The tavern no longer carries the sound of a tavern.
There is no drunken laughter rolling across the room, no loud bargaining rising and falling in sharp bursts, no fishermen arguing over nets, weather, and prices with the stubborn energy that once defined this place. Instead, the air is filled with low voices—kept deliberately quiet, as if anything louder might fracture what little steadiness remains. Conversations drift rather than collide, subdued enough that grief can settle without breaking apart into something uncontrollable.
Rain taps steadily against the rebuilt roof above, a soft and persistent rhythm that blends with the faint crackle of the hearth. Smoke rises unevenly from the fire, drifting upward in slow, wavering strands before gathering beneath the dark wooden beams. For a moment it lingers there, caught in the structure, before slipping through the narrow vents Hano Kichiro had designed only days earlier. The warmth inside should feel comforting, a refuge against the damp cold pressing in from outside.
It does not.
The air carries too many lingering traces—damp wool that never fully dries, lake mud tracked in and ground into the floorboards, sharp herbs crushed between fingers, ash that clings stubbornly to everything it touches, sweat soaked deep into fabric, and beneath it all, the faint metallic scent of blood that no amount of washing has managed to erase.
Near the far wall, Ryong Min Ki sits cross-legged beside a flickering lantern, its light casting shifting shadows across the papers scattered around him. His hand moves quickly, almost restlessly, charcoal scratching against rough surfaces as he sketches again and again. The drawings overlap, layered fragments of something too large and too elusive to fully capture—sections of scaled hide, the curve of a jaw caught mid-motion, torn frills trailing like damaged banners, and those eyes… always those eyes, drawn and redrawn with increasing frustration.
The creature never stays visible long enough.
Every attempt feels incomplete.
Across from him, Onaga Kei works in silence, carefully arranging a set of glass vials along the edge of a worn table. His movements are precise, controlled, each placement deliberate. One vial stands apart, holding the strange yellow liquid taken from the creature. It catches the firelight faintly, giving off a subtle glow whenever the flames shift. Onaga studies it with narrowed eyes, unmoving, his focus so complete that the noise around him seems to fade entirely.
The door suddenly slams open. Then slides.
Hano Kichiro bursts through with enough force that the wood crashes against the wall, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet like a blade. Several villagers flinch instinctively, hands tightening around cups or tools. The tension in the room spikes immediately.
Lei Delun is not with him.
Aldo looks up from the ledger and maps spread before him without hesitation, his attention sharpening as he takes in Hano's condition.
Hano is breathing hard.
Too hard.
"Aldo."
The word comes out rough, dragged up from somewhere deeper than breath.
Every head in the tavern turns toward Hano at once, as if the sound itself carries weight enough to pull attention. Conversations cut off mid-sentence, cups pause halfway to lips, movement slows into stillness. The room tightens around him without anyone needing to say it aloud.
Ryong's charcoal stops against the paper, the line breaking unevenly where his hand freezes. Onaga's fingers hover over the glass vial for a moment before he lowers it carefully onto the table, as if even the smallest sound might matter. Comtois, who had been leaning lazily against a support beam with arms crossed and eyes half-lidded, straightens just enough for the shift to be noticeable.
Aldo does not move immediately.
His expression remains unchanged, but his voice lowers, cutting through the room without force.
"What happened."
Hano drags the back of his sleeve across his forehead, smearing rainwater and sweat together without noticing. His chest still rises too fast, breath uneven, controlled only by effort.
"Teufel."
The name alone pulls tension across the room like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
Hano points toward the lake beyond the walls, his hand sharp, almost accusatory.
"Lei and I followed him. We saw him with the Drakolimne."
Silence settles.
Not empty.
But dense.
The crackling of the hearth fills the space where words should be. Rain continues tapping against the roof, steady and indifferent.
Comtois blinks once.
Ryong lowers his charcoal slowly, setting it aside without breaking eye contact. Onaga's gaze dips for a fraction of a second, thoughtful rather than surprised.
Aldo's eyes narrow just slightly.
"Explain carefully."
Hano's jaw tightens so hard the muscles along it twitch visibly. He exhales sharply through his nose before speaking again, forcing the words into shape.
"That damn knight wasn't fighting it. He—" His voice falters, catching for just a second. "He touched it. Stayed beside it. Like…"
His hands move abruptly, both of them, gesturing without precision, as if trying to force the memory into something that makes sense.
"Like he was comforting it."
Ryong's eyebrows lift slowly, not in disbelief but in recognition of something unexpected. Onaga's eyes lower again, thinking. Comtois lets out a short, confused laugh.
"Bro cuddled the lake dragon?"
Hano snaps toward him instantly.
"YES. THAT."
The word hits the walls hard enough to echo back, sharp and loud. Several villagers flinch again, shoulders tightening, eyes darting toward the door as if expecting something to follow.
Hano paces once across the floor, boots scraping against the boards, anger bleeding into every step.
"Not only does that useless knight bring the monster into the village and get people killed, now he's out there acting like it's his damn pet."
His breathing grows rougher again, less controlled now.
"Five slave-soldiers dead. Villagers dead. Houses gone. And he's standing there touching the thing like some tragic bard story."
The absence becomes noticeable.
Lei Delun is not here.
Aldo notices immediately.
"Where is Lei."
"Watching them," Hano answers without hesitation. "I ran back first."
Onaga folds his arms slowly, the motion calm, deliberate. His voice remains level when he speaks.
"Maybe there was prior relationship between them."
Hano turns toward him with a look that borders on disbelief.
Onaga continues anyway, unaffected.
"Ryong and I already noted abnormal behavior before. The Drakolimne speaks names. It reacts emotionally. Teufel also reacted strangely during combat."
Ryong nods once, slow and certain.
"And the knight keeps talking like the thing personally wronged him."
Comtois exhales through his nose, a quiet whistle.
"That gets weirder every minute."
Outside, the rain intensifies, tapping harder against the roof, the sound deepening as wind presses against the structure. The tavern creaks faintly in response—not from weakness, but from the strain of weather meeting solid construction.
Near the hearth, a villager shifts closer to the fire, pulling a child in beside them, one arm wrapping protectively around small shoulders.
Aldo remains seated.
Still.
Silent.
Not random. Not purely predatory behavior. Emotional response… name recognition… human interaction. That changes the model entirely. Not just a creature—it reacts, it chooses, it connects. That means unpredictability increases… but also patterns deepen. Teufel isn't just reckless—he's part of the pattern now. That complicates everything.
Then he speaks.
"Continue."
Hano drags a hand through his hair, scratching at his head with sharp, impatient movements.
"That's not even the worst part."
He turns and points toward Onaga.
"Tell him."
Onaga shifts his gaze back to Aldo, expression unchanged.
"Comtois discovered something while scouting around the lake."
Now the room turns again.
Toward Comtois.
He shrugs once, the motion smaller than usual, the usual edge of humor dulled slightly.
"Sixteen villages depend on this lake."
The room quiets further.
Even the background noise seems to retreat.
"Fifteen are already struggling," Comtois continues, his tone more grounded now. "Fishing routes collapsing. Trade slowing down. People disappearing."
His eyes drift briefly toward the window, toward the unseen water beyond.
"This village survives only because we rebuilt it."
Hano mutters under his breath.
"Sixteen…"
Then louder, turning back toward the others.
"How many people?"
Ryong answers immediately, without hesitation, without checking anything.
"Approximately one thousand one hundred fifty-four."
Every head turns toward him.
Ryong flips through a few scattered pages casually, as if confirming what he already knows.
"Five hundred sixty-six adults. Two hundred twenty-seven teenagers. Two hundred thirty-eight children. The remainder are elderly."
He pauses for a moment, then adds with the same flat tone:
"I can also sort them by sex distribution if needed."
Hano stares at him.
"Why do you know that."
Ryong shrugs lightly.
"I counted."
Hano opens his mouth.
Closes it again.
Then rubs his face slowly, dragging his hand downward as if trying to reset something inside his head.
"You scare me sometimes."
Ryong has already returned to sketching.
"Thanks."
But the brief break fades quickly.
Hano's expression darkens again, the weight returning heavier than before. His eyes drift downward, unfocused for a moment.
"One thousand one hundred fifty-four people…"
The number settles into the room.
Not as an idea.
As weight.
Not "villagers."
People.
Children who need food.
Families that need stability.
A system that cannot fail without consequence.
Food supply lines unstable. Fishing compromised. Trade routes weakening. Population size too large for current yield without adjustment. If the lake collapses entirely… famine. Disease follows. Migration fails without preparation. One thousand one hundred fifty-four variables. Not numbers—dependencies.
The fire cracks softly.
No one speaks immediately.
Because there is nothing simple left to say.
Outside, thunder rolls somewhere far beyond the lake, a distant, heavy sound that travels slowly across the sky as if the storm itself is reluctant to arrive, yet inevitable all the same, echoing through the damp air and settling faintly into the bones of everyone inside the tavern.
Ryong suddenly looks up from his scattered papers again, his hand still hovering above unfinished sketches, charcoal dust clinging to his fingers, his eyes unfocused for a moment as if something fragile has just formed in his thoughts and he is unsure whether to speak it aloud or let it dissolve before it can be judged.
His voice comes out hesitant.
"Actually…"
The single word is enough to draw attention, because hesitation has become rare in this room, replaced instead by urgency and pressure, and that alone makes people listen.
Everyone glances toward him, some with curiosity, others with quiet irritation, all carrying the same underlying tension that has not left since Hano spoke.
Ryong swallows once, then continues, awkwardly.
"Maybe Teufel is… you know."
Comtois raises an eyebrow slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to suggest he already knows where this is going.
Ryong gestures vaguely, as if the concept itself resists being shaped into something precise.
"Gay."
Comtois immediately snorts, the sound breaking the heaviness for a fraction of a second.
"I know. Aldo knows. Everyone knows."
Hano blinks slowly, processing not the statement itself but the fact that it is being said now, here, in the middle of everything else. Onaga exhales softly, the faintest hint of fatigue in the sound.
Ryong presses on anyway, driven less by confidence and more by the need to make sense of something that refuses to align.
"And maybe the Drakolimne was his lover before turning into a monster. That would explain why he was…"
He gestures again, more awkward this time, his hand circling uselessly in the air.
"…cuddling the monster."
The thought hangs there, strange and fragile, almost absurd—and yet not entirely dismissible, not in a world where nothing has behaved as expected.
Before anyone can answer—
The tavern door slams open.
Hard.
The sound cuts through the room like a blade, abrupt and final, and with it comes a rush of cold wind that pushes inward alongside fine misted rain, carrying the scent of wet earth and lake water, of something vast and unseen beyond the walls.
Aldo steps through the darkness outside.
For a moment, he is nothing but a silhouette framed by torchlight behind him, his outline sharp against the dim glow, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere without a word.
Everyone freezes slightly.
Not out of fear.
But recognition.
The light casts long shadows across the wooden floor, stretching and distorting as the door swings partially closed behind him. His cloak is soaked, heavy with rain, dripping steadily onto the boards beneath his boots in quiet, rhythmic drops that echo more than they should.
His expression looks exhausted.
But focused.
Too focused.
The kind of focus that comes when there is no room left for anything else.
His gaze settles directly on Ryong.
Not angry.
Not emotional.
Just sharp.
"We are not here to meditate and find a third way."
The room stills further, the words landing without force yet carrying a weight that presses down on everyone present.
Aldo steps fully inside, the door creaking as it swings shut behind him, sealing out the storm while leaving its presence lingering in the air.
"We are slave-soldiers."
Each word follows the last with deliberate clarity, not raised, not rushed, but unmistakable.
"The objective is eliminating the Drakolimne."
Ryong reacts immediately, the tension already coiled inside him snapping forward.
"There has to be another option."
But Aldo does not look at him.
Not yet.
Instead, his gaze shifts toward Onaga, as if moving along a line of reasoning that has already been decided.
"Onaga, What happens if Earthling slave-soldiers fail a mission ?"
Onaga answers without hesitation, his voice quiet, steady, carrying the tone of something memorized rather than debated.
"If failure is unintentional, forced labor and whipping."
The fire pops in the hearth, the sound sharp in the silence.
No one moves.
Onaga continues, after the briefest pause.
"If intentional…"
There is a fraction of hesitation.
Then—
"Death sentence."
Ryong's face darkens instantly, the weight of the words hitting harder than the tone they were delivered in, and the room itself seems to grow colder, as if the warmth of the fire cannot quite reach where that reality settles.
Aldo continues before Ryong can respond, not giving the moment space to fracture.
"If we fake the creature's death and the local Marquis later discovers the Drakolimne still alive, all involved parties face execution."
His gaze moves across the room, not lingering, not accusing—simply stating.
"Not one. All."
The silence that follows is no longer just quiet.
It is pressure.
Rain continues striking the roof above, steady and relentless, while somewhere upstairs a child begins to cry softly, the sound thin and distant, barely contained.
Ryong clenches his fists, charcoal dust smearing against his palms.
"But if Teufel really knows the monster—"
Aldo cuts him off instantly.
"Dead men cannot make progress."
The words come calm.
Controlled.
Almost empty of emotion.
And yet beneath them, something burns—something held tightly in place, something that does not need volume to be felt.
Aldo steps closer to the table, the maps and notes spread across it catching the dim light as his shadow falls over them.
"We must survive first."
His wet fingers press lightly against the surface, anchoring him there, grounding the moment.
"Freedom means nothing if we die before reaching it."
Ryong's expression tightens, frustration rising into something sharper, more desperate.
"Then we need more time to think."
Aldo turns fully toward him now.
And for the first time since entering—
There is intensity in his eyes.
Not anger.
Not rage.
But pressure.
The kind that builds slowly over time—through exhaustion, through responsibility, through the quiet accumulation of fear that is never spoken aloud.
"In urgent moments…"
His voice lowers, slower now, measured with care.
"Inaction is an action."
No one interrupts.
No one dares.
"The third action automatically chooses the worse outcome instead of the bad one."
His gaze sharpens further, not outward now, but inward—toward the idea itself.
"And to desperate people, hesitation looks exactly like neglect."
The room falls completely silent.
Even Comtois says nothing.
Hano exhales slowly at last, the sound carrying tension with it.
"Problem is…"
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly toward the others before settling somewhere unfocused.
"We don't even have solutions."
Aldo glances toward him, waiting.
Hano continues, quieter now.
"The Morito Sword rejected everyone."
Comtois groans softly, dragging a hand down his face.
"Bro that thing cursed us."
Hano nods once.
"Small corruption symptoms. Fatigue. Headaches. Fever."
Onaga adds, his tone unchanged.
"Could fade naturally within several days. Magical cleansing speeds recovery but costs money."
Comtois raises both hands dramatically, a hollow gesture now.
"Which we absolutely do not have."
Aldo does not respond.
Not immediately.
Instead, he moves.
His hand reaches for his musket, the motion controlled, deliberate, but unmistakable in its intention. The weapon lifts, settles against his shoulder, the weight familiar.
The shift draws every eye in the room.
He takes a torch next, its flame flickering to life with a small burst of orange light that dances across his face, catching in his eyes, reflecting something harder to define.
Then ration packs.
Prepared.
Decided.
The room watches in silence.
Hano frowns.
"What are you doing."
Aldo does not hesitate.
"If sacrifice becomes necessary…"
His voice remains calm, steady in a way that feels almost unnatural.
"…the leader assumes the first risk."
Then he turns.
And walks toward the door.
Straight into the darkness waiting outside.
For a moment, no one moves.
Then Hano curses under his breath.
"Seriously, Taichō-sama ?"
He grabs his gear quickly, movements sharp, decisive, driven by something between anger and loyalty.
Onaga follows without a word, quietly collecting the vial of yellow liquid before stepping after them, his pace measured, controlled even now.
The door opens again.
Cold wind rushes in.
Then closes.
Leaving the tavern behind.
Ryong remains seated.
Frozen.
His fingers tighten around the charcoal still in his hand until it snaps with a soft, brittle crack.
The sound feels louder than it should.
The tavern feels different now.
Too quiet.
Too small.
Too empty.
Comtois watches the door for a long moment, his usual ease replaced by something more thoughtful, more distant.
Then he looks toward Ryong.
Ryong does not lift his head.
His voice is barely above a whisper.
"There has to be a better way…"
His voice sounds weak now.
Uncertain.
He turns toward the window absentmindedly—
And sees a villager outside.
A father.
Kneeling beside three fresh graves.
Rain falls across the man's shoulders.
He does not move.
Does not speak.
One hand rests against the smallest grave marker.
Ryong's throat tightens.
The father bends forward slightly.
Shoulders trembling silently.
No screaming.
No dramatic collapse.
Just quiet grief.
Heavy enough to crush the night itself.
Ryong slowly inhales.
Then exhales shakily.
"There has to be…"
But the words weaken halfway through.
Because suddenly—
The memory returns.
The screaming at the shore.
The children buried under collapsed roofs.
The Drakolimne whispering names.
The yellow blood.
The water.
The fear.
And underneath it—
Aldo's voice.
"Inaction is an action."
Ryong closes his eyes tightly.
Conflicted thoughts spiral violently.
[If we kill it… what if Teufel is right?]
[If we don't… what if more villages die?]
[What if there really was another way?]
[What if waiting kills more people than action?]
The door beside him creaks open again.
Comtois stands there now.
No grin.
No loud jokes.
No exaggerated gestures.
Just serious.
Unusually serious.
His armor creaks softly as he walks closer.
Ryong notices the soot stains still covering parts of Comtois's sleeves from the village fire.
The Korean boy sits beside him heavily.
Quiet for several seconds.
Then—
"You know…"
Comtois stares toward the rain outside.
"…I keep hearing them."
Ryong looks confused.
Comtois continues softly.
"The ones from the wolf rebellion."
The tavern grows still again.
"Our first joint mission."
A bitter smile appears briefly.
"Thought we were all gonna die there. To the PPF."
Ryong says nothing.
Comtois leans forward slightly.
"This thing?"
His eyes drift toward the darkness outside.
"The Drakolimne doesn't stop."
His voice lowers further.
"When it attacked the village… it burned boys alive just to reach us."
The comedic tone is completely gone now.
Only exhaustion remains.
Comtois slowly stands again.
Already carrying gear.
Rope.
Packs.
Five pickaxes strapped awkwardly together across his back.
Ryong blinks.
"Why pickaxes ?"
Comtois shrugs.
"Aldo probably has some insane idea."
A faint grin appears.
Weak.
But real.
Then disappears again.
He walks toward the doorway.
Stops there briefly.
Rain and darkness wait outside.
Before stepping out—
Comtois speaks quietly.
"The Drakolimne had no mercy when it took revenge."
He glances back slightly.
"Why should you, dang-po?"
Dang-po.
Fellow.
The old slang lands heavier than expected.
Then Comtois walks into darkness.
Gone.
Only rain remains.
Ryong stays motionless.
Heart pounding.
Mind splitting itself apart.
Aldo's words.
Comtois's words.
Teufel's grief.
The father beside the graves.
The villagers.
The monster.
The mission.
The executions waiting if they fail.
His breathing becomes uneven.
"Inaction…"
He mutters softly to himself.
"…is an action."
The sentence haunts him now.
Because he understands exactly what Aldo meant.
Doing nothing is still choosing something.
Waiting is still a decision.
And desperate people pay for delayed decisions with blood.
Ryong grips the edge of the table tightly.
Then slowly stands.
His legs feel weak.
He looks once more toward the grieving father outside.
Rain continues falling over the graves.
No miracle comes.
No third option descends from the heavens.
Only darkness.
Only choices.
Ryong takes a long breath.
Longer this time.
Then grabs his sketchbook.
His charcoal.
A lantern.
And runs into the night after them.