Moonlight spilled cold and silver across the Shattered Wastes, bathing the vast crater where the ruins of Hidenheim lay broken and scattered. Jagged towers leaned like shattered teeth; cracked stone and twisted metal thrust upward from the earth, half-buried in dust. Thin threads of smoke still drifted lazily from smoldering patches amid the wreckage.
Hoofbeats echoed through the night. A group of riders clad in golden cloaks—knights—approached the crater's rim. Their horses slowed, snorting plumes of steam into the chill air.
The lead rider dismounted first, his cloak billowing as he reached up to help a lady down from her mount. She moved with quiet, determined grace, her fine dress concealing reinforced mage-weave cloth beneath.
Together they walked through the devastation. She stopped, knelt amid the rubble, and brushed scarred earth with trembling fingers. Tears streamed down her face like silent rivers.
"Find him!" she commanded, her voice sharp and urgent.
The knight beside her spoke gently. "No one could have survived this. Hidenheim has fallen—let yourself grieve."
She glared at him, eyes blazing. "Don't tell me what to do. Find him… and bring him to me."
*(some important people believe Dot caused this catastrophe.)*
**Three years later…**
Inside a smoky tavern on the outskirts of Greenwood, rough wooden tables gleamed dully beneath flickering lanterns. The air hung heavy with the scent of ale, sweat, and raucous laughter.
At a corner table sat a young blind man and a boy. The boy was tearing into a plate of roasted meat and sipping from a mug the tavern owner's daughter had just brought over.
"Here you go," she said with a small, warm smile.
The boy thanked her and took a sip. His brow furrowed. "This isn't ale."
The girl chuckled. "You're too young for that, lad."
The boy frowned. "The world's at the brink of ending. Can't I at least have ale like him?"
The blind man beside him chuckled.
At the central table, two grizzled mercenaries sat deep in their cups. One slammed his tankard down, grinning broadly.
"The world ending, you say?" he called over. "Where'd you hear that, damn brat?"
The boy stood .
"Julius, sit." the man said
Julius ignored him and rose taller. "Hidenhiem has fallen. The mage realm is gone. Demons are growing stronger. Cities are crumbling. People are dying."
The second mercenary snorted. "You actually believe in demons, boy?"
Julius's eyes widened. "Yes because they are real."
The tavern erupted in laughter.
"Fools. You won't recognize the truth, until it hits you right on the face".
"What did you say brat.?" one asked
Julius is dragged out by the blind man before they left he apologizes dearly. As they pushed through the door, they brushed past two hooded figures waiting just outside.
The first mercenary raised his tankard in a mock toast. "Let's celebrate!"
"Me and my partner took the head clean off! Big-shot's daughter—pretty little thing. Pity."
The bar roared its approval. Tankards clashed.
"Big fat bag of coins for little necks!" someone shouted.
Laughter rolled through the room.
The two mercenaries stood. The second one grinned ear to ear. "Drinks on us tonight!"
The crowd cheered louder.
The tavern owner's daughter wove through with fresh tankards and set two on their table. The first mercenary grabbed her wrist. She yanked back, eyes wide with fear.
"Leave me, please."
"Chill out," he sneered. "I just want to get to know you. Let's go outside and talk."
The bar owner stepped forward. "Leave my daughter."
"Shut up, old man," the mercenary snapped. "I'll gladly take your worthless head too."
The second mercenary shifted uncomfortably. "Leave the girl."
"Don't tell me what to do."
The first mercenary yanked her onto his lap. She struggled as he tore at her clothes.
The tavern door slammed open. A cold wind rushed in, snuffing lanterns for a heartbeat. Two figures in black cloaks stepped inside—hooded, silent.
The room fell quiet. All eyes turned.
The second mercenary whispered, "Who the hell…?"
One figure reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing a scarred face, hard eyes, and a short beard with a big blade seen at his back.
*Dren.*
A drunk at the bar dropped his mug with a crash.
"That's… the Drought," he breathed.
The second figure lowered his hood. Younger, face calm yet edged with quiet danger.
*Dot—now seventeen.*
Dren strode straight to the mercenaries' table, boots deliberate on the creaking floorboards.
The second mercenary thought, sweat beading on his brow: *That's the Drought… What's he doing here? So it's true—he has a partner now. Don't tell me… are they here to kill us?*
The first mercenary still pinned the girl. Dren's voice cut low and even.
"Go," he told her.
She started to move—then the mercenary tightened his grip.
"Who do you think you are, telling her that?"
In a blur, Dren's other blade flashed. The mercenary's hand opened in a spray of blood. The girl broke free and fled.
The mercenary screamed.
Dren sighed. "Ahh. Didn't plan to use my sword just yet, but you made me." Dren sheets his second sword in his waist.
He seized the man by the hair, dragged him across the floorboards like a rag doll, then casually snatched one of their tankards and drained it in a single gulp.
The second mercenary bolted for the door—only to slam into Dot, who didn't budge. Spotting Dren's horse outside, the man scrambled onto it and galloped away.
"My horse!!" Dren roared.
He glanced at Dot. "Boy, go get him."
Dot walked toward the door, voice flat. "Stop calling me that."
The bar owner and his daughter huddled in terror. The other patrons rose slowly, weapons half-drawn.
Dren kept drinking, then poured the rest of the ale over the screaming mercenary's wounded stump. Fresh agony ripped through the man.
In desperation, the mercenary shouted to the room, "I promise anyone who brings me this man's head will be rewarded with five million quibes!"
Dren laughed. "For real?"
He slammed the mercenary down onto a table.
The bar exploded. Swords rasped free. Chairs toppled.
Dren didn't even fully draw his blade at first. He kicked a table into one attacker, spun, and cracked his tankard into another's temple. The man dropped like a stone.
Another swung—Dren ducked, seized the wrist, twisted. Bone snapped. A scream.
Finally, Dren drew his big sword at his back smooth motion. A single slash opened two men's chests. Blood sprayed. They collapsed.
Dren stood over the last fighter, blade at his throat.
"You were celebrating a beheading earlier," he said calmly. "Funny how things turn."
Dot dragged the runaway mercenary back inside by the collar and dropped him at Dren's feet.
Dren smirked at Dot.
*(Quick flashback: Dot, standing far across the bar, picked up a loose stone. Eyes narrowed. He threw. The stone cracked against the fleeing rider—the horse reared, the man tumbled.)*
Dot met Dren's gaze. "Which one do you need?"
Dren glanced down. "Not this one."
The first mercenary whimpered. "Please don't kill me! I promise I'll pay you. I have enough. I'll give you anything you want."
Dren raised his sword. One clean stroke. The head rolled.
The bar owner and remaining patrons stared in frozen horror.
The girl whispered, "Thank you."
Dren sheathed his blade. He pulled two silver coins from his belt and tossed them onto the bar.
"A room. Now."
The owner stammered, pointing upstairs. "T-top floor… take it."
Dot and Dren climbed the stairs. Dot carried the captive over one shoulder and the severed head in a sack.
In the simple room—one bed, one chair, small window—Dot sat on the bed's edge, staring at the floor.
Dren leaned against the wall. "I sent the pickup a message. Early tomorrow we take them to the crossroad and collect the reward."
Dot replied flatly, "I know how it works."
Dren grinned. "Sheesh… You take the floor then."
A faded-edged flashback began: Dot's broken body lay in rubble. Dren knelt beside him.
"Still breathing…"
Days passed in montage. Flesh knit. Bones realigned. Dren watched in silence.
Dot, weak, spoke his first real word: "Liora…?"
Back in the present, Dot looked up, eyes hard.
He murmured something too soft to hear.
Then he fell asleep.
Dren crossed the room, gently lifted Dot, and carried him to the bed.
Dot dreamed—fragments of Liora's death. Then darkness. A void. He jerked awake.
**Morning.**
Dot woke to the smell of food. He padded downstairs.
Dren sat eating and drinking, laughing with the owner and his daughter.
"Boy, come join me," Dren called. "They really cook tasty food here."
The girl blushed. "I'm glad you like it."
Dot sat, dipped his spoon into the soup, tasted it, then devoured the bowl like he hadn't eaten in days.
The owner chuckled. "Boy, you must be really hungry."
"My name is Dot."
"Sorry—it stuck because he normally calls you that."
Dot glanced at Dren.
"It's really tasty," Dot said, cheeks faintly pink.
After the meal, they set out. The owner and his daughter waved goodbye—the daughter blushing at Dren one last time.
A man on horseback approached. They handed over the bound prisoner and the head (in its sack). The wagon driver passed Dren a heavy sack of coins and a sealed letter, then rode off without a word.
Dren scanned the letter. "Looks like we'll be sleeping in a castle soon, kid."
The letter read: "Call to Greenwood."
Dren and Dot rode on. After a short while, they passed a large tree where a lady in form-fitting ninja-like garb—accentuating her figure—perched on a branch.
"Help me!!" she called.
Dot sighed in frustration.
Ysmay leaped down gracefully and landed on the horse's back behind Dot.
"Long time no see, Dot," she purred.
Dren glanced back. "Ysmay, you made it. Need a favor."
Ysmay, distracted, reached around to pinch and rub Dot's cheeks playfully. "My, how you've grown."
"Ysmay," Dren said firmly.
"Coming~" she replied cheerfully.
Dren gave her a task written on a note.
"For real." Ysmay reacts with her face tweaking
The chapter closed with Dren and Dot riding onward Ysmay and her horse riding towards another direction, the great trees of Greenwood rising in the distance.
Final shot: a king on his throne, face grim.
"We take the war to Thornhold."
Knights shouted in unison.
Chapter End