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"Are you thinking something? If something's bothering you, you can tell me," Arifoam asked, slowing his steps slightly as he looked straight at Laryoal. His expression had subtly tightened, like he was trying to read through him.
"No… it's nothing," Laryoal replied after a brief pause. His gaze stayed ahead, unfocused. "I'm just trying to remember someone… someone who gave me the direction of Vin'ash."
"Really?" Arifoam let out a short breath. "I thought you had already found yourself. I mean, I was shocked too when Master said you were coming from the Old Gate."
He glanced sideways, scanning Laryoal from head to toe.
"But seeing your attire… and the way you carry yourself, I thought it was normal for you. I've only heard stories about those barren lands in the south—they're… strange. Unknown."
They kept walking.
"Once there were two towns out there," Arifoam continued, his voice lowering slightly as if the night itself was listening. "But now… both are just rubble. Completely gone. That's what the woodcutters say. They're the only ones allowed near the black woods around the Old Gate."
He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking.
"My grandfather used to say those lands… where entire towns lost their lives… they created something. Some kind of unstable magic. Or maybe something worse." He exhaled. "Anyway… better to ask Master tomorrow."
"Yes… I will," Laryoal said quietly.
A cold wind slipped through the narrow path.
Arifoam suddenly sneezed harshly, his body jerking forward as he gritted his teeth, trying not to show how sharp the chill felt.
"Aren't you feeling cold? Fana was really worried," he said, sniffing slightly.
"It's not that cold," Laryoal replied, raising a hand to the soft white towel wrapped around his neck, lightly pressing it as if grounding himself. "This is enough."
Arifoam narrowed his eyes.
"And what's with the barefoot thing?"
"I just… have a habit of it."
"A habit?" Arifoam's lips curved into a sly smile. "That's interesting. You have habits now?" His tone sharpened playfully, like a detective poking at a suspect.
"Where do we turn next?" Laryoal cut in immediately, his voice calm but firm.
Arifoam paused… then smirked.
"Left. This street might feel a bit degrading after the main road," he said, gesturing ahead, "but this… this is closer to real life. Balance."
They turned.
The moment they stepped deeper, the silence broke.
Shouts. Loud. Layered. Raw.
The sound rolled toward them like a wave, growing thicker with each step. Laryoal's expression stiffened. For a brief second, his brows tightened and his jaw locked—he almost flinched, as if the noise scratched against something deeper inside him.
He subtly tilted his head, forcing his ears to adjust.
Before Arifoam could notice, Laryoal straightened again—but the faint tension in his face remained.
"It's near," Arifoam said.
They crossed a rough, stony stretch. The noise sharpened—clearer now, harsher.
Soon, they stood before a worn-out gate.
"Vin'ash Governed School for Inamon Community."
The letters, written in Vaerman, were faded and uneven.
The gate itself looked brittle, cracked in multiple places. A low boundary wall stretched along the sides—too low to be taken seriously, full of holes and broken patches, like it had been challenged and defeated many times.
A single yellow flame flickered in a hanging lamp above the gate, its light weak and unstable, barely illuminating the sign. Beyond that—only the pale wash of moonlight.
They stepped inside.
A dense crowd surrounded a raised flame at the center. The yellow light danced over faces—some excited, some dull, most just loud.
People pushed, leaned, shouted, climbed.
Some stood on tiptoe, others shoved their way forward. A few had already climbed onto the flat roof, crouched or standing dangerously close to the edge.
The air was thick—not just with noise, but with something restless.
"Fuck you, chachuhi!" a voice screamed from above.
"Don't cry, loser! I'll send your mom early tonight!" another shot back from below.
Laughter. Mockery. More voices joined in.
The insults spread faster than the cheers.
"Those racist motherfuckers…" Arifoam muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening. "Rotten fruits… always in the basket."
"It's… normal," Laryoal replied, though his eyes were still searching through the chaos, trying to understand the game rather than the people.
"Wait here," Arifoam said. "I'll get us a better view."
He slipped into the crowd, disappearing between shoulders and shadows.
Laryoal stood alone.
He slowly scanned the area. Despite the loudness, something felt… off. The energy lacked life. The excitement felt forced, like noise for the sake of noise.
He tilted his head upward.
The moon hung steady above, calm and distant—completely untouched by the chaos below.
For a moment, he let himself focus on it.
The noise faded… just slightly.
"Hello, sir."
A small, firm voice broke through.
Laryoal blinked and turned.
A group of girls stood beside him, dressed in long black skirts and fitted shirts of varying colors. Their posture was relaxed, their expressions light—some smiling, some hiding laughter.
One girl stepped slightly forward.
She looked directly into his eyes, tilted her head, then raised both hands casually, signaling him to move aside.
Laryoal froze.
His shoulders stiffened. Instinctively, he folded his arms and stepped back in one large, awkward motion.
As they passed, he avoided looking directly—but he could feel it.
One of them kept her gaze on him for a second longer… before turning away with a soft chuckle.
Then the group burst into quiet laughter.
It lingered.
Laryoal remained still for a moment.
Why are they laughing?
His mind began to spiral—
Barefoot? …The clothes? …This towel?
His grip tightened slightly around his own arm.
Still better than those half-naked idiots shouting…
He exhaled slowly.
He had never interacted with girls his age before. Not even looked properly. Except his sister—there was no frame of reference.
"What happened?"
Arifoam's voice pulled him back.
He returned with a young boy.
"Nothing," Laryoal said, straightening his posture again, his expression returning to its usual calm.
"Come. I've arranged a place. Friend of mine."
"And the kid?" Laryoal asked, glancing down.
"Oh, I didn't tell Fana we came here. She'll worry," Arifoam said casually. "He'll pass the message and go home. Right?"
The boy nodded quickly.
"And don't wander around at this hour," Arifoam added, pointing a finger. "Or I'll tell your mother."
The boy stiffened, nodded again, and ran off immediately.
They circled the crowd, moving through darker edges where the flame barely reached.
There, seated on a worn chair, was a white-haired young man.
His face looked both young and aged—patchy skin, faint scars, and old marks stretched across his arms and neck. He wore a stained white shirt and brown half-pants.
Beside him sat a girl—calm, composed, with black hair and steady eyes.
"Well, this is him," Arifoam said in vaerman.
"He doesn't understand Inamon but know vaerman well ?, shouldn't you tell him arifoam that inamon is as important as vaerman in here." the white-haired man asked flatly, barely turning.
"He'll learn. He's just here for a few days. Master invited him."
The man sighed softly and looked back at the game.
"What's your name?" the girl asked, her voice gentle, switching to Vaerman.
"Laryoal Black," he replied, stepping slightly forward. "From a swarg called Blue Fountain… if translated."
He extended his hand.
"Never heard of it, kid," the white-haired man said, taking the handshake instead.
The girl smiled faintly. "It's rare to see a foreigner here."
"That's Sana. He's Kabir," Arifoam added quickly. "Now shift—I want to watch."
They adjusted.
Laryoal sat beside Kabir, his eyes now fixed on the game.
Two muddy courts. Players divided into blue-black and dark red.
One man stepped into the opponent's side, moving carefully, muttering something under his breath, his chest rising and falling in a controlled rhythm.
He tried to touch someone—
But the defenders moved together, linking arms, forming a chain.
Laryoal frowned slightly.
"It's a round game," Kabir said without looking at him. "Touch someone… and make it back. Or get caught."
Laryoal turned slightly toward him.
"They take turns. Points build up to fifty… then reset."
"Hmm. You play?" Laryoal asked.
"Not anymore."
A sharp whistle cut through.
The referee—a broad-chested man with a long white beard—stepped in, pulling players apart as they pinned one man to the ground.
"Fucking worm , atleast try to move a little ,lazy inamon sloths "a voice came from back of the laryoal a curly hair guy with no shirt in big smile shouting around his friends on the roof.
"Fuck yourself!" came a reply from below.
"Come up then!"
"Hey! Salfaz—don't overdo it!" the referee with board chest and white beard barked.
"Go send your wife to your neighborand fuck the horse!" another voice roared,but this time it was kabir.
Then—
"Yeah… like I fucked your dead sister, Kabir."the curly hair guy chuckled hard with his friends around him.
But the words sliced through everything.
Laughter erupted above.
But below—
Silence.
Laryoal turned slowly.
Kabir's hand had tightened—veins visible.
Sana's hand gripped his wrist firmly.
"Kabir… don't," she whispered, her voice low but urgent.
He didn't respond.
He stood.
The chair scraped harshly against the ground.
In one swift motion, he stepped onto the bench—and jumped.
His body cut through the dim air, landing hard on the roof.
Instant chaos.
Hands reached for him—pulling, grabbing, striking—but Kabir forced through, his movements sharp and relentless, eyes locked on one target.
The curly-haired man.
Laryoal stood up.
He didn't move forward.
He just watched.
Arifoam had already started running toward the wall, pushing through people.
Sana turned and rushed toward the referee, her steps quick, breath uneven.
Above—
The crowd broke.
And Kabir kept going.
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The end
To be continued