Chapter 15: The King and the Crown
The celebration lasted until nightfall.
But victory never silences division.
By sunrise, the tribe had split.
Some knelt to Daito as rightful king — the slayer of Bugardi.
Others whispered that no outsider should ever sit on the stone throne of Armagoth Valley.
A few still believed strength alone justified rule.
The valley did not want another tyrant.
It wanted certainty.
* * *
Daito Greyhell stood before the central fire pit.
Bugardi's throne of carved stone loomed behind him.
Aerin stepped forward.
"You won by law. The king is dead. The valley is yours."
Murmurs rippled.
Daito looked at the throne.
Then at the shaman.
Old. Scarred. Wise.
The same man Bugardi nearly executed.
Daito spoke calmly.
"I did not kill him to replace him."
Gasps.
He turned to the shaman.
"You understand your people. Their laws. Their fear. Their freedom."
The shaman's voice trembled. "You would hand me the throne?"
"I would hand you responsibility."
Silence.
Then Daito knelt — not as king, but as protector.
"You lead. I walk."
The tribe felt the difference immediately.
Power without hunger.
Strength without possession.
The valley chose the shaman that day.
Not because of prophecy.
But because Daito refused to rule.
* * *
As preparations were made, one warrior stepped forward.
Aerin.
"I pledged loyalty if you won."
Daito shook his head. "The valley needs you."
Aerin smiled faintly. "The valley needs hope more."
Pause.
"And hope walks."
The shaman allowed it.
One warrior would accompany the Seontaekdoen ja.
The shaman handed her the tribe made"Traditional Blade"
"I hand you this sacred weapon", the shaman added.
"Make sure the Seontaekdoen ja wields it, in his time of need."
Aerin bowed and took the animal skin wrapped blade.
That evening, the tribe prepared a departure rite.
Animal-skin cloaks were washed in river ash.
Sacred herbs burned.
The shaman painted two markings across Daito's face — one for death survived, one for paths unchosen.
He placed his hand on Daito's chest.
"You have no Aura tier," the shaman whispered.
"But you have depth."
"The prophecy did not say you would rule."
"It said you would disrupt."
Daito nodded once.
Aerin stood beside him, newly braided warrior cords in her hair.
The tribe chanted as the two stepped beyond the valley boundary.
No king's escort.
No army.
Just footsteps.
* * *
Destination: Manswill
After days of travel through fractured plains and broken trade roads, they reached a mid-sized town surrounded by outer farms.
A wooden sign read:
Manswill
Smoke drifted from chimneys.
Normal.
Peaceful.
Too peaceful.
"Aarrgh!"
Then the screaming started.
Freakers.
Dozens.
Crawling over rooftops.
Tearing into livestock pens.
People running through the streets.
Daito did not speak.
He moved.
Aerin followed without command.
SLING!
A blade flashed.
Then another.
SWOOSH!
Daito moved through the chaos like a dark current.
SLASH! POW! CRUSH!
No wasted motion.
Neck severed.
Spine split.
Skull crushed against brick.
SLASH—SLASH—SLASH!
Aerin cut down three at once with rotational precision.
Within minutes, the town square was littered with dismembered bodies.
DRIP—DRIPP!
Blood pooled between cobblestones.
Silence returned.
An older woman approached first.
Hands shaking.
"You… you just arrived."
Daito wiped his blade.
"Yes."
A younger man stared at him.
"You fight like him."
Daito looked up.
"Like who?"
The man swallowed.
"Our neighborhood hero."
Pause.
"He's probably your age."
Aerin's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What's his name?"
The man turned toward the gathering crowd.
Someone shouted it first.
Then another.
Then five more.
Then the entire street echoed in joy:
"CHAMPAIGNE!"
"CHAMPAIGNE!"
"CHAMPAIGNE!"
The name carried through Manswill like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Children ran from houses.
A symbol was painted on a nearby wall — a stylized blade wrapped in wind.
Daito stood still.
Processing.
A hero.
Same age.
Operating independently.
Fighting Freakers.
The word formed quietly in his mind.
Rebel.
Aerin spoke low enough only he could hear.
"You were looking for others who fight the system."
Daito's eyes shifted toward the rooftops.
"Looks like one found us first."
Far above them.....
On a distant building edge....
A silhouette stood watching.
Unseen.
FWOO!
Wind moving his coat slightly.
The rebel called Champaigne had just felt a shift in the town's rhythm.
And he was curious.
Daito saw him.
Just for a second.
A figure standing on a rooftop across Manswill's main street.
Coat shifting slightly in the wind.
Still.
Watching.
Their eyes met across distance.
Measured.
No hostility.
No greeting.
Just recognition.
Then—
SWOOSH!
He vanished.
No dramatic leap.
No sound.
Just gone.
Aerin exhaled slowly. "That's him."
Daito didn't answer.
* * *
Welcome to Manswill
A middle-aged baker with flour still on his sleeves approached them nervously.
"You two just saved half our livestock… least we can do is show some gratitude."
They were guided through narrow cobbled streets.
Introduced to neighbors.
Farmers.
Blacksmiths.
Shop owners.
Children who stared wide-eyed at Daito's blade.
Aerin did most of the speaking.
Warm smile.
Steady voice.
Controlled presence.
Daito walked beside her quietly, absorbing.
He watched how people looked at him.
Not with fear.
With hope.
He was used to that.
A small family offered them a spare room above their carpentry shop.
"It's not much," the owner said, scratching his beard. "But it's dry."
"It's perfect," Aerin replied.
Daito nodded once in thanks.
That was enough.
That evening, over stew and lantern light, Aerin asked carefully.
"So this Champaigne… how did he start?"
The carpenter's wife leaned forward.
"His real name's Champaigne Vannian,"she said.
"Son of a wealthy crazy scientist."
"Was," her husband corrected gently.
She nodded.
"Kicked out by his father. Publicly. Said he was a disgrace."
"For what?" Aerin asked.
"Wouldn't obey," the husband said. "Didn't believe in staying neutral with the NBA taxes and compliance patrols, or something like that."
Daito's gaze shifted slightly at the mention of the system.
The wife continued.
"He left with nothing. No money. No house. Slept behind storage sheds."
"Then the Freaker outbreaks got worse," the husband said. "And Champaign started killing them."
"At first people thought he'd die," the wife added softly. "But he didn't."
"He got better," the husband said.
"Stronger."
"He doesn't take money," the wife whispered. "Only supplies. And he refuses to bow to the Sheriff."
That part lingered.
Aerin glanced at Daito.
He remained expressionless.
But inside...
Interest sharpened.
Rumors were wind.
He preferred steel.
"I'll ask him myself," Daito said quietly.
The room went silent.
The couple exchanged nervous glances.
"Champaigne doesn't… do meetings."
Daito looked toward the window.
"He will."
* * *
The next morning, they visited the town hall.
A brick building reinforced with iron panels.
Order.
Structure.
Authority.
Inside stood Sheriff Marcus Camberley.
Broad shoulders.
Clean uniform.
Cold eyes.
He studied Daito and Aerin without smiling.
"So you're the two who handled yesterday's disturbance."
Aerin stepped forward. "We were passing through."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Passing through towns don't usually involve decapitating twelve Freakers."
Daito said nothing.
Marcus continued.
"Manswill has rules."
He walked around them as he spoke.
"No unsanctioned vigilante activity without report."
"No inciting rebellion against external authority."
"No private armies."
"No disruption of tax routes."
His eyes lingered on Daito's sword.
"You fight well. That's useful."
Then his tone hardened.
"But this town survives because we follow regulations."
Aerin crossed her arms. "And Champaigne?"
A flicker passed through Marcus' face.
"Champaigne operates in a gray zone."
"Meaning?" Aerin pressed.
"Meaning," Marcus said evenly, "he kills Freakers. He doesn't kill people. So we tolerate him."
Daito finally spoke.
"And if he steps out of that gray zone?"
Marcus met his eyes.
"Then I bring him in."
Silence filled the office.
Two authority models.
One lawful.
One ungoverned.
Both necessary.
As they left the building, Aerin spoke under her breath.
"He doesn't like losing control."
Daito's eyes lifted toward a distant rooftop again.
"He already lost it."
High above them on the edge of a clocktower, Champagne watched the Sheriff's building.
And he was smiling.
Because now there were two outsiders in his town.
And one of them didn't talk.
* * *
Inside the brick office of Sheriff Marcus Camberley, frustration simmered.
Two anomalies had entered his town.
Two fighters capable of eliminating a Freaker swarm in minutes.
And neither existed on paper.
He sat at his desk, reports scattered.
"One grew up native?" he muttered. "Not registered anywhere?"
A deputy nodded nervously. "No birth file. No census. No academy record."
Marcus flipped to the second report.
"And this one?"
The deputy swallowed. "Blocked."
"Blocked how?"
"Protected clearance. High-tier encryption."
Marcus' jaw tightened.
"By who?"
The deputy hesitated.
"…The NBA."
Silence fell heavy.
Marcus leaned back slowly.
"So one ghost from the wild."
"And one file guarded by the system itself."
His fist clenched.
"I don't run a town full of unknown variables."
He summoned his two most trusted investigators.
Sheila Baw — sharp-eyed, analytical, silent observer.
Alex Piercer — calm, patient, precise tracker.
Marcus stood in front of them.
"I want everything."
"Where they go. Who they talk to. What they buy. What they eat."
Alex crossed his arms. "Anonymous?"
Marcus nodded. "No confrontation. No uniforms. No intimidation."
His voice lowered.
"I will not have outsiders playing hero in my jurisdiction."
Pause.
"And if they plan to stay?"
Sheila finished his thought. "They work. They pay taxes."
Marcus gave a thin smile.
"Exactly."
* * *
Later that evening, at home, Marcus paced near the window.
His wife placed tea on the table.
"You're spiraling again," she said gently.
"They're unpredictable."
"They just arrived."
"They erased a Freaker outbreak in six minutes."
She met his eyes.
"And saved lives."
Marcus looked away.
"Unknown fighters destabilize towns."
She stepped closer.
"Or they strengthen them."
He exhaled slowly.
"Give them time," she whispered. "Observe intention before you assume rebellion."
Marcus did not answer.
But he did stop pacing.
The next morning, a knock came at the carpentry shop door.
A farmer stood there, hat in hand.
"Could use strong backs at the east field."
Before Aerin could respond, Daito stepped forward.
"We'll help."
Aerin blinked. "We didn't come here to plow soil."
Daito picked up a tool.
"We didn't come here to destabilize either."
She rolled her eyes but followed.
They repaired fences.
Lifted feed sacks.
Reinforced barn doors.
Carried lumber for roof repairs.
Helped a shopkeeper reorganize storage.
Stacked grain crates.
No Aura.
No blades.
Just labor.
Sheila observed from a bakery window.
Alex tracked from alleyways.
They expected secret meetings.
Hidden signals.
Conspiratorial whispers.
Instead—
They saw Daito sweating in silence.
Working harder than hired men.
Accepting modest coin.
Saying little.
Aerin, at first visibly irritated, gradually softened.
When a child handed her a basket of apples in thanks, she almost smiled.
By afternoon, she actually did.
"You're enjoying this," Daito said quietly while hammering a post into place.
She scoffed. "Don't push it."
But she stayed longer than necessary.
* * *
At week's end, Daito placed coins on the municipal counter.
"Property lodging contribution," he said calmly.
The clerk stared.
"You're… paying?"
"Yes."
No negotiation.
No argument.
No resistance.
Sheila, watching from outside, frowned slightly.
"This doesn't fit," she murmured.
Alex nodded.
"Rebels don't file contributions."
Sheila replied, "Unless they're not here to rebel."
Marcus read the investigator report that night.
"They worked?"
"Yes."
"Voluntarily?"
"Yes."
"Paid taxes?"
"Yes."
Marcus stared at the parchment.
"That makes it worse."
His wife raised an eyebrow. "Because?"
"Because now I can't label them."
He hated unknowns.
And these two refused to behave like threats.
Which made them more dangerous in a different way.
Meanwhile—
On a rooftop overlooking the town square—
Champaigne observed Daito helping an elderly man lift a water barrel.
No applause.
No dramatic entrance.
No announcement.
Just quiet strength.
Champaigne's lips curved faintly.
"So you can fight."
"And you can live."
He adjusted his coat.
"Interesting."
The town of Manswill was stable.
For now.
But too many powerful personalities shared the same space.
The Sheriff valued order.
Champaign valued independence.
Daito valued disruption without chaos.
Aerin valued loyalty.
And the NBA valued control.
Pressure was building.
* * *
The town hall of Manswill was full.
Farmers.
Merchants.
Guards.
Mothers holding children close.
At the front stood Sheriff Marcus Camberley, posture rigid as ever.
Opposite him, leaning casually against a pillar with one boot resting against the wall—
Champaigne.
Coat loose.
Expression relaxed.
Eyes sharp.
The room felt divided without anyone saying it.
Marcus spoke first.
"You operate without jurisdiction."
Champaigne shrugged. "I operate where the screaming is."
"You undermine authority."
"I remove monsters."
"You answer to no one."
Champaigne tilted his head slightly.
"Do Freakers answer to you?"
A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd.
Marcus' jaw tightened.
"This town survives because of structure."
Champaigne pushed off the wall.
"This town survives because someone runs toward danger instead of filing paperwork."
The tension spiked.
Aerin watched from the side, arms crossed.
Daito stood beside her, silent as stone.
For a moment—
It almost softened.
Marcus exhaled.
"I don't want chaos."
Champaigne's voice lowered slightly.
"Neither do I."
The room seemed ready to breathe again—
BOM!
Until the doors burst open.
A soldier rushed in, armor dust-covered.
"Freakers at the north perimeter!"
Another guard shouted from outside, "They're different this time!"
Stronger.
Faster.
More aggressive.
The room stiffened.
The soldier looked directly at Champaigne.
"We need you."
The name alone shifted the air.
Someone in the crowd whispered it.
Then another.
Then suddenly—
The entire hall erupted in unified voices:
"CHAMPAIGNE!"
"CHAMPAIGNE!"
"CHAMPAIGNE!"
The sound shook the rafters.
Hope incarnate.
Champaigne didn't bask in it.
He just nodded once.
"I'll handle it."
He glanced briefly toward Daito before turning.
"Try not to burn the town down while I'm gone, Sheriff."
And he was out the door.
* * *
When Champaign arrived—
Fwoosh...
The battlefield was quiet.
Too quiet.
Minimal damage.
A few collapsed fences.
Broken stone.
And several Freaker bodies.
Clean cuts.
Precise strikes.
No civilian casualties.
Two figures stood amid the remains.
One wiping his blade.
One adjusting her wrist wraps.
Champaigne gasped.
to be continued.....