The late morning sun lingered over Mercedes, its golden light pouring steadily across the cobblestone streets, casting shorter, warmer shadows as the day edged toward noon.
Jurgen moved through the town with an unhurried stride, his bag strapped tight across his back.
As he walked, he pressed a gentle hand to his chest, wincing faintly at the lingering pain from yesterday's events.
Beneath his shirt, he could feel the bandages Hana had wrapped, snug against his skin.
His gaze drifted left, then right, taking in the surroundings.
The town thrived around him,voices overlapping in lively chatter, laughter rising and falling, wooden carts rattling over uneven stone as merchants called out to passing customers.
He slowed near an apple stand.
"It's been so long," he murmured, almost to himself.
Without hesitation, he grabbed an apple and sank his teeth into it, biting down greedily.
Juice spilled down his chin, sticky and bright, but he paid it no mind, savoring each chew as he continued walking.
"Hey!… Hey!"
The shout cut through the noise, sharp and insistent.
"Hmm?" Jurgen turned, his mouth still full of apple, chewing lazily.
"You're gonna have to pay for that!" the shop owner barked, waving a hand in agitation.
Jurgen froze mid-step.
I didn't even notice
He swallowed, his cheeks still slightly puffed, and stammered, "Right… right, sorry!" His hand dove into his pouch, rummaging frantically.
His fingers fumbled through the empty space. Nothing.
Slowly, he withdrew his hand. A nervous chuckle slipped past his lips.
"Ah… funny thing…"
The shop owner's expression remained unchanged.
Jurgen scratched the back of his head, forcing a strained smile. "I seem to have… misplaced my money."
Silence settled between them.
The air grew stiff, almost brittle.
The shop owner's eyes twitched.
GRIP
The shop owner seized his shirt, yanking him back and forth.
Jurgen's neck snapped along with the motion, his head wobbling loosely as if the life had nearly been shaken out of him, the movement almost comical.
The half-eaten apple was snatched from his hand.
"Well, someone's going to have to pay for it," he snapped, his face flushed with anger.
A head slowly emerged from behind Jurgen's shoulder, subtle, almost unnoticed.
BLINK.
BLINK.
A young teenage boy stood there, as though he had always been present.
His neatly parted black hair fell effortlessly to either side of his face, framing features that balanced softness with a quiet, underlying sharpness.
His dark blue eyes, calm, unwavering, settled upon the scene, observing everything without a hint of urgency.
He wore black pants that ended just below his knees and a simple brown long-sleeved shirt, his appearance unassuming, yet every movement radiated precise control.
"Ahh… Mr. Godil, I'll take care of that," he said softly, squinting his eyes into a gentle smile as he spoke.
He reached into his pocket, producing a small pouch of coins, the faint clink breaking the tense silence.
"You had better thank your god, little brat," the old man sneered, releasing Jurgen's shirt with a final shove.
Jurgen staggered slightly before turning toward the new presence.
His eyes widened, frozen mid-turn.
I hadn't felt him arrive. Not a whisper of movement… Not a shift in the air .
The boy was simply… there.
Then he lifted a hand, a subtle, effortless wave.
The smile that followed was quiet, unassuming, yet unnervingly serene.
It carried no trace of tension, no shadow of the anger that had gripped the battlefield moments before, as if the chaos itself had been nothing more than an illusion.
Jurgen's body betrayed him, twitching slightly under the weight of disbelief.
Every muscle coiled, then relaxed, caught between instinct and confusion.
The boy's gaze met his, calm and disarming, eyes glinting with a measured clarity that seemed to cut through the haze of rage.
"Who… are you?" Jurgen's voice emerged rough, jagged, each word sharpened with cold suspicion.
Jurgen tightened the strap of his bag with a sharp tug, the leather biting briefly into his hand, then turned away without so much as a glance back.
Each step he took seemed deliberate, measured, a quiet statement that he wouldn't wait for answers, nor for interruptions.
Pierre hurried to catch up, the soft scuff of his shoes against the ground barely audible. He adjusted his glasses with a careful, almost nervous precision.
"Pierre… Pierre Findler," he offered, voice soft, almost hesitant.
A gentle cough escaped him, a small punctuation to the introduction.
Jurgen remained silent, his pace unbroken, his shoulders taut with cold indifference, as if Pierre's very presence was nothing more than a passing shadow.
"So… are you also here for the—" Pierre began, curiosity lacing the words.
"GET LOST!" Jurgen snapped, the interruption cutting through the air like a blade. "I have no business with someone who lies about something as trivial as a name."
His voice was colder than the first frost of winter, stripped of all warmth.
Pierre moved closer, unbothered, almost predatory in his calm. "My my… who said I lied?" His eyes, magnified slightly by his glasses, glimmered with a quiet amusement.
Hooo he noticed already… how inconvenient, but also intriguing.
Fingers lifted to adjust the bridge of his glasses with mechanical precision.
Another soft cough followed, subtle, deliberate, almost mocking.
"You can't tell if a person lied about their name without even—"
"You conjured that name a minute ago. That's that" Jurgen interrupted, his words clipped and cold, the wintery edge of his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "I don't need to hear whatever you have to say."
Pierre hurried to match Jurgen's long, precise strides, the soft thud of his shoes barely keeping pace.
"Ah no, see, it's not like that. Well, it is, but not really—" he stammered, chuckling nervously.
"Well… my name doesn't matter," he continued, breath uneven. "What matters are the trials ahead, right? It's not like you—"
"Mhm…" Jurgen's voice was flat, clipped. His eyes darted ahead, scanning the narrow path, utterly detached. Every movement radiated disinterest, a quiet refusal to engage.
Pierre forced a smile, his hand brushing an errant strand of hair from his forehead, one eye twitching with tension. "Hey… are you even listening? It's fine if you're not… just, y'know, say something?"
Jurgen muttered under his breath, gaze shifting left and right like a predator assessing a maze. "Hmm… if I remember right, was it this way… or that way…"
Pierre leaned forward, curiosity widening his eyes like twin saucers. "Hm? Did you say something?"
"Tch… ah, what the hell, I'm lost!" Jurgen snapped, slapping his forehead, muscles stiff with irritation.
Pierre clicked his tongue, the sound sharp in the quiet path. "Tsk, tsk… lost already?" He allowed a small, amused smirk, his posture relaxed as though Jurgen's frustration were a minor spectacle.