Morning mist hung low over the mountain path. The highway stretching south from the western foot of the Karnadoom Range was nothing more than a narrow road with a simple surface of stacked stones. Few people traveled it, and the ruts of cargo carts were etched into the dry earth, though the last one to pass had likely done so days ago. Coniferous trees lined the roadside, and mist seeped from their branches like breath. Through the white haze, an old man walked. Aldric Ironheart held a blacksmith's iron staff in his left hand. It was an iron rod, worked to a comfortable length, originally a tool for moving materials in a forge. Using it as a cane, he carried his aged bones slowly southward, but with an unwavering rhythm. There was no wavering in his gait. Slow, but never stopping. That way of walking came from the memory of a body tempered by thousands of miles of marching. Salt-and-pepper short hair clung to his temples, dampened by the mist. Deep purple-tinged gray eyes gazed steadily into the fog. A deep scar running vertically down his left cheek gleamed faintly white in the pale morning light. As he walked, the old man's gaze suddenly stopped at something beside the road. A wooden fence marking the boundary of a farmhouse along the highway. One section of it was rotting unnaturally. While the rest of the fence still held the color of wood, that one part had turned black as charcoal, crumbling into dry sand. It looked as though it would turn to powder at the slightest touch. This was not weathering from rain and wind. It was the kind of decay that came from within—the grass lying on it would snap like brittle kindling. Aldric stopped. He looked at the fence for a moment. Then, without a word, his hand went to the cloth wrapped around his left arm. He pressed the gray fabric with his fingertips, as if confirming something. The cloth, which he should have rewrapped that night, felt tighter than usual. ——The old oak tree in Horn Village aged a hundred years in a single night. And now, this fence too. It had reached the highway. The old man began walking again. The time he had stopped was perhaps only ten-odd seconds. His expression did not change. Through the mist, southward, at the same rhythm. Gradually, shapes began to emerge from the fog. A half-ruined stone wall. Collapsed gate pillars overgrown with grass. The wooden drawbridge had long since rotted away, leaving only the stone foundation gaping open. Volga Outpost—a small stone fortress built on the mountain path at the southern foot of the Karnadoom Range—had been a deserted ruin since its half-destruction five years ago in a battle against a horde of magical beasts. From that ruin came sounds. A sword striking something, a sharp metallic ring. Followed by the dull thud of something heavy hitting the ground. The sound of stone shattering. And——shallow, ragged, youthful breathing. Aldric stopped and listened. Combat sounds. No doubt about it. And coming from multiple directions. He was surrounded. The old man tightened his pack on his back, then stepped through the gap in the collapsed gate. —————— The courtyard of the ruin was larger than expected. Half the stone pavement was buried in grass, and part of the collapsed wall had become a mountain of rubble. In the center, a young man was fighting. Three creatures surrounded him. They stood about shoulder-height to a human, perhaps a meter and a half tall. Their outer skin was mineral-like, with dull iron-gray scales overlapping to cover their entire bodies. Stone-armored beasts——magical creatures that dwelled in deep caves with high concentrations of spirit essence, their outer hides so hard that ordinary swords could not pierce them. Three of them had the young man boxed in from different directions. Aldric did not yet know the young man's name. Copper-red short hair. Bangs swept diagonally across his forehead. Height around one hundred seventy-five centimeters. Bright amber eyes fixed on each of the three enemies in turn. A small old scar on his right ear——a wound from battle, no doubt. His sword grip was precise, his stance solid. His fundamentals were sound. But——. Aldric's brow moved slightly. Something was wrong. The problem with the young man's movements was not technique. Technique, in fact, was more than sufficient for his age. The problem was that he was "abandoning defense." When the stone-armored beast's claws came in a horizontal slash, he could have dodged. One step back would have sufficed. Instead, he only retreated half a step. The edge of the creature's outer hide grazed his leather armor, leaving a red line. The next instant, another beast charged from the front. The young man brought his sword down to block the impact, but the force drove him backward—toward a wall. A position where he would be trapped. He should have seen it coming. It was not recklessness. He understood, and he stepped into it anyway. To the eyes of an old man who had walked countless battlefields over thirty years, this was readable. This was not the way of a trained warrior. It was a way of fighting shaped by atonement. Aldric set down his pack. Quietly, he released the weight from his shoulders. Then he shifted the iron staff to his right hand. His left hand hung open, naturally at his side. The old man's center of gravity lowered slightly. He stepped into the ruin. —————— The first stone-armored beast was slow to notice Aldric's presence. The old man's footsteps had been swallowed by the mist. The creature's attention was fixed on the young man, and the staff came from its blind spot. The target was the base of the neck——where the outer armor plates thinned and seams appeared. Not force, but angle. The staff's tip bit precisely into the seam, and the impact traveled through to the inside of the hard plate. The stone-armored beast let out a short growl and stumbled. Kael noticed in that instant. An old man. White-haired, carrying an iron staff. Dressed like a blacksmith with a pack——but that movement just now. The weight shift was wrong. Not a blacksmith's. The way he planted his feet, the angle of his elbow as he raised the staff, the decision to stay forward-weighted after landing the blow instead of retreating——all of it came from years of combat experience. There was no time to think. Two beasts remained. Kael moved on instinct. He slammed his sword against the one in front to draw its attention, creating space for the old man to move. The movements of the two began to mesh. The old man was reading the terrain of the ruin. The corner of a collapsed wall, piled rubble, the unevenness of the stone pavement——he took in everything at a glance, calculating where the stone-armored beasts could and could not step. He lured one toward the mountain of rubble while boxing the other between himself and Kael. The second beast fell. A precise strike to the seam. The dead creature's outer armor clattered as it crumbled. One remained. Kael moved forward——and the iron staff quietly crossed his path. Without sound. Without words. Simply, the old man's staff blocked his advance. Kael stopped for a moment. The old man stepped forward. Straight toward the remaining stone-armored beast. The creature, a meter and a half tall, charged. Aldric did not meet it head-on, but shifted just half a step to the side. Using the momentum of the charge against it, he rotated his body and swung the staff. The seam location was the same on all three——the base of the neck, left side. A dull sound. The stone-armored beast fell forward. Silence returned to the ruin. —————— Kael watched the old man while catching his breath. Aldric said nothing in particular. The tip of his iron staff was planted in the ground, bearing some of his weight. His breathing was far more controlled than Kael's. After a movement like that, at sixty-eight years old. "May I ask your name?" Kael asked. The words came out almost without thought. There was something else he really wanted to know, but he thought to start with a name. "Aldric," the old man answered. It was a short reply. Nothing more followed. The old man glanced at the fallen stone-armored beasts once, then began walking back toward where he had left his pack. Kael followed, choosing his words carefully. "You're not a blacksmith, are you?" Kael said. The old man's pace wavered slightly. It stopped, then resumed. "I'm a blacksmith from Horn Village," Aldric replied. "That movement isn't a blacksmith's," Kael said flatly. He was certain. Kael was not one to hold back, but this time he had conviction. The weight shift, the knowledge of seams, the way he read terrain——the speed of judgment that only came from learning the sword. Aldric did not answer as he picked up his pack. Kael approached from a different angle. "The way you hold the staff. Your fist position is that of someone who's gripped a sword for years. The way your fingers are formed, the angle of your wrist——you have the habits of a swordsman, not a blacksmith's hammer-wielder," Kael said. For just an instant, the old man's gaze fell to his own hands. He looked at them, then turned forward again. That reaction alone confirmed that Kael's words were true. Silence continued. The mist thinned slightly, and the outlines of the ruin's stone walls became clearer. A bird called in the distance. Kael stopped pressing. If the old man did not want to speak, there was no point forcing it. "Where are you headed?" Kael asked. "South," Aldric replied. Kael's expression changed. South. That single word caught on something. The Void Vine——a story spreading through towns along the highway these past few days. Wood rotting in a single night, grass withering, animals aging and dying suddenly. An unexplained decay phenomenon spreading from the south. Kael had not stopped at the outpost by chance. He was investigating it, heading south. "South... so we're heading the same direction," Kael said. Aldric did not answer. Kael interpreted the silence as affirmation. Or chose to interpret it that way. As long as the old man did not say "no," at least he had not been refused. That was enough. Kael quickly gathered his own pack, leaning it against the collapsed wall and shouldering it, checking the position of his sword. "I'm coming with you," Kael said. Aldric turned around. Kael braced himself, expecting words. But the old man opened his mouth and stopped. His hands, which had been adjusting his pack, stopped. He was looking directly at Kael's face. Kael stood under that gaze. Tired eyes. Scars from wounds in his leather armor. Yet his spine was straight. The stubborn set of his mouth that would not back down. The old man said nothing. Neither words of refusal nor words of permission. —————— For a time, the two remained in the ruin. Aldric leaned his back against the collapsed stone wall, catching his breath while standing. He felt a slight heaviness in his knees. The movement had been a burden on his aged body. He did not show it, but he knew. Kael knelt quietly beside one of the stone-armored beasts he had slain. He sheathed his sword and placed both hands on his knees, murmuring words in a voice so soft it made no sound——only his lips moved. As if counting, or calling out names. When it was done, before standing, he reached out to one part of the ruin's wall. There was an old carving in the stone. Probably made by those who had once been stationed here. Lines that looked like letters, like names, overlapping. Kael's finger touched one of them. He held it there for a moment. Aldric watched but said nothing. What this outpost meant to Kael——the old man understood without asking. Someone had died here five years ago. And Kael had survived. The meaning of the way he fought earlier, the meaning of this prayer——the old bones that had counted the names of the dead beneath the moon for thirty years understood without being told. Kael stood up and turned tow