“So No Man’s Land… that’s where this village, Roka… is?” Lucian asked, his voice low as his horse’s hooves clopped against the dirt road.

  Amira trotted beside him, hood pulled over her silver hair, half her face hidden by a cloth mask. Her eyes curved with amusement as she giggled. “Yes. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of it.”

  Lucian glanced sidelong at her. “I’ve heard of No Man’s Land. I just never thought anyone would be foolish enough to build a village there.”

  “That’s what most people think,” Amira replied, her tone playfully smug. “It’s unclaimed by the human kingdoms and demon kingdom, always a battlefield, always blood-soaked.” Her lips curved into a mischievous smile. “Which makes it the perfect hiding place.”

  “And your… friend is hiding there?” Lucian asked, his voice sharpened with suspicion.

  “Not hiding.” She tapped her chin as if searching for the right word. “Neglecting her duties. That might be closer.”

  Lucian only grunted in reply, but his hand shifted on the reins. Ahead, the gray stone walls of a city loomed, their gates yawning wide beneath the afternoon sun.

  Beside him, Amira’s stomach growled loudly. Her eyes darted away, red cheeks just barely visible beneath her hood.

  Lucian spared her the embarrassment. He tapped his own stomach. “Would you like to stop and eat? I’m starving myself.”

  Relief washed across her face. She nodded without a word.

  The gates were poorly guarded, two men in tarnished armor gave them only a cursory nod as they passed through. Inside, the air was alive with sound: the cries of hawkers pushing their wares, the tang of spiced meats sizzling on skewers, the rattle of cart wheels on cobblestones.

  Lucian guided his horse through the narrow alleys of vendors. Amira stayed close to him, head down, her hood shadowing her face. Whenever she saw something that caught her attention, a pastry, a roasted skewer, candied fruit, she poked him in the back and wordlessly pointed.

  At first Lucian blinked, confused. Then he caught on. He showed each merchant without Amiras notice, using his insignia. Every time, the reaction was the same: wide-eyed awe, hurried bows, and effusive promises that he was always welcome to return.

  Later, in the privacy of a small inn room, Lucian leaned back in his chair and finally asked the question gnawing at him.

  “Why do you hide your face when we walk through the city?”

  Across the table, Amira was stuffing her cheeks with food like a squirrel preparing for winter. Her mask and hood were cast aside, silver hair cascading down her shoulders. She swallowed and gave him a sly look.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “You know,” she began with a giggle, “at first I thought you pretended not to notice because you were being kind. But now…” she tilted her head, lips curving mischievously, “I think you might actually just be dumb.”

  Lucian frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  She leaned back, arms folded, eyes glinting red in the lanternlight. “Because if you don’t ask why I hide my face, then I don’t have to ask where you got that royal insgnia. Deal?”

  Her words lingered in the air, playful on the surface but edged with unspoken warning.

  Lucian studied her for a long moment, then turned his gaze to the window. Beyond it, the city lights flickered against the night, so different from the silence of battlefields he once knew. His thumb brushed over the mark on his wrist.

  ‘I could go to a military embassy and pull physical funds… but they’d demand my ID. That would blow my cover instantly.’

  He thought of the gossip spreading through markets about the “rich man” with a royal mark. How quickly word could reach the wrong ears. How quickly Parlin could repeat itself.

  ‘Looks like I’ll have to register with a bank.’

  He rose and slipped on his coat.

  “Where are you going?” Amira asked, her voice muffled by a mouthful of food.

  Lucian held up his marked hand. “This draws too much attention. I’m going to pull out some physical soulstones.”

  She tilted her head, curious. “Want me to come with you?”

  He looked at the mountain of food piled in front of her, crumbs smudged on her lips. His expression softened. “No. That’s alright.”

  She pouted, but her eyes flickered with warmth as he left.

  The guild-bank smelled of parchment and wax, the air filled with the soft scratch of quills. Lucian stepped to the counter.

  “I’d like to withdraw some soulstones,” he said evenly.

  “How much, sir?” the receptionist asked without looking up.

  Lucian tapped his chin. “Well… she went through about 500 soulstones today.” He exhaled. “Let’s say fifty thousand.”

  The pen slipped from the woman’s fingers. Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “F-Fifty… thousand?”

  Lucian tilted his head. “Too little?”

  She stammered. “N-No, sir. One moment, please. I’ll fetch the branch manager.”

  Lucian’s jaw tightened but he waited, arms folded. His gaze wandered to the bounty wall nearby. Notices covered the board, lost pets, caravan escorts, minor bandit hunts. And there, in the center, a fresh bounty sheet:

  The Parlin Madman… 80,000 Soulstones.

  Wanted for murder, destruction of property.

  Witnesses claim he attacked over twenty demon hunters, decapitating one captain.

  Lucian’s eyes lingered on the ink, cold and still.

  “Good evening, sir!” a cheerful voice broke his thoughts.

  Lucian turned. A round man in fine robes approached, wringing his hands. “My name is Mr. Delgado, manager of this branch. I hear you wish to withdraw quite a sum.”

  “Yes,” Lucian said flatly.

  Delgado licked his lips. “Normally, without identification, we cannot simply give away such amounts. We’d have to treat it as… a loan, with interest, of course—”

  Lucian’s eyes narrowed. His patience thinned. Slowly, he turned his palm, revealing the mark. “My last name is Bloodthorne. I am here on official business. For now, my identity must remain confidential.”

  The change was immediate. Delgado dropped to one knee, sweat rolling down his forehead. “Forgive me, my lord! I had no idea! Fifty thousand will be no problem at all. Please wait here, I shall deliver it personally!”

  Within minutes he returned, huffing and red-faced, carrying a heavy sack. “Here you are, sir. It has been prepared with the utmost care.”

  Lucian frowned. “Do I not need to register?”

  Delgado blinked. “Register? Oh, no, my lord. The sum will simply be deducted from the Bloodthorne account in the capital.”

  “I see.” Lucian slung the sack over his shoulder. “That’s all I require.”

  Delgado bowed deeply, voice trembling with reverence. “If you ever need anything, anything at all, please ask for me personally.”

  Lucian gave him a single curt nod and left, his shadow long beneath the evening sun.