The cool night air of Whitepeak City was a welcome shock after the stuffy, ale-scented heat of the guild hall. Kaito walked away from the noise, the echoes of celebration fading behind him. The crispness of the atmosphere helped clear the last of the… nothingness. That was the problem. There was no lingering fog, no pleasant dizziness. Just the same stark clarity he'd woken up with in the Dark Forest.
He found a quiet fountain in a small, deserted merchant square and sat on its stone rim, watching the water ripple under the twin moons. The disappointment was a dull ache. For a few minutes, he had felt it—a genuine, uncomplicated connection to the people around him. He had shared in their joy, their exhaustion, their simple human ritual. And then his own body had betrayed him, treating the experience like a lesson to be learned and filed away. He couldn't even get properly drunk. The thought was so absurdly tragic he almost laughed, but the sound caught in his throat.
He was so focused on the water that he barely noticed the approach of armored footsteps until they were nearly upon him. A patrol of the City Watch, their armor gleaming in the moonlight, marched through the square. At their head was a man who carried an air of authority. He wasn't the king; his bearing was that of a practical man, a steward. This was Lord Valerius, the Castellan of Whitepeak, the king's appointed ruler of the city itself. He was a man in his prime, perhaps in his late thirties, with a tired but sharp intelligence in his eyes that spoke of long hours managing supplies, militias, and the endless clerical work of a city under siege.
The patrol passed by the fountain. Lord Valerius's gaze swept over the square, pausing for a fraction of a second on the solitary figure of Kaito. His eyes noted the simple clothes, the lack of visible weapons, the posture that was neither threatening nor fearful, just… present. A citizen finding a moment of peace, or a refugee lost in thought. He gave a curt, neutral nod, a leader's acknowledgment of one of his charges, and then moved on, his mind already turning to the next report on grain storage.
Kaito watched them go. That was the structure of this place. Kings ruled countries from distant castles, but it was men like that who held the walls, who made the decisions that determined whether people ate or starved. It was a hierarchy, a system of duty and responsibility. He was outside of that, too. He had no duty, no rank beyond the meaningless leather badge in his pocket. His power was absolute, but it had no place here. It was a hammer in a world that required scalpels.
He stood up, the moment of self-pity passing. Moping was another human luxury he couldn't afford for long. The city was vast, and he had barely seen any of it. He had a pouch full of coins and a body that refused to let him forget anything, including his own loneliness. So he would walk. He would learn the streets, the people, the rhythm of this place he had, in part, created a crisis for. He was a sober observer in a sleeping city, a silent guest trying to understand the house he had accidentally stumbled into.
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The energy of the night had faded, replaced by a deep, human weariness that even his adaptive body could not ignore. The clarity of his mind was now a burden, amplifying his tiredness. The coins in his pouch felt heavy. He retraced his steps to The Oakwood Lodge, the familiar sign a welcome sight.
He approached the same weary innkeeper, placed a single silver coin on the counter, and received the same heavy iron key in return. The room was just as he left it: simple, quiet, and blessedly his. He did not bounce on the bed this time. He simply lay down, fully clothed, and closed his eyes, surrendering to the simple, biological need for sleep. For a few hours, he would just be a man in a room, and that was enough.