neatly organized exhaustion, or perhaps a distance he deliberately built between himself and the world.
The wind blew softly through his white hair. Several female soldiers standing in the distance realized they were holding their breath. There was something in his presence—a blend of beauty and danger—that made eyes reluctant to look away even as instinct screamed to retreat.
Mujun's steps finally led him to a large tent at the center of the camp. Compared to the others, this tent stood out too much—the fabric was thicker, the guards more alert, its position too strategic to be a mere coincidence. Two soldiers at the entrance stared at him with narrowed eyes, their hands reflexively moving toward their weapons.
Mujun did not acknowledge their existence.
Before the tent's entrance, something shifted. The corners of his lips lifted, forming a bright smile—strangely sincere, almost lighthearted. A smile that felt entirely out of sync with the reputation just whispered behind him. His shoulders relaxed, his stride lost its weight, as if the space behind that tent flap was the only room where he was allowed to be himself.
When he spoke, his voice was clear, vibrating softly like the chime of a silver bell, breaking the tension in the air around him.
"Hero, I'm here! How have you been?"
The sentence slid out cheerfully—and for a moment, the war, the blood, and the screams of the slaves seemed as if they had never existed.
Without a shred of hesitation, Mujun opened the tent flap and stepped inside. The two guards outside tensed, their hands reflexively gripping their spears, but not one dared to stop him. It wasn't out of courage—but because of an order never spoken aloud: let him pass.
The scent inside the tent hit the senses hard. A mix of expensive alcohol, over-applied pungent perfume, and the stench of rotting fish. A smell that lingered long, like a habit, not an accident. Mujun inhaled it without a change in expression, as if it were merely ordinary air.
Before him, atop a large bed with rumpled sheets and stains of fluids one would rather not trace, lay the Hero. The figure hailed by the human faction appeared to have just woken up; his hair was a mess, eyes half-open with dark circles beneath them. His face was listless—not the fatigue of a warrior keeping watch for the world, but the weariness of someone drowning himself in escapism.
Around him, the naked bodies of women were scattered. Humans, Elves, Demi-humans, even Demons. Their skin showed varying marks—bite marks, faint bruises, or simply an exhaustion too deep to measure. Some were still asleep, others awake in a daze, not knowing where they were. Not one seemed to dare move more than a breath.