The graveyard was silent, a pocket of stillness isolated from the rest of the world.
While the village square just a few hundred meters away still reeked of spilled blood, ozone, and the charred remains of the Dark Mantis, this sacred ground remained untouched. It was as if the chaos of the assault had respected the boundaries of the dead, afraid to trespass on hallowed earth. The air here didn't smell of fear or burning timber; it smelled of damp soil, crushed pine needles, and the melancholic scent of rain-soaked stone.
Anthierin stood before a modest grave located in the far, shadowed corner of the yard. It wasn't a grand monument. There were no marble statues or gilded edges, just a slab of grey, river-smoothed granite that had weathered the seasons with stoic resilience.
Lexel stood by her side, keeping a respectful distance. He watched the way the dappled sunlight filtered through the canopy of the ancient oak trees, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow on the blacksmith's slumped shoulders.
He turned his gaze to the stone. The engraving was simple, hand-chiseled with care rather than precision.
Here lies, Lapis Yil.Our cherished blacksmith and a father.
"Lapis..." Lexel muttered the name, tasting the syllables.
"Yeah," Anthierin said, her voice quiet, barely rising above the rustle of the wind in the leaves. "He was named after a superior ore. Grandfather thought that he might be able to mantle the hammer one day, and create a Regalia out of it."
Regalia?
Lexel's internal library stirred. In the Three Realms, weapons were graded by their spiritual density: Mortal, Earth, Heaven, and Divine. But here, in this Fourth World, the terminology was different. A 'Regalia' likely corresponded to a Divine-tier armament—a weapon capable of altering the landscape or housing a soul.
I guess the weapon tier in this world is more or less the same, Lexel thought. The desire to create something god-tier is universal among smiths, no matter the dimension.
"Then why is your name Anthierin?" asked Lexel, looking at her profile.
Anthierin let out a short, dry chuckle that held no humor.
"My dad never thought that I would take on his mantle and become a blacksmith just like him and his grandfather," said Anthierin. Her face turned a bit sour, a complex mix of resentment and lingering affection twisting her features. "He wanted me to be a lady. To wear silk, not leather aprons. 'Anthierin' sounds like a flower, doesn't it? Soft. Fragile."
She looked down at her hands. They were anything but soft. They were stained with soot, calloused from gripping hammer hafts, and scarred by stray sparks. They were the hands of a creator, not a flower.
She took a deep breath, the air shuddering in her lungs, and closed her eyes gently. Her rough hands clasped together in prayer. It wasn't a prayer to the Goddess of Aether, but a conversation with a ghost.
"Dad..." she whispered into the silence. "I don't know if you're watching at all. The priests say you return to the Aether, but I always thought you'd be too stubborn for that."
She paused, swallowing the lump in her throat.
"Remember when you said that I have to go out of the village and experience the world? That this forge was too small for a life?" A tear leaked from her shut eyelid, tracing a clean path through the dirt on her cheek. "Well, looks like the day has finally come. And I'm going with a companion that I have known for less time than the stray dog in the village."
Lexel stood silently, listening. He felt like an intruder on a private moment, yet he couldn't look away.
"I really hope that I don't meet Mom and her side of the family again," she added, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
Lexel raised his brows. The lore drop caught him off guard. Mom's side of the family? He had assumed she was a village native through and through. The way she spoke of them—with a venom usually reserved for enemies—suggested a history far more complicated than simple estrangement.
Anthierin opened one eye, peeking at him with a sudden sharpness that cut through the grief.
"...And don't worry, Dad. I always bring the vial of toxin in my pocket. So that if this guy decides to be forceful on any funny ideas, I will kill myself first."
Lexel's lips twitched.
He looked at the pocket of her trousers, noticing the slight bulge of a small glass container. She wasn't joking. The realization was sobering. She had just agreed to travel with him, to leave everything she knew, but she trusted him so little that she carried a suicide pill as a contingency plan.
I suppose I can't blame her, Lexel mused. To her, I'm just a walking natural disaster who killed the local government.
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of the earth one last time, and opened her eyes. The sorrow was gone, replaced by a steely resolve—the same hardness she used to temper steel.
"One day, I will smith a Regalia, Dad," she vowed. "And it won't be made of Lapis. It will be something better."
She turned around, the movement decisive. She hoisted a small, battered leather backpack onto her shoulders and adjusted the heavy iron hammer hanging at her belt. She looked less like a grieving daughter and more like a travelling blacksmith ready for the road.
"Guess off we go then," said Lexel.
She nodded, turning her back on the grave without looking again.
They walked along the gravel path toward the wrought-iron gate of the cemetery. The silence of the dead was comfortable, but as they neared the exit, the tension of the living began to intrude.
A small group of villagers was waiting for them.
They weren't an angry mob this time. They stood huddled together near the gate, shoulders hunched, eyes darting nervously toward Lexel's boots. They looked diminished, stripped of the mob mentality that had given them strength yesterday. Now, they were just frightened people in dirty clothes.
"What is it?" asked Lexel, stopping ten paces away. He placed a hand on his waist, raising an arrogant eyebrow. His posture was relaxed, but the threat was implicit.
"We..." started one of them. It was a man in his elderly years, his face a map of deep wrinkles and sunspots. He held a worn hat in his trembling hands, twisting the fabric anxiously. "We... wanted to apologize."
Lexel looked him up and down. He recognized the man. He had been the one shouting the loudest about 'justice' when Anthierin was tied up.
"Are you going to be the next chief?" asked Lexel, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure the last one mentioned about stacks of Gs. It seems to be the only qualification for the job around here."
"Y-Yes, about that," said the elderly man. He couldn't hold Lexel's gaze. His watery eyes glazed over, drifting to a young mother clutching a crying child in the background, then to the other villagers who looked as if they hadn't eaten properly in weeks.
The village was broken. Without Teddy's iron grip or Goro's protection, they were just sheep waiting for the wolves.
Anthierin stepped forward. Her expression softened, though her eyes remained guarded. She looked at these people—people she had grown up with, people who had bought her horseshoes and kitchen knives.
"You may take half of it," she said, her voice firm. "Those Gs belonged rightfully to my husband, but consider it the kindness you showed to my dad and me all those long years."
The villagers gasped.
"We... we're so sorry!" said the elderly man. His legs gave out, and he bowed so low his forehead planted into the dusty ground. "We watched you grow up, Anthierin. We watched you play in the mud, we heard you singing at the forge, we saw you fishing in the creek... you were living your life right in front of us. You were our little jewel, but... we couldn't do a thing."
Sobs broke out from the group behind him. It was a pathetic display of regret.
"You could have said something," said Lexel, his voice cutting through their weeping like a blade. He crossed his arms, staring down at the prostrate man with cold indifference. "Yet, you did nothing."
"We... were powerless," the old man wept into the dirt. "Teddy had the influence! He had the money we didn't have! The Guild was on his side! Voicing our opinions would mean death! We have families to feed!"
"And now you choose to live this way," said Lexel.
He took a step forward. The villagers flinched, expecting violence.
"Tell me, old man, is this the way you wanted to live? Kneeling in the dirt, begging for forgiveness from a ghost and a killer? Because it looks like you're no different than Teddy."
The old man lifted his head, dirt clinging to his forehead. "I... what do you know? You're young. You have power. We are just..."
"If you don't protect the truth, you are no different," Lexel interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "Power isn't just about punching harder or having more coin. It's about spine. One day, a situation comes up, and you will do exactly what the last chief did. You have no pride. You have no cause to believe. Therefore, you will think nothing of sacrificing the people you claim to love just to save your own wrinkled skin."
Anthierin's eyes widened. She stared at Lexel's profile.
She had seen him as a brute, a killer, a prankster. But hearing his lips drop such heavy wisdom on an old man she had known her entire life... it was jarring. It was the kind of harsh truth that only someone who had seen the absolute bottom of humanity could speak.
Lexel didn't wait for a response. He was done with them.
He walked past the kneeling elder, moving toward the village exit. As he passed, he reached into his inventory—or rather, the pockets where he had stashed the loot—and dropped several heavy leather sacks.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound of heavy gold hitting the earth silenced the crying.
"The G's are in his bedroom, I already took some of it, you may take the rest," Lexel said over his shoulder. He pointed to the sacks on the ground. "Each pouch contains 1000G. Use it to rebuild, or use it to drink yourselves to death. I don't care."
He didn't look back.
Anthierin stood there for a moment longer, looking at the gold, then at the villagers, then at Lexel's retreating back. She adjusted her pack, turned her heel, and followed him.
They walked in silence for a long time.
They left the cobblestone streets of Bevil Village behind, stepping onto the dirt road that led to the outer world. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and burnt orange. The shadows of the trees stretched long and thin across their path, pointing the way forward.
Entering the path to the outerside of the village, Anthierin finally spoke.
"You never impressed me as a scholar of wisdom," she said, eyeing him sideways. "Where did that speech come from? 'No pride, no cause'?"
Lexel kept his eyes on the horizon. A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Wisdom comes from one thing, Rin," said Lexel. "It's called pain."
Anthierin shivered. The way he said it—so casually, yet with such weight—made the hairs on her arms stand up.
"Stop it, please... you're not suitable," said Anthierin, shaking her head.
"What do you mean?" asked Lexel.
"Your face," she gestured vaguely at him. "It's just not compatible with that tragic, brooding philosopher look. You look too... arrogant. Too confident." She rolled her eyes, though the biting tone was gone. "But... that means you've been through a lot... though you don't seem to be that way."
She studied him. He walked with a swagger, his chin held high. He joked, he pulled pranks, he demanded discounts. He didn't look like a man haunted by wisdom-inducing pain.
"You are right, I don't," said Lexel. He shrugged, the movement easy and loose. "One other way to gain wisdom is by getting your ass kicked by your mom and dads. Repeatedly. Until you learn to duck."
Anthierin snorted, the tension finally breaking.
"True," said Anthierin. "I can relate to that. My dad had a heavy hand when I messed up a forging temperature."
They continued walking as the twilight deepened into true night. The chirping of crickets replaced the silence of the graveyard, and the cool evening breeze rustled the tall grass on either side of the road.
Ahead of them, where two main roads intersected, a warm, yellow light spilled out into the darkness. It was a large, two-story timber building with a thatched roof that looked like it had seen better centuries. Smoke curled lazily from a stone chimney, carrying the scent of roasting meat and ale.
A wooden sign hung above the door, creaking rhythmically in the wind. It depicted two swords crossed over a tankard.
"It's going to be night soon," Lexel said, checking the sky. "Better we stay the night at the crossroad inn."
He pointed a finger at the establishment.
The sign creaked again, revealing the name burned into the wood:
'CrossInn'