The shower after a sweaty battle was felt like heaven. Hot water hammering his sore muscles. Steam curling around him like the world had finally decided to leave him alone for five minutes.
He wasn't leaving. Not for anything. This was his home now. He lived here. In this shower. Forever.
He could've stayed in there forever.
But Nora, because Nora didn't understand the concept of letting someone enjoy things—started knocking. Not on the bedroom door. On the bathroom door.
'Are you serious right now.'
"Five minutes."
"No. Come out now, or I'm knocking this door down."
'She's bluffing.'
The knocking got louder.
'She's not bluffing.'
"Coming, coming."
He got out. Got dressed. Grabbed as much food as his arms could carry—some to eat now, some for the road, some because he didn't trust the future to have snacks.
And then it was time to move. Main house. Pick up supplies. The usual.
He didn't understand the point of it all. But he didn't mind.
Because the main house meant one thing—he might get to see his nieces.
The main house sat less than an hour away. He knew the place well. Too well. He'd grown up in the upper district, close enough to the main house that its shadow practically fell across the door of his storage room.
He never liked it there.
It was just training. Endless, relentless, soul-crushing training. One teacher after another. Martial arts in the morning. Weapons by noon. Literature in the evening, because apparently being miserable wasn't enough, they needed him to be literate about it too.
The storage room itself wasn't small. Wasn't big either. Somewhere in the middle, the kind of space that couldn't decide what it wanted to be. He'd done his best with it. Books stacked along the walls. And a blanket that fought the cold about as well as a napkin fights a rainstorm.
But the real problem wasn't the room.
It was where it was.
Isolated. Far from everything and everyone. Tucked away in a corner of the district like someone had deliberately placed it as far from other people as possible.
Almost like he was in his own city. Population—one.
The people looked at him like he was something unpleasant they'd stepped in. Cold stares. Conversations that went quiet when he walked past. That subtle distaste baked into every word aimed his way—not harsh enough to call out, but constant enough to feel.
To this day, he still had no idea why.
They just did.
One day, for some odd reason, he'd been moved. Relocated from the storage room in the upper district to the middle. Which, as it turned out, was much closer to Nora.
And that changed everything.
That's when they got close.
Something he noticed that he hadn't before: between the middle and upper districts, there was nothing. There were no houses. No shops. Nothing.
Just crops.
Rice and wheat as far as the eye could see, stretching out in every direction like the island had decided this patch of land existed for one purpose and one purpose only—growing things.
And it was good at it. The soil here was blessed. Everything grew taller, faster, greener than it should. So naturally, the clan used every last inch.
The fields ran all the way up to the upper district. Where the captains lived. Where their families lived. Where people had last names that actually meant something.
They moved past the fields in the back of a bull carriage, pulled by two bulls that had absolutely no business being that terrifying.
And when he said bulls, he didn't mean the friendly kind that stood around in fields chewing grass and minding their business. Those kinds were in the past. These ones were upgraded versions.
Nobody ate them either. Not because they didn't want to—the meat was so tough it would break your jaw before your jaw broke it.
But that wasn't the real reason.
According to an old legend, the bulls were a gift from a god. Part divine. Sacred. Touch one and the god of the island would throw a fit so catastrophic it would make every natural disaster in history look like a mild Tuesday.
He wasn't sure how accurate that was. But nobody was eager to find out.
'Personally, I wouldn't mind testing it. Starting with the one on the left. That thing has been giving me a dirty look since we got on this cart.'
And for some reason he couldn't explain, the feeling was mutual.
They hated him. Every single one of them. Always had.
And the moment he got too close, they had gone berserk—thrashing their heads, stomping, aiming those massive horns at his gut like he'd personally insulted their ancestors.
He had no idea why.
Even as a kid, they'd chase him on sight. No warning. No provocation. He didn't even have to look at them wrong—existing was enough.
And it always played out the same way. Every single time. Like a ritual neither side could break.
They'd spot him. He'd freeze. They'd lower their horns. He'd run.
Just a small boy sprinting through the streets while an 8-foot divine bull thundered behind him, fully committed to redecorating the neighborhood with his insides.
Sometimes he'd end up trapped in the storage room for hours because they'd surround the place. All exits. Covered. Like a military operation planned by livestock.
Just sitting there. Waiting. Listening to them snort and pace outside like very patient, very angry gods.
And he was pretty sure their moos sounded like they were saying "father killer."
'I was six. What is wrong with you animals.'
It would go on like that until Nora showed up. Screaming her battle cry at the top of her lungs. Charging at the beast several times her size with her wooden rapier raised high, like she was the dangerous one.
'I have arrived to save you, horsie!'
His eyes drifted over the fields of tall harvest, golden and swaying. And with every bull they passed, the same thing—dark eyes locking onto him with pure, ancient dislike.
'Yeah. Missed you too.'
And it wasn't just the bulls.
Across the cart, Richard was watching him. That same quiet, careful stare. Eyes full of suspicion that he wasn't even trying to hide anymore.
And honestly—fair enough. It was suspicious. Some random nobody shows up out of nowhere, beats his daughter—who was not a slacker by any definition—and then holds his own against the brute.
Anyone would have questions.
He sighed.
'Hated by animals. Hated by fathers. And I'm starting to think even the crops are giving me the look.'
'What's next—the clouds?'
His eyes drifted up. Squinted. One cloud in particular had formed into a shape that looked suspiciously like a hand with one finger raised.
'Too late.'
He switched his gaze from the cloud that had just disrespected him and let his eyes wander across the cart. Ana. Darius. Richard.
Something about them bugged him.
He couldn't put his finger on it. They looked normal. Acted normal. Three people sitting on a cart heading to pick up supplies. Nothing special.
But that was the problem. They looked too normal. These weren't merchants or farmers. These were captains. People who could level a battlefield single-handedly and sleep soundly after. And right now they were riding a bull cart through rice fields like it was a Sunday stroll.
It didn't sit right.
The way they moved. The way they talked. The things they didn't say. It all felt like a mask stretched over something bigger. Something that had nothing to do with keeping monsters away from the island.
'They're not here for the hunt. Or at least—not just for the hunt.'
In short—he was suspicious of them too.
And just like that, something clicked. A cold, sharp click that echoed through his skull like a lock turning.
The masked bastard.
He looked at them. Ana. Darius. Richard. And something in his chest went cold.
'They couldn't be part of it.'
'Could they?'
'Wait—am I being guided again?'
The thought hit him like a slap. His jaw tightened.
'Was the masked man using them? Placing them around me like chess pieces?'
'Could it be—that bastard made it so Nora would find out who I am? On purpose? Reigniting the bond I shared with her—using her as my anchor—knowing damn well I could never abandon her?'
'Is this whole hunt his idea?'
The questions didn't stop. They multiplied. Stacking on top of each other faster than he could sort through them. His head started to spin. His breathing went uneven, short, shallow, too fast.
He cracked his fingers. One by one. Then again.
'What if none of this is real? What if every choice I've made since I got here was already decided for me?'
'What if I'm not a player—just a piece?'
His vision narrowed. The fields blurred. The sound of the cart faded into a dull hum. Everything felt too close and too far away at the same time.
'What if nothing since the well has been my choice?'
'What if I'm just—'
A hand on his shoulder.
He nearly jumped out of the cart.
"Hey. You okay?" Nora's voice was quiet. Her eyes had gone soft. Full of concern.
"Yeah." Too fast. Too loud. He forced a smile that convinced nobody. "Yeah, I'm good."
And she didn't look convinced.
"We're here."
Ana and Richard looked at him. Their expressions shifted, serious now. Whatever easy, casual energy they'd been carrying was gone. Abandoned. Like a mask quietly set aside.
'Interesting.'
The cart came to a halt. And he was greeted with a bunch of posters. His face. Plastered on the wall.
Well—someone's face. Long hair. Older. Taller. Skinny. A face that looked absolutely nothing like him.
And stamped across the bottom in bold letters—"DEAD."
'That's supposed to be me?'