As they drew closer, a solid wooden palisade rose before them—five meters high at least. Thick. Crude. Built to keep things out.
Or to keep people in.
Two guards stood above the gate, helmets pulled low, swords at their hips. Their armor looked heavy, badly fitted—more burden than protection.
Beyond the walls, fields stretched out.
Green.
Quiet.
Almost peaceful.
Cows grazed. Sheep. Creatures Egor didn't recognize. A few horses wandered nearby.
It didn't match the rest of the world.
It felt wrong.
"Stop!" one of the guards shouted. "Who are you? State your business!"
"We're travelers," Klaus said evenly. "Looking to stay a few days."
"Travelers?" the second guard echoed, suspicion plain on his face. "Don't get many of those."
"I can imagine."
"Drop your weapons."
The guard disappeared.
A moment later—metal scraped. The gate opened just enough for a helmeted face to peer through.
Klaus had already placed his katana on the ground.
He didn't like this.
He could kill them before they even blinked.
But that wasn't the point.
Not yet.
"That everything?" the guard asked, eyes narrowing.
"We're travelers," Klaus said. "What else would we carry?"
"And him?" the guard jerked his chin toward Egor.
"He's not a fighter. Never has been. Doesn't know how to hold a weapon."
"Then why drag him along?"
"We grew up together," Klaus said without hesitation. "I wasn't leaving him somewhere he'd die. Besides—he cooks."
The guards watched them.
Long.
Careful.
Weighing.
Then the gate creaked open.
They stepped inside.
Unspoken agreement hung in the air.
They would be watched.
Closely.
"No inn," the guard said. "Ask around. People take helpers. Or coin."
"We're short on coin," Klaus replied lightly. "We'll manage."
The village was small.
Cramped.
Everything wood.
Everything worn.
Everything tired.
A crooked tavern sign swayed over the entrance.
Wells. Stalls. Dirt roads ground hard by footsteps.
People moved.
Worked.
Watched.
Every single one of them.
Egor felt it immediately.
Cold sweat down his spine.
Those looks—
sharp.
Measuring.
Waiting for a mistake.
He stepped closer to Klaus without realizing it.
No one smiled.
No one greeted them.
People moved aside.
Whispered.
Kept distance.
The entire place felt—
dead.
Gray.
Drained.
Clothes were dull. Rough fabric. Same cuts. Same shapes. No difference.
No individuality.
No life.
"Mercenaries," Klaus said quietly, noticing where Egor was looking. "Villages hire them. Protection. Escorts."
"It feels like a grave," Egor muttered.
Klaus glanced at him.
"Why?"
"They're free. And they live like this?"
"This is survival," Klaus said. "Not life."
"I feel like I got thrown into the Middle Ages."
"I warned you."
"Well," Egor muttered, "no one's died from lack of internet."
The joke fell flat.
The air itself felt wrong.
Heavy.
Rotten.
Thick with smoke, sweat, waste.
And Klaus—
moved through it like it was home.
A man stumbled out of the tavern.
Armor worn. Steps uneven.
Drunk. Or close enough.
He spotted them.
"Hey! You two! New here?"
Klaus didn't answer immediately.
"Depends," he said finally. "What's being offered?"
The man snorted.
"Nothing worth staying for. This place is a dump. Only the desperate end up here. Food. A roof. Cheap distractions. That's your reward."
"So you're one of them," Klaus said lightly.
The man's face darkened instantly.
"Watch your mouth, boy. I've got my reasons. Drink?"
Klaus exhaled quietly.
That edge again.
Careless.
Dangerous.
He stepped inside.
Egor followed quickly.
"Klaus… I didn't understand a single word they were saying," Egor whispered.
Klaus frowned, then touched the space between his brows.
A sharp jolt.
Egor flinched.
And suddenly—
everything made sense.
Every word.
Every voice.
Inside—
it was worse.
Dark.
Sticky floor.
The smell—
stale alcohol, sweat, rot.
A few mercenaries.
A hunched old man behind the counter.
"Two mugs!" the soldier barked. "Put it on defense pay!"
The beer was cloudy.
Sour.
Egor swallowed it anyway.
"How long you been here?" Klaus asked.
"Month. Maybe more." The man squinted. "What, questioning me?"
"Just looking at options."
"Then look somewhere else," the man said. "This place is for leftovers. Burned-out soldiers. Broken men."
"Maybe that's what we are."
"Then you either fucked up badly—or you're idiots."
"Where were you before?"
"Border. Got kicked out." He sneered. "'Too old,' they said. New captain. Useless brat. Can't even hold a sword right. Highborn trash."
Klaus stilled.
"A young captain?"
"Royal blood. Abel Deffender."
Silence.
"Abel… at the border?"
"Was. Cleared out half the men."
Later—
they found shelter with the headman's wife.
Payment—
filth.
Pigsty.
Wood.
Labor.
Klaus worked without hesitation.
Fast.
Efficient.
Like he'd done it his whole life.
"I lived with my teacher since I was five," he said. "We kept animals."
"Then why the hell did you make me do everything back home?" Egor snapped.
Klaus smirked.
"I liked watching you serve me."
Egor flushed.
Hard.
Said nothing.
That night—
they read the letter.
Klaus's expression darkened with every line.
"He could have sent me back immediately," he said coldly. "Instead he plays games."
Three days passed.
Work.
Rumors.
Fragments of truth.
A new royal child.
A replacement heir.
Demands for proof of Klaus's death.
Abel at the border.
Nothing clean.
Nothing clear.
On the fourth morning—
everything broke.
"Attack!" the headman's wife screamed. "Soldiers!"
Klaus was already moving.
Outside—
chaos.
Men with tools.
No formation.
No discipline.
Twenty mercenaries at best.
Beyond the gates—
fifty soldiers.
At least.
A battering ram.
The gates wouldn't hold.
An arrow tore past Klaus's ear.
Another—
drove straight through a man's eye.
He dropped instantly.
No sound.
Klaus didn't hesitate anymore.
Through the back.
A narrow gap in the fence.
Barely enough space.
He forced through—
and came out behind them.
They didn't see him.
Didn't expect him.
He struck.
Fast.
Precise.
Ten men dropped before they even understood what was happening.
Then—
they turned.
Surrounded him.
"Idiot," Klaus muttered.
Lightning exploded from his hand.
Screams.
Bodies thrown.
Burning flesh.
Steel clashed.
Blood sprayed.
He moved through them.
Cutting.
Breaking.
Advancing.
Toward the gates.
Inside—
panic.
Villagers frozen.
Waiting to die.
"Fight!" Klaus roared. "Fight or die!"
Some moved.
Too late.
Too slow.
He broke through.
Now inside.
Now surrounded again.
Too many.
Too close.
Then—
he remembered.
"Idiot," he muttered again.
Lightning.
Controlled this time.
He slammed his hand into the ground—
released it.
The earth answered.
Hundreds of arcs burst outward—
tearing through everything.
Enemies.
Villagers.
Doesn't matter.
Bodies flew.
Screams cut short.
Then—
silence.
"I told you to retreat!" Klaus snapped. "Move!"
This time—
they listened.
"Finish it," he said coldly. "Take prisoners."
They obeyed.
In the cellar—
Klaus didn't waste time.
"Why did you attack?"
Silence.
Fear.
"Answer."
"Orders," one spat. "Kill everyone."
"Who gave them?"
"Our commander."
"Name."
"Amar Prikski."
Unknown.
Irrelevant.
"Who do you serve?"
"The royal army."
Lie.
Or something worse.
"Where is your camp?"
Silence.
Lightning.
The man screamed.
Body jerking.
"Twenty kilometers west!"
"How many?"
"Five hundred!"
Klaus studied them.
Then—
drew his blade.
Two clean strikes.
Two bodies.
The third—
he left alive.
To die slowly.
"We're leaving," Klaus said.
"But they need help!" Egor snapped.
"Not our concern."
Egor stared at him.
Something inside him went cold.
This—
was the real Klaus.
Not the one he knew.
Not the one he wanted.
This world hadn't changed him.
It had revealed him.
Egor said nothing.
He turned—
and began to pack.