After a brief journey, Knight emerged from the forest to find a vast green meadow stretching toward the horizon. The afternoon sun cast long, pale golden ribbons across the grass as it swayed in the breeze. Amidst that openness stood a solitary, small camp built of dry wood and tattered cloth. A few huts were encircled by a crude wooden fence that looked ready to collapse at any moment, yet it held firm through the sheer effort of those who built it.
One look was enough for Knight to realize these weren't the Red Cross Army. No banners, no armed guards, no orderly rows of military tents. They were something else entirely.
Knight pulled the reins, slowing his horse as he approached cautiously. He didn't take his hand off the reins, but he didn't reach for his sword either. He noticed the people wore no armor; they were dressed in thin, faded clothes that had been washed into pallor. In their hands, they held hoes and rakes instead of swords and spears. Some carried small knives more suited for a kitchen than a battlefield.
They were ordinary villagers.
'There are villagers here too? What kind of memories did this Box pull together?' Having learned the truth from the old man, Knight knew this wasn't just a simulated trial it was a reality woven from fragments. These people weren't programmed NPCs; they had memories, fears, and lives. Or at least, they were realistic enough that it made no difference.
"Who are you?!" a villager standing at the camp gate shouted, instantly leveling a hoe at him. His voice trembled slightly. The sun-burnt, scrawny man stood with his legs braced, trying to look intimidating, but his eyes betrayed a clear terror. Knight knew that look; it wasn't the gaze of a fighter, but of a man with no other options.
Seeing this, Knight slowly removed his helmet to show his face. He dismounted with deliberate, relaxed movements unhurried and non-threatening. He stepped closer, keeping both hands visible at his sides.
"Easy. I'm not an enemy. I've been hunted by the Red Cross, too."
There was a moment of silence. The man scanned Knight from head to toe. The heavy armor was likely intimidating, but eventually, the villager lowered his hoe and opened the gate with a long sigh.
"Come inside first... then we'll talk," the man said, leading Knight into the camp.
Inside were about thirty villagers. Some stopped their work to stare at Knight with curiosity. Children hid behind canvas sheets, their eyes filled with caution and a deep-seated exhaustion. Roughly seventy percent of the camp consisted of women and children. Young men were almost entirely absent.
Knight didn't ask why; he could guess the answer.
"Headman, we have someone from the outside," the villager called out, stopping at a hut that looked slightly better than the rest meaning the wooden walls had no holes and there were cloth coverings over the windows.
"Come in..." a raspy voice drifted from within. The villager opened the door and ushered Knight inside.
Wearing heavy armor, Knight walked slowly to keep the floorboards from snapping under his weight. His eyes, adjusted to the dark, saw an old man lying on a bed. His body was weathered and thin, yet his frame suggested he had been powerful in his youth. A thin blanket covered him, and a middle-aged woman sat nearby holding a clay cup. She glanced at Knight for a second before averting her gaze.
"Welcome to our humble camp," the old man said, sitting up. His eyes remained sharp despite his physical frailty.
"I should thank you for letting me in," Knight replied, bowing his head slightly, the friendliest gesture a man in a heavy plate could manage.
The old man stood up slowly, leaning on his caretaker for support. He walked toward Knight with a stride steadier than his appearance suggested. His gaze traveled from the helmet in Knight's hand to the dented armor, to the greatsword on his back, and finally rested on the young man's golden eyes.
"No... you would have survived even if we hadn't let you in, little one." He paused, then continued, "But the reason I let you in... it isn't out of pity, nor fear. It is because we need help. And those golden eyes..." He pointed toward Knight's face. "...tell me you are no ordinary person."
Knight stood still, letting silence fill the small room. The old man's words made him feel as if his true identity had been laid bare not as a warrior, but as the "Child of Prophecy."
"Your eyes are sharper than I expected," Knight replied in a low voice. He didn't deny it, but he didn't fully confirm it either. "But you say you need help. With this many villagers, couldn't you have just fled the Red Cross on your own? Why me specifically?"
The old man coughed weakly. The caretaker rushed to support him, but he waved her off. His clouded yet powerful eyes never left Knight's golden ones.
"The Red Cross are just the hounds driving us... but what truly imprisons us in this meadow of death lies to the north." The old man limped to a small wooden window. "Do you see that silver mist? There is no natural fog. It is a distorted 'Judgment.' Anyone who attempts to cross it without the correct mark will have their soul incinerated until they are nothing but a hollow shell."
Knight moved to the window, following the old man's trembling finger toward the horizon. The image of the ruined church and the words of the man in the black robe flashed in his mind.
Uriel's scales. The flame of purification.
Perhaps it wasn't about cleansing sin, but about erasing anything that dared pass through uninvited.
"The mark you mentioned... you mean these runes?" Knight pushed up his gauntlet sleeve, revealing the golden tattoos. They were glowing faintly now, reacting to the afternoon sun as if they knew they were being discussed.
The caretaker dropped her clay cup. The sound of it shattering broke the silence. She collapsed to her knees, muttering a prayer Knight didn't understand. Her lips trembled, her hands clasped tight, like someone witnessing a miracle they never thought they'd see. The old man's eyes widened slightly before softening into a mixture of sorrow, relief, and pain.
"It is as I thought... you are the 'Vessel' sent to us," the old man sighed. It wasn't a sigh of joy; it carried the weight of someone who had waited so long they had forgotten how much waiting hurt. "The Vessel of the Forgotten One..."
"Vessel?" Knight frowned. "What do you mean?"
The old man didn't answer immediately. He turned back toward his bed, his steps heavy. The caretaker cleared the shards and helped him sit. Finally, he spoke in a lowered, crystal-clear voice.
"The night the silver mist first appeared... six of our people tried to cross it." He paused. "None returned, yet none died. They still stand there today. They walked back to us, they ate, they slept, they breathed... but their eyes were entirely empty. They remember no one. They don't know their own children. They don't even know their own names."
A cold shiver crawled up Knight's spine.
"They are still here in this camp," the old man whispered. "You probably saw them when you walked in. The ones sitting silently in corners, never speaking, never asking, doing only what they are told. That is what the mist does to our people."
Knight listened in silence, processing the possibilities.
'So these runes aren't just a byproduct of the Fragments adjusting to my body. They're the key to passing this trial? What have I become?'
He looked down at the golden patterns on his arm. They pulsed with a faint light, as if answering a question he hadn't asked aloud. Knight stood in the stifling atmosphere, unsure of his next move. Was he supposed to lead these people north? Or deal with the Red Cross Army first?
This was supposed to be a simple trial to get some power, enter the Tower, and climb to the top. Not this. Not being hunted by an army, becoming a beacon of hope for strangers, and carrying the weight of people who looked at him with both desperation and expectation.
Where were the simple puzzles? Where was the "find the exit" or "craft a weapon" objective that a Box trial was supposed to have?
Why did he have to face this? He wanted hope from the Box, not to be the hope of the people inside it.
"...I need some time to think."
Knight spoke softly before walking out of the hut. He passed the gazes of the villagers, his steps heavier than when he had arrived, and finally left the camp.
He walked until he was past the wooden fence, out of sight of the camp, and stopped at a low grassy ridge. From there, the view was clear: the green meadow stretched wide, and at the northern horizon, the silver-white mist hung still. Like a wall so high the top was invisible, unmoving, unshrinking, indifferent to the wind.
It was waiting.
Knight sat on the grass, leaning back on his knees, and looked up at the sky as it shifted from pale blue to a golden orange.
'...Every survival trial has at least one way out, right?'
He sat as the colors deepened. The first star appeared in the corner of the sky faint, but certain. The golden light on his skin flared slightly in response to the starlight before fading again.
Night arrived in silence.
And Knight remained there, letting time slip by without doing a single thing. Not because he didn't know what to do, but because sometimes, before taking action, a person just needs a moment to accept how heavy the situation truly is.
And tonight, Knight claimed that moment for himself.