Gothaya sensed danger radiating from the man before her. Instinctively, she reached for the bow on her back—only to grasp at empty air.

  The Black Raven noticed the elf girl’s reaction but showed little interest. Without a word, he simply turned and walked away.

  Seeing this, Gothaya eased slightly, her tense shoulders relaxing as she watched his figure fade into the mist that shrouded the deeper parts of town.

  Only then did she begin to truly observe her surroundings. The vast town felt strangely lifeless, as though devoid of a single beating heart.

  “Isn’t anyone living here?” she murmured, stepping lightly onto the cobblestone path, her movements graceful and silent.

  Reaching the fork in the road, she glanced both ways—one led out of town, the other deeper into its fog-veiled core. Curiosity, as ever, triumphed over caution. She chose to venture inward.

  But she hadn’t gone far when the door of a three-story house creaked open, revealing an elderly man, broad-shouldered and imposing, holding a steaming iron cup.

  He lifted it to his lips, took a slow sip, and cast an indifferent glance toward the unfamiliar elf. “If you value your life, stay away from the heart of the town.”

  “Who are you?” Gothaya demanded warily.

  The old man didn’t bother to answer. He emptied the rest of his cup carelessly into the yard and turned back into his house.

  Though irritation flickered in her eyes, Gothaya said nothing. She looked once more toward the fog ahead—the houses growing faint and shapeless in the haze.

  She hadn’t felt anything odd before, but the old man’s words had planted unease in her chest. Something dreadful lurked in that mist, she was certain.

  After some hesitation, prudence prevailed. Gothaya turned back. Yet as she walked, she felt unseen eyes upon her—watchful, measuring, from all directions.

  A chill prickled her skin, her instincts screaming a warning. This subtle dread had been there all along, she realized, only dulled by the grogginess of waking.

  What is this place? she thought, pulse quickening, and hurried back toward Glen’s home.

  The deer-drawn cart rolled steadily along the muddy road, wheels bumping through ruts. A hundred meters behind, two mounted men trailed in its wake.

  The bald brute squinted at the wagon ahead and scratched his gleaming scalp. “Zamat, why didn’t we bring more men? Just the two of us—no way we can handle the guy who snatched Fang.”

  The lean mercenary chewed on a blade of grass, sneering. “Who said we’re here to handle him? We’re just going through the motions.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “The motions?”

  “Yeah. Doesn’t matter if he’s the one or not. We won’t get close—just follow for a bit, then report back that we questioned him and he’s clean. If the boss gets chewed out, it won’t be us taking the blame.”

  The bald man’s eyes widened in admiration. “Now that’s the smartest plan I’ve ever heard!”

  The lean one smirked, pleased with himself.

  Unbeknownst to them, every word carried clearly to Glen up ahead.

  Clever indeed… Glen thought, amused, guiding the reins with a faint smile.

  Tia, noticing the upward curve of his lips, asked curiously, “Mr. Glen, what’s making you so happy?”

  “Huh?” He stifled his grin. “Nothing—just thought of a joke.”

  “A joke? Oh, please, tell me!” she urged eagerly.

  Glen pondered a moment, then recited a few simple jokes from his past life.

  Tia’s laughter came easily—by the time he finished the simplest one, she was clutching her stomach, tears glimmering at the corners of her eyes. Her laughter was bright and bell-like, carrying down the road to the two mercenaries behind.

  “What’s with them? Laughing like that?” the bald one muttered, bewildered.

  “Who knows? Not our problem,” the lean man said dismissively.

  Soon after, as planned, the two slowed their horses and turned back, leaving the wagon to vanish into the distance.

  Glen and Tia continued unbothered until they reached the outskirts of Bayek Town.

  “Head on home,” Glen told her. “I’ve got something to take care of first.”

  Following his usual route, he made his way toward the pig pens. The grass underfoot was worn into a narrow trail, snaking into the forest’s edge.

  Nightgrowl, his beast companion, was gnawing on fresh prey when Glen arrived, lifting its bloodied head to give a soft, welcoming rumble.

  Beside it stood Laville, his curly hair catching the dim light as he ladled pig feed into the trough—oblivious to Glen’s presence.

  The sight stirred faint nostalgia in Glen, reminiscent of rural life in his previous world—if only the young noble weren’t dressed so absurdly fine.

  “You’re getting quite good at that,” Glen teased.

  Laville turned at the sound, saw who it was, and quickly looked away, lips twitching in silent resentment. As if I had a choice… he thought bitterly.

  Ignoring his sulking, Glen spoke his purpose. “You won’t need to come here tomorrow. I’ve found… well, a temporary hand. Got something else for you to do.”

  To his surprise, Laville’s face showed reluctance rather than relief.

  “Why?! I mean—yes, I know I’ve only just started, and I’ve made mistakes, but—”

  Glen blinked, momentarily speechless. “Wait—you actually want to do this? I thought you hated this kind of work.”

  Laville froze, eyes darting nervously before forcing out, “I don’t like it, exactly. I just think whatever one does, one should do it properly. That’s… what my father taught me.”

  Glen doubted every word, but merely smirked. “Didn’t expect your father to be such a model of professionalism.”

  “Y-yeah… he’s always been… very professional,” Laville stammered awkwardly.

  Glen just stared, expression flat as a dead fish. The silence thickened until Laville’s ears turned red with embarrassment. Even Nightgrowl slowed its chewing, glancing between them like a spectator at a play.

  After several excruciating seconds, Glen finally relented. “It won’t take long. Once I find someone permanent, you can come back.”

  “…Alright,” Laville muttered, defeated.

  Glen checked the pen’s fencing one last time before heading off—this time not toward town, but to the logging site.

  He intended to finish building the lumber shed tonight. There were still plenty of logs left to cover, and if it rained, the wood would be ruined.

  Meanwhile, in Dud Town, the Hunter Mercenary Corps had spent the entire day chasing shadows.

  The attack had been so sudden, so clean, that no amount of questioning turned up even a whisper of truth.

  By nightfall, Scarface had gathered his men in the tavern to review their findings—only to discover they had none.

  “Useless! A pack of worthless dogs!” he roared, face twisted with fury. Each insult came punctuated by a slap or kick to whoever stood closest.

  His tirade went on for nearly an hour, vulgarities circling like vultures.

  Watching from below, Zamat couldn’t help but think with grudging admiration: Our boss sure has one hell of a voice.