After leaving the mountains, a wide, flat plain stretched before us. A gentle breeze rustled through the grass and brushed against our faces, feeling refreshingly cool and almost ethereal. About ten minutes of riding later, a small town came into view. It had no walls or barriers, only a single road running straight through its center—the path we needed to follow.
We dismounted at the edge of the town. Hank greeted a passing Military Police officer and led the horses to a nearby stable to secure them. Then, we walked into town together. I scanned the low-rise buildings, intrigued by the unfamiliar architecture, while thinking to myself, So I can actually understand their writing too?
"Yato, take Mikasa and look around, maybe buy a few things. Jax and I will take care of his identification paperwork. We'll meet you later. If we can't find you, rendezvous at Ryan's Restaurant at noon," Hank instructed.
"Okay," Yato said, taking Mikasa's hand. "Let's go, Mikasa."
"Let's go, Jax," Hank added. I nodded and followed him.
After a few streets, we arrived at a large building with a sign that read Government Office. Its architecture reminded me vaguely of old European administrative halls—sturdy, functional, and austere. Hank took my hand as we entered, approaching a somber-looking man in his thirties wearing glasses and sitting behind a desk.
"Skog, come help us reissue identification," Hank called.
The man, Skog, looked up, pushed his glasses upward, and smiled faintly. "Hank. It's been a while." He pulled a form from the desk and picked up a pen. "I assume this is for the child beside you?"
I instinctively shrank slightly behind Hank, pretending to be shy.
"Haha, I warned you long ago—you're not cut out for handling children. No affinity at all!" Hank teased, using his hand to shield me.
Skog didn't seem offended. He smiled, shook his head, and gestured for us to follow. "This isn't the place to talk. Let's go to the back." He returned to the desk, collected another document, gave instructions to an assistant, and led the way. Hank guided me after him.
"Name?"
"Jax Kenway."
"Age?"
"Ten."
"Any immediate relatives?"
"None."
Skog continued asking questions, and I answered each carefully. After a few minutes, he handed the completed form to me. "Check it for errors," he said expressionlessly. Then, he handed another document to Hank.
"Sign here, Hank. You'll be this child's guarantor and legal guardian," Skog explained. Hank nodded, took the pen, signed, and returned the document.
"Thanks, Skog."
"No problem," Skog replied, taking the papers. "Your identification will be ready before noon. Remember to come pick it up then."