Dawn brought no relief.
The light revealed what the night had hidden out of mercy.
Bodies covered with makeshift cloth. Dark stains soaking into the earth. Houses marked by claw marks and fire. The air still smelled of smoke and dried blood.
The transported gathered in the center of the village without anyone telling them to.
They didn't form a group.
They were just people who had survived the same hell.
Some spoke in low voices. Others didn't speak at all.
Arlen stayed against a half-collapsed wall, knees pulled in. His body felt heavy, like he hadn't slept in days. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw things he didn't want to remember.
The boy who had run at the monsters, mouth open.
The villager who had shouted to draw the beasts away.
The girl who fell screaming.
The child who reached out.
No one had forced them to look.
But no one had been able to look away.
"How many are left?" someone asked.
They counted in silence.
Fewer than before.
"This was…" another started, but didn't finish.
"It was a trial," someone else said, voice hard. "Let's not pretend otherwise."
No one argued.
The word hung in the air, heavy, uncomfortable.
Arlen pressed his fingers into the stone. He didn't feel proud for surviving. He didn't even feel relief.
Just an uncomfortable certainty: he had watched others die and done nothing to stop it.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he couldn't.
"We need to organize."
The voice wasn't loud, but it carried.
A boy stepped forward. Dark hair, steady posture, clear eyes. He didn't look older than the rest, but he spoke like someone used to being heard.
Ren Ishida.
"If we stay here, we'll die when it happens again," he continued. "There are injured. We need to decide what to do before night falls."
Some nodded right away. Others hesitated.
Ren didn't raise his voice. He didn't give orders.
He just started assigning tasks.
Watch the perimeter. Help the villagers who remained. Gather anything that could be used as a weapon or a tool.
People followed.
Arlen watched from where he was.
Ren didn't look at him once.
Not intentionally. Just… not seeing him. As if Arlen wasn't relevant yet.
Maybe he wasn't.
As they moved bodies and covered the damage, Arlen noticed something else.
The villagers were watching them.
Not with gratitude.
Not with admiration.
With suspicion.
A child approached one of the transported, eyes wide with curiosity.
"Are you… one of the ones who appeared last night?" he asked.
His mother grabbed his arm immediately.
"Don't get close," she said quietly. "Come here."
The child looked back once before letting himself be pulled away.
Arlen looked away.
They weren't heroes.
They were an anomaly.
When the sun was already high, they arrived.
The sound of synchronized steps came before the sight of armor. It didn't shine. It was worn, marked by old blows. The symbols engraved into it didn't look decorative—functional.
Knights.
The Order of the Kingdom.
The captain walked at the front. No cloak. Just a sword at his side and a gaze that measured distance and possibility.
He took in the village.
The bodies.
The transported.
"The survivors," he said. "Prepare to move."
He didn't ask what had happened. Didn't ask for explanations.
"Where?" someone asked.
"The capital," the captain replied. "Valenrith."
"On foot?" another asked, glancing at the group's condition.
The captain assessed them for a moment.
"For now."
They walked for hours.
At first, no one complained. The exhaustion was shared, but manageable. Some even talked, comparing injuries, trading impressions.
Arlen didn't.
As they moved, the weight changed. Not a sharp pain. Something that built up. Each step a little harder than the last.
He glanced at the others.
They kept going.
Tired, yes.
But still moving.
So did he.
When his legs started to shake, he clenched his teeth. He didn't want to be the first to fall. He didn't want to draw attention.
He didn't want to confirm what he was starting to suspect.
The carriages waited at the side of the road. Simple. Sturdy. Built for transport, not comfort.
Or people.
They were ushered in groups, escorted by knights who never let go of their weapons.
No one protested.
The carriage moved with a constant rattle. The wood creaked with every bump in the road.
Arlen sat against one side, leaning back. The exhaustion was still there, heavy, but at least he didn't have to walk.
Across from him, a boy with an open expression looked around, restless.
Sora shifted, the wood creaking under him.
"Does anyone know how much longer?" he asked, not really directing it at anyone.
No one answered.
"Well," he muttered. "Great."
A moment passed.
"I'm Sora."
"So… this is the part where it gets worse, right?"
The girl beside him looked at him, unimpressed.
"Don't say that," she said. "This is just the beginning."
She paused.
"Nira. And I'm not pretending this turns out fine."
Sora let out a breath, but didn't argue. Then he looked at Arlen, like he was only just noticing him.
"And you?" he asked. "You haven't said a word all morning."
Arlen looked at him for a moment. Sora waited, that nervous smile not quite reaching his eyes.
"Arlen," he said.
"Just Arlen?"
"Arlen Weiss."
Sora nodded, like the name meant something.
"Weiss. Sounds… German, right?"
"My father was."
"Ah…" Sora gave a small smile. "Makes sense."
"I guess," Arlen said.
Further down, another boy watched through a narrow gap in the carriage, silent, tracking every movement outside. He hadn't said a single word since they got in.
Arlen didn't ask his name.
Not yet.
He rested his head against the wood, letting the motion of the carriage rock him slightly.
He didn't know who these people were.
He didn't know if he could trust them.
He didn't know how many of them would still be alive by the time they reached the capital.
This is just the beginning, he thought.
And he understood something with quiet clarity:
Surviving wasn't going to be enough.