Steam curled into the air, thick and heavy with the scent of pine soap and metallic copper.
Lexel sank lower into the wooden tub, letting the scalding water bite into his skin. It was a good pain. It was the kind of heat that seeped into the marrow, loosening muscles that had been coiled tight with killing intent for the last forty-eight hours.
He watched the water change color.
It started clear. Then, as he scrubbed his arms, it turned a murky, sickly green—the remnants of the Dark Mantis's ichor that had dried into his pores. Then came the red—the blood of the village guards, the blood of Goro, and his own dried vitality that had crusted over his stomach.
Green and red swirled together in the water, creating a grotesque brown soup.
Lexel leaned his head back against the rim of the tub, closing his eyes.
Level 10.
He flexed his hand under the water. The water displaced violently, splashing over the side. His Strength stat had skyrocketed, but his control was still lagging behind. He felt like he was driving a chariot with wild horses. If he wasn't careful, he might rip the handle off a mug or crush a door latch.
I need to calibrate, he thought, listening to the drip-drip of water from his hair. My body is finally starting to catch up to my instincts.
He took the sponge and scrubbed his chest, right over the patch of fresh, pink skin where the regeneration potion had worked its miracle.
"Alive," he whispered to the steam. "And clean."
Outside the bathroom, in the main living quarters of the blacksmith's workshop, the atmosphere was far less peaceful.
Anthierin stood at her kitchen counter, a knife in her hand. She was staring at a basket of carrots, but she wasn't seeing them.
She was seeing the square.
She saw the Chief, Teddy, being swung around like a ragdoll. She heard the wet thwack of his body hitting the cobblestones. She saw the mercenary leader, Goro—a man wearing plate armor she knew cost a fortune—dropping dead with a fist-sized hole in his chest.
He did that, she thought, her hand trembling slightly. The 'husband' I pretended to marry did that.
She looked down at the knife.
The marriage was a lie. It was a desperate play, a charade she had agreed to because circumstances had forced her hand. The village thought it was real. Viscoff had thought it was real. But in reality, they were strangers bound by a lie that had spiraled out of control.
She had expected to protect him—the clueless prisoner who had wandered into her life. She thought she was the strong one, the blacksmith shielding the stray dog.
She was wrong.
She wasn't shielding a dog. She was housing a dragon.
"Who are you?" she whispered to the closed bathroom door.
She felt a flush of awkwardness rise in her neck. How was she supposed to act? They weren't actually husband and wife. There was no intimacy, no shared history. Just a lie and a pile of dead bodies outside.
Should she be grateful? Terrified? Should she bow, or should she yell at him for reckless murder?
She shook her head, forcing herself to focus. Work. Just work. Work makes sense.
She grabbed the carrots and began to chop. Chop. Chop. Chop. The rhythmic sound grounded her.
But her mind drifted again. This time, to the village.
What happens now?
Bevil Village was broken. The Chief was dead. Viscoff was dead. The Begin Guild leader was dead. The remaining villagers were terrified sheep who had just tried to stone her to death an hour ago.
"We can't stay here," she murmured, sweeping the chopped vegetables into a pot of boiling broth.
The smell of savory beef and herbs began to fill the small room, masking the lingering scent of smoke from the outside. It was a comforting smell, a remnant of a normal life that no longer existed.
She stirred the pot mechanically. He destroyed everything to save me. But in doing so... he destroyed my home too.
The bathroom door creaked open.
A billow of steam rolled out, followed by Lexel. He had wrapped a towel around his waist and pulled on a fresh pair of linen trousers she had left out for him—old spare clothes that had belonged to her father. They were a bit short in the legs, but they fit his waist. His upper body was bare, still damp, glowing slightly in the firelight.
Anthierin froze mid-stir.
Without the rags and the blood, he looked... different.
He wasn't overly bulky like Goro. His muscles were lean, compact, and corded like steel cables under his skin. His onyx-red hair was wet and swept back, revealing the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face. But it was his eyes—those golden, molten eyes—that held her attention. Even relaxed, they burned with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat.
"Smells good," Lexel said, breaking the silence. His voice was casual, devoid of the murderous tone he had used in the square.
"It's... it's just a stew," Anthierin stammered, quickly turning back to the pot to hide her face. Get a grip, Anthierin. It's just a man. A very dangerous man. "Beef and root vegetables. Nothing fancy."
"Fancy isn't what I need," Lexel walked over to the wooden table and sat down. He moved with a grace that seemed out of place in the rustic kitchen. "I need fuel."
Anthierin ladled the stew into two wooden bowls. Her hands were steady now, falling back into the role of host. She placed a basket of hard bread on the table and set the steaming bowl in front of him.
She sat opposite him, clutching her spoon like a shield.
For a moment, there was only silence. The fire crackled in the hearth. The smell of the food was intoxicating, reminding Lexel that he hadn't eaten a proper meal in days.
"Anthierin," Lexel said softly.
She looked up, startled.
"Thank you," he said. He gestured to the food, but his eyes meant something else entirely. "For the clothes. For the shelter. For... playing along."
Anthierin felt the awkwardness melt slightly. He acknowledged it. The lie. The situation.
"You saved my life," she replied quietly, stirring her bowl aimlessly. "A meal is the least I can do. Even if... even if everything is a mess now."
Lexel smiled—a genuine, boyish smile that transformed his face from a killer's mask into something charming. "Let's see if your cooking is as dangerous as your smithing."
He picked up his spoon and took a large bite of the stew.
Anthierin watched him anxiously. She was proud of her smithing, but cooking? Cooking was a necessity, not a passion. She usually threw things in a pot until they were soft enough to eat.
Lexel chewed slowly. He paused. He frowned slightly, tilting his head as if analyzing a complex flavor profile.
Anthierin leaned forward, panic rising. "Is... is it okay? Is it too salty? I might have used too much rock salt."
Lexel swallowed, keeping a perfectly straight face.
"It's surprising," he said gravely.
"Surprising?"
"Yes," Lexel tapped the spoon against the side of the bowl. "I'm surprised to see that the same hands that hammer raw ore into deadly weapons can also hammer food into... dishes."
Anthierin blinked. "Hammer food?"
"I mean," Lexel took another bite, a playful glint entering his eyes. "It's delicious. But I swear, if I close my eyes... I can taste the iron. Did you stir this with a wrench?"
Anthierin's mouth fell open. Then, a laugh bubbled up from her chest. It was sudden and sharp, releasing the tension that had been strangling her all morning.
"Hey!" she reached over and swatted his arm lightly. "I used a ladle! A wooden ladle!"
"Are you sure?" Lexel chuckled, dodging her hand effortlessly. "Because this beef has the texture of high-quality leather armor. It's got... resilience."
"Eat it or starve, you ungrateful brute!" she retorted, grinning despite herself.
They both laughed. For a few seconds, the dead bodies outside, the burning village, the uncertain future—it all faded away. It was just two survivors sharing a warm meal in a cold world.
Lexel tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the broth. He ate with gusto, wiping the bowl clean in minutes. When he was finished, he leaned back, patting his healed stomach.
"That," he said, "was the best meal I've had in this life."
Anthierin smiled softly, tracing the wood grain of the table with her finger. The laughter faded, replaced by a comfortable, but heavy silence. She looked at him—really looked at him. The mystery was eating her alive.
"Lexel," she started, her voice turning serious.
"Hmm?"
"Where were you?" she asked. "Before the square. You disappeared from the jail. Then the monster died. Then you came back."
Lexel looked into the fire. "I was in the forest. Recovering."
"Recovering from tearing a monster apart with your bare hands?" she pressed. She looked at him, searching his face for answers. "You... you aren't just a prisoner, are you? The village thinks you're a nobody. I thought you were a nobody. But Level 1s don't catch swords with their fingers."
Lexel didn't answer immediately. He watched the flames dance.
He was the son of the War Goddess and the Zodiac Emperor. But those titles meant nothing here. Not yet.
"I am Lexel," he said simply. "That is the truth."
"But where do you come from?" Anthierin asked. "Who are you? A noble in hiding? A banished knight? You fight like... like you've done this for a thousand years."
Lexel turned his gaze to her. His molten eyes were serious now.
"I am a man who woke up with nothing," he said. "No title. No kingdom. Just a name and a goal."
"A goal?" Anthierin asked.
Lexel nodded. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"I am looking for my brothers," he said. The words tasted heavy on his tongue, carrying the weight of a lineage she couldn't possibly understand.
"Your brothers?"
"Yes," Lexel said. "Two of them. We were... separated. A long time ago."
"What are their names?" Anthierin asked softly. "Maybe I've heard of them. Merchants pass through here often. I know many names."
Lexel shook his head. "I doubt you have heard of them here. But I will find them. I have to."
He looked past her, staring at something beyond the walls of the blacksmith shop, beyond the village, beyond the horizon.
"Their names are Myda and Seleron," Lexel said, his voice dropping to a whisper that commanded the room.
"Myda... and Seleron," Anthierin tested the names. They sounded strange. They didn't sound like names from the Human Kingdom. They sounded... ancient.
"Are they... like you?" she asked hesitantly, eyeing his bruised knuckles.
Lexel smirked, but there was no humor in it this time. It was a look of dangerous pride.
"If they are awake," Lexel said, clenching his fist on the table, "then compared to them... I am the gentle one."
Anthierin shivered. The thought of two more beings like Lexel—beings who could dismantle monsters and crush armies—was terrifying.
"So," Lexel stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. "That is my goal. To find them."