Chapter 9

  ?The village of Buli transformed as night fell. The gloom of the Whispering Woods was pushed back not by the high-tech nanite barriers of the cities, nor by the grandiose mana-shields of the Spire, but by a dozen roaring bonfires.

  ?The air, usually thick with the metallic humidity of the forest, now smelled of roasting meat—"Hex-Boar," Castor identified, "noting the six legs on the spit—and fermented berry wine. It was a raw, primal celebration of survival."

  ?Homer sat on a rough-hewn bench near the edge of the square, nursing a wooden mug of ale that tasted like liquid bread. He watched the scene with the detached, weary affection of a man who had seen civilizations rise and fall, yet still found the sight of people eating dinner to be a miracle.

  ?Beside him, Elara sat like a gargoyle in shining armor. She refused to remove her helmet completely, keeping the visor up but the metal encasing her head, a physical barrier between her and the "illegal" joy around her.

  ?"Look at them," Elara muttered, her voice low enough that only Homer (and Castor’s audio receptors) could hear. "Drinking. Dancing. Ignoring the fact that they are squatting on a Mana-Fault Zone. This entire settlement is a Code 4 Zoning Violation. If I were doing my job, I would be arresting Bourne, not eating his pork."

  ?"But the pork is good," Homer pointed out, taking a sip of his ale. "And technically, you're off the clock. You're 'observing'."

  ?"I am observing a disaster waiting to happen," she grumbled, tearing a piece of bread with unnecessary violence.

  ?"Analysis," Castor chimed in. "Subject Elara’s cortisol levels are elevated. However, she has consumed approximately 400 calories of roasted meat. Her biological imperative to criticize is currently warring with her biological imperative to digest."

  ?"Let her grumble," Homer thought. "It keeps her grounded."

  ?In the center of the square, Bourne, the village leader, climbed onto a large, flat stone that served as a dais. He raised his hands, and the music—a rhythmic drumming accompanied by bone flutes—died down.

  ?"Friends! Neighbors!" Bourne shouted, his voice thick with emotion. He looked exhausted, the stress of the last twenty-four hours etched into his face, but his eyes were bright. "Tonight, we do not mourn! Tonight, we celebrate the return of our heart!"

  ?He gestured to Sisi, who was sitting near the fire, her leg splinted (and secretly healed), surrounded by other children. She waved shyly.

  ?"We live in the shadow of the woods," Bourne continued, his tone turning somber. "We know the dangers. A few hundred years ago, Buli was not just this circle of huts. It was a town. It stretched to the ravine! But the forest grew. The beasts came. The Empire..." he paused, glancing nervously at Elara, "...the Empire warned us to leave. They told us the land was reclaiming itself."

  ?He stomped his boot on the stone. Thud.

  ?"But this stone remains! These ruins beneath our feet remain! We rebuild. We endure. Because this is home. And as long as we stand together, the forest cannot take us!"

  ?The villagers cheered, raising their mugs. "To Buli! To the Stone!"

  ?"And to the strangers!" Bourne shouted, pointing at Homer. "To the Wind Mage who fell from the sky! And to the High Guard who..." Bourne hesitated, struggling to find a diplomatic way to describe Elara’s reluctant presence, "...who watched over us!"

  ?"To the strangers!" the crowd roared.

  ?Elara slumped lower on the bench. "He is thanking me for standing in the inn and sulking," she hissed. "It is humiliating."

  ?"Take the win, Elara," Homer smiled. "Enjoy it. This is probably the last decent meal and soft bed we're going to see for weeks. Once we hit the Iron Hills, it's back to hardtack and rocks."

  ?Elara snorted, a thoroughly un-elven sound. "I prefer rocks. Rocks follow the law."

  ?As the cheering subsided and the music started up again—a lively, stomping tune—a small figure detached itself from the crowd.

  ?It was Sisi. She was limping slightly, leaning on a crutch fashioned from a branch, but she moved with determination. In her hand, she held two bright, luminescent flowers that glowed with a soft blue light.

  ?She walked up to their bench. Homer sat up straighter, putting on his "friendly adventurer" face.

  ?"Mr. Homer?" Sisi whispered, her eyes wide.

  ?"Hey there, kid," Homer said gently. "How's the leg?"

  ?"It itches," she giggled. "My dad says that means it's healing."

  ?It itches because I accelerated the osteoblast production by 400%, Castor noted clinically. Tell her not to scratch it.

  ?"Don't scratch it," Homer winked.

  ?"I brought you this," Sisi said, holding out one of the glowing flowers. "It's a Moon-Bloom. It only opens when you're safe."

  ?Homer took the flower. It was cool to the touch, the petals vibrating slightly. "It's beautiful, Sisi. I'll keep it safe."

  ?She turned to Elara. The High Guard stiffened, looking at the child as if she were a live grenade.

  ?"For you too, my lady," Sisi said, offering the second flower.

  ?Elara stared at it. "I... I cannot accept gifts. It is against regulation to accept tribute from..."

  ?Homer kicked Elara’s shin under the table. Hard.

  ?He looked at her, his eyes locking onto hers. He didn't speak, but the message was clear: Take the damn flower. Do not be a monster.

  ?Elara flinched. She looked at Sisi’s hopeful face. She looked at Homer’s intense glare.

  ?Slowly, awkwardly, she reached out with her gauntleted hand. She took the flower by the stem, holding it like a delicate scientific specimen.

  ?"Thank you," Elara said stiffly. "It is... adequate."

  ?Sisi beamed, missing the sarcasm entirely. "You're welcome! My dad says you're a hero too because you didn't arrest us."

  ?Sisi turned and hobbled back to her friends.

  ?Elara stared at the flower in her hand. "I should arrest them," she muttered, but she tucked the flower into a gap in her armor plating. "Just to prove a point."

  ?"You're a softie, Elara," Homer teased.

  ?"Silence, human."

  ?Across the square, near the roasting spits, the four adventurers Homer had saved—Kaelen, Pim, and the two Goblins—were holding court. A group of village children sat cross-legged around them, eyes wide as saucers.

  ?Kaelen was miming a sword swing, while Pim threw a handful of spark-powder into the fire to create a flash for effect.

  ?Homer watched them. Rix, the Goblin whose chest had been torn open just hours ago, caught Homer’s eye.

  ?Rix stopped his story. He tapped his chest, right over his heart, and gave a subtle, solemn nod.

  ?Acknowledgment received, Castor said. The subject is confirming the pact of silence. He is signaling to the younger generation that the 'hero' of the story is sitting on the bench.

  ?Rix pointed a clawed finger toward Homer. The children’s heads whipped around.

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  ?"Is that him?" a young boy whispered, loud enough to carry across the quiet lull in the music. "The Wind Walker?"

  ?Before Homer could react, the children abandoned the adventurers and swarmed the bench. There were six of them, a mix of Human and Beastkin, their faces smeared with roasted meat grease.

  ?"Did you really fly?" asked a girl with rabbit ears.

  ?"Did you blow the Wyverns away like leaves?" asked a boy missing a front tooth.

  ?"Did you punch the biggest one in the nose?"

  ?Elara stiffened, her hand drifting toward her sword hilt out of habit. "Children, disperse. We are..."

  ?"Well," Homer interrupted, leaning forward and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It wasn't just a Wyvern. It was a Mega-Wyvern. The thing was fifty feet tall. It had breath that smelled like old socks and fire."

  ?The kids gasped. Elara rolled her eyes so hard it was audible.

  ?"And there I was," Homer continued, using his hands to paint the picture. "Falling from the sky! I didn't have a sword. I didn't have a shield. All I had was..." he paused for effect.

  ?"What? What?" the rabbit-girl squealed.

  ?"My wits!" Homer tapped his temple. "And a really strong breeze. I grabbed the air—whoosh—and I wrapped it around the beast's snout like a muzzle. It tried to roar, but all that came out was a squeak!"

  ?The children erupted in giggles.

  ?"Then Kaelen the Brave charged in!" Homer pointed to the warrior across the fire. "And Pim the Pyromancer threw a fireball! Boom! And we saved the day."

  ?Elara watched him. She listened to the cadence of his voice, the way he engaged the children, the way he deflected the glory to the other adventurers while keeping the kids entertained with absurdity.

  ?She was waiting for the slip. A Demon would be arrogant. A Demon would revel in the fear or the worship. A Demon wouldn't make jokes about wyverns smelling like socks.

  ?But Homer... he was just a storyteller.

  ?"Can you do magic now?" the toothless boy asked.

  ?"Not tonight," Homer whispered. "Magic needs to sleep, just like you. If I use it all up, the wind gets tired and stops blowing."

  ?The children nodded solemnly, accepting this nonsense physics without question. They eventually drifted away, slashing at the air with imaginary swords, reenacting the battle of the Mega-Wyvern vs. The Wind Walker.

  ?Homer watched them go, his smile fading slightly into a look of distant nostalgia.

  ?The firelight blurred. The laughter of the children shifted in pitch.

  ?Flashback.

  ?The University of New Manila. The Department of Humanities.

  ?Homer was eleven years old. It was "Future Scholars Day"—a fancy name for bring-your-kid-to-work day.

  ?He was sitting in the back of a massive lecture hall. The room smelled of chalk, old paper, and floor wax.

  ?Down in the pit, his father, Arthur, was pacing the stage. He held a copy of 'The Odyssey' in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other. He wasn't just reading; he was performing.

  ?"And there stood Odysseus!" Arthur bellowed, his voice filling the room without a microphone. "A man of twists and turns! He did not fight with the strength of Achilles! He fought with his mind! He was the man who tricked the gods! He was the Architect of his own fate!"

  ?The students—hundreds of them—were leaning forward, captivated. Arthur had them in the palm of his hand.

  ?Beside Homer sat his mother, Sarah. She was grading papers, a red pen in her hand, but she was watching Arthur with a smile.

  ?"He's good, isn't he?" she whispered to Homer.

  ?"He's loud," Homer whispered back, embarrassed but secretly proud.

  ?"It's the drama," Sarah nudged him. "My students in the engineering lab listen because they don't want to blow themselves up. His students listen because they want to know how the story ends."

  ?She leaned in, ruffling Homer’s hair.

  ?"You have his imagination, Homer. But you have my hands. You're going to build the things he only dreams about."

  ?"I don't know," Homer mumbled. "His stories are cool. Robots are just... math."

  ?"Math is the language of the universe, kiddo," she winked. "But stories? Stories are why the universe matters. Never forget the story."

  ?On stage, Arthur pointed to the back of the room, right at Homer.

  ?"And that, class, is why we endure! Not for glory! But to return home!"

  ?End Flashback.

  ?"Why do you lie to them?"

  ?Elara’s voice cut through the memory like a knife.

  ?Homer blinked, the lecture hall vanishing. He was back in Buli. The fire was dying down.

  ?"What?" Homer asked, his voice thick.

  ?"The story," Elara said, looking at the retreating children. "The Wyvern was not fifty feet tall. You did not muzzle it. You crushed it with raw force. Why tell them a fantasy?"

  ?Homer swirled the dregs of his ale. "Because the truth is scary, Elara. The truth is that Sisi almost died alone in a pit of bones. The truth is that Rix had his chest ripped open. Kids don't need that truth. Not tonight."

  ?He looked at her. "They need to know that monsters can be beaten. Even if you have to exaggerate the size of the monster to make the victory feel safer."

  ?Elara frowned. "That is illogical. False data leads to poor risk assessment."

  ?"It's called hope," Homer said. "Try it sometime."

  ?He set his mug down. The mood had shifted. The celebration was winding down. The fatigue of the journey was creeping back in.

  ?"Elara," Homer asked quietly. "What happens when we get to Muntinlupa?"

  ?Elara stiffened. She looked at the fire. "We go to the Spire. I present you to the processing clerk. I file my report."

  ?"And the report says?"

  ?"It says..." Elara hesitated. She touched the flower tucked into her armor. "It says that Homer of Cupang is a statistical anomaly. That he possesses unverified abilities. But... that he displays no hostility toward the Empire. That he is..."

  ?She sighed. "That he is an idiot. A sentimental, inefficient idiot with a savior complex."

  ?"High praise," Homer smirked.

  ?"And then," Elara continued, her voice turning professional, "we part ways. You will likely be monitored, but if Nero accepts the report, you will be free to... do whatever it is you do. Adventure. Fix wheels. Tell lies to children."

  ?"And Nero?" Homer asked. "Why does he care? Why send a High Guard to check on a random traveler?"

  ?Elara looked at him sharply. "I told you. You remind him of someone."

  ?"Who?"

  ?"An old friend," Elara said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "From the Before Times. From the War."

  ?"That's impossible," Homer said, playing his part. "That was three hundred thousand years ago. Nobody lives that long. Except the High Council."

  ?"Exactly," Elara said. "That is why he is... troubled. He sees a ghost when he looks at you. He knows it cannot be real. But Nero... Nero has been alone for a very long time."

  ?Homer felt a pang in his chest. Alone.

  ?"Were you there?" Homer asked softly. "In the war?"

  ?Elara recoiled as if he had slapped her. She turned to him, her eyes wide with indignation.

  ?"Do I look that old?" she demanded.

  ?Homer blinked. "Uh..."

  ?"I turned twelve hundred last month!" she hissed. "I am in my prime! I was born eras after the Great Silence! To suggest I am a relic of the War is... is incredibly rude!"

  ?Homer raised his hands in surrender. "Sorry! Sorry! I'm bad with ages. Elves... you all look... timeless."

  ?"Nice save," she scoffed, though she looked slightly mollified.

  ?"Happy Birthday, by the way," Homer offered. "Belatedly."

  ?Elara looked at him. She shook her head, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. "You are a strange human, Homer. You offend me and amuse me in the same breath."

  ?"It's a gift," Homer said. "We should sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long walk."

  ?"Agreed."

  ?Morning came with the grey light of the Whispering Woods. The mist hung heavy over the village of Buli, muffling the sounds of the waking world.

  ?When Homer and Elara reached the edge of the settlement, the entire village was there to see them off.

  ?Bourne stood at the front, holding a heavy canvas sack. Sisi stood beside him, leaning on her crutch, waving.

  ?"For the road," Bourne said, handing the sack to Homer. "It isn't much. Dried meat, some wine, and bread baked this morning. And... this."

  ?He handed Homer a small, heavy pouch. Coins.

  ?"We took a collection," Bourne said. "It's not gold. But it's honest silver."

  ?Homer tried to push it back. "Bourne, I can't..."

  ?"Take it," Bourne said firmly. "Or you dishonor us."

  ?Homer took the pouch. He nodded. "Thank you."

  ?"Come back," Sisi chirped. "When you're a Diamond Rank!"

  ?"I will," Homer promised.

  ?He turned to the road. Elara was already ten paces ahead, her helmet back on, her posture rigid. She wasn't looking back. She was done with the "illegal settlement." She was back on the clock.

  ?"Hurry up, human," Elara called out, though her voice lacked its usual bite. "The Empire does not wait for long goodbyes."

  ?Homer adjusted his pack. He looked at the villagers one last time—at the people living in the ruins of the old world, happy despite the danger.

  ?"Castor," Homer thought. "Mark this location. Permanently."

  ?"Location saved: Buli Settlement. Status: Sanctuary."

  ?Homer turned and jogged to catch up with the Elf. They walked into the mist, leaving the warmth of the village behind, heading toward the spires that pierced the sky in the distance.

  ?Toward Nero. toward the truth.