The sun, rising above the treetops, ruthlessly illuminated what the darkness of the night had hidden: the scale of the catastrophe. The village was no more. There was only a charred ruin, with the skeletons of chimneys jutting out like the rotten teeth of a dead giant.
Izayoi hadn't slept. He didn't need to—his body seemed to ignore the concept of fatigue entirely, as if he had an infinite line of credit on energy. Instead of resting, he worked.
Without jerky movements, without unnecessary words or theatrical gestures, he methodically dismantled what remained of the houses.
"Careful," he said quietly, holding up a massive, charred roof beam with one hand while two men hurriedly pulled surviving sacks of grain from beneath it.
He lowered the wood to the ground as gently as if it were a crystal vase, not a multi-ton piece of oak. No bravado. Right now, his strength was not a weapon, but a tool—the most essential one available.
A little way off, a gaggle of children watched him. Grimy, with tear-stained eyes, they huddled together, staring at the strange youth in the blue blazer. To them, he was a riddle. He had destroyed the monsters their parents feared, but now he was messing around in the dust, pulling someone's favorite toy out from under the rubble or helping roll out a barrel of water.
One of the boys, growing bolder, approached when Izayoi crouched down to dust off his gloves.
"Mister..." the child sniffled. "Are you a hero?"
Izayoi looked at him. In his violet eyes, there was none of the usual coldness or mockery.
"Hardly," he reached out and lightly ruffled the boy's hair.
He straightened up and walked over to Hans. The captain of the guard sat on a surviving porch, watching women sort through meager belongings. The old knight's face was gray, gaunt.
"We finished the count," Hans said hollowly, not looking at Izayoi. "Out of a hundred and forty residents, sixty survived. Mostly women, the elderly, and children. Almost all the men died defending the perimeter in the first few minutes."
"Food?" Izayoi asked briefly.
"Enough for a couple of weeks, if we ration. But that's not the main thing." Hans sighed heavily and swept his gaze over the ruins. "We can't stay here. The smell of blood will attract beasts and scavengers by evening. No walls. Almost no weapons. If even one demon returns... we're finished."
"Means we have to leave," Izayoi stated. "Is there somewhere to go?"
"Southwest," Hans pointed a trembling hand in the direction opposite to where the demons had come from. "Toward the Central Lands. There is a fortress city, Vaal. But it's..."
The knight clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. His voice carried the despair of a man who sees an exit but cannot reach it.
"It's a five-day journey for a healthy man. A week, maybe more, for a train like this... if we had a train. The horses were slaughtered. We have five carts, but no one to pull them. And we have wounded who can't be carried. We have old folks who won't walk a mile. Even if we abandon everything—supplies, tools, clothes—we won't make it. The forests are teeming with creatures. We'll just become a walking buffet for monsters on the road to salvation."
He fell silent, crushed by hopelessness. The logic of this world was cruel: stay and die, leave and die.
Izayoi was silent, watching the bustling people. He saw a woman trying to tie a huge bundle of blankets to her back while holding an infant. He saw an old man petting the only surviving goat, saying goodbye to it.
"Hey, Pops," Izayoi's voice pulled the knight from the abyss of despair. "In that cart by the smithy, I saw coils of rope. Are they strong?"
Hans blinked, uncomprehending.
"Ropes? Yes, they used them to haul logs from the forest. But why..."
"Tie them up," Izayoi nodded at the surviving carts. "Link them into a single chain. The heaviest ones in the back, the ones with people in front."
"But who will pull them?" Hans still didn't understand, looking at him as if he were insane. "We'd need at least three teams of oxen to move that on a forest road."
Izayoi simply looked at him. Calmly, without challenge. And in that look, Hans read an answer that took his breath away.
"You..." the knight exhaled. "That's madness. That's miles of travel through mud and roots. You'll break yourself. A human cannot..."
"I'll break myself if I have to listen to your whining," Izayoi turned and headed toward the carts. "Load everyone who can't walk. Belongings, food, water—everything on board."
***
The forest plunged into a strange, almost reverent silence. Only the creaking of dried-out axles and the dull thud of wheels on roots could be heard.
The caravan was moving.
Five heavy peasant carts, overloaded with goods and people, crawled along the forest road, tied together with thick hemp ropes.
In front, with a wide leather strap thrown over his shoulders, walked one person.
Izayoi walked with a measured, strolling pace. His body was slightly leaned forward, his hands still in his pockets, and the headphones hung around his neck, swaying to the rhythm of his steps. The ropes behind his back were taut as strings, cutting into the leather pad, but he didn't look strained. He wasn't panting, wasn't dripping with sweat. He simply walked, and the multi-ton construction obediently followed him.
On the first cart, right behind the youth's back, sat Hans. His leg was bandaged, and he couldn't walk on his own. He stared at Izayoi's back with an expression that mixed shame and profound shock.
"Izayoi..." the knight began for the umpteenth time. His voice trembled. "I... we can never repay this. This is wrong. It is humiliating for a knight's honor—to ride while our savior hauls us like draft cattle."
"We had a deal," Izayoi didn't turn around. His voice sounded even, his breathing remained calm, as if he were walking through a park. "You show the way to the city. I deliver the cargo. It's barter. A fair trade."
"Nothing of the sort!" Hans objected hotly, and several women on the cart nodded in agreement, wiping tears with the corners of their shawls. "A guide isn't worth this kind of effort! You are saving our lives, our remaining dignity... Gold, service, everything we will have—it's all yours."
"Simmer down," Izayoi drawled, deliberately making his voice indifferent. "Listen, Hans, if you want to be useful, you'd better watch the perimeter. I'm tough, sure, but I don't have eyes in the back of my head. If some filth jumps out of the bushes, shout."
It was a lie. Izayoi's hearing monitored the forest for a kilometer radius, filtering every rustle. But he needed to give the knight a task. To give him the feeling that he wasn't useless baggage, but part of the team.
The caravan continued on its way. The atmosphere wasn't like an adventure. It was a mournful procession of refugees. People were silent, looking at the receding smoke of their home village. They had lost homes, loved ones, their past. The future was foggy. But the steady gait of the guy in front, his unperturbed back pulling their survival, gave them something more than just transport. It gave them faith.
By evening, the road got worse. Wheels kept getting stuck in ruts sodden from recent rains, trapped in holes.
"Wait!" one of the women suddenly screamed, unable to bear it. "Master Izayoi, please, stop!"
Izayoi froze. The caravan rolled another half meter by inertia and stopped. He turned around, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
"What? Monsters?"
"No..." the woman jumped off the cart and, stumbling over roots, ran up to him. Her eyes were full of pleading. "The sun is setting. You've been dragging us for eight hours without a break. You didn't even drink any water. I'm begging you... enough."
Others began to gather around. People climbed down from the carts, surrounding him.
"Let's make camp, Master!" an old man supported, clutching his hat in his hands. "We'll push on the uphills ourselves. Rest. Please. We cannot watch you kill yourself for our sake."
Izayoi looked at their faces. They were exhausted, frightened, but now their gazes held genuine pain. Not for themselves—for him. They felt like parasites sucking the life out of their benefactor. Their conscience couldn't accept that a person was doing the impossible for them without respite.
In reality, Izayoi felt perfectly fine. His reserves were far from depleted. He could have walked like this all the way to the city without stopping for a second, and not even be out of breath.
But he understood: if he continued, their guilt would crush them harder than fatigue. Sometimes showing weakness is showing mercy. They needed to believe that he was human too, that he also needed rest, in order to accept this help.
He exhaled demonstratively and massaged his shoulder, though the muscles there weren't even stiff.
"Well, since you insist..." he lazily dropped the heavy strap to the ground. "I suppose a break wouldn't hurt. My legs are starting to hum a bit."
The crowd exhaled with relief, as if the weight had been lifted from them. People immediately bustled about, feeling that finally they could be useful, could repay him somehow. Someone ran for water, someone began spreading out hides, someone brought out the last food reserves.
"Hans," Izayoi walked over to the cart where the knight sat. "How much longer to a safe spot for the night?"
"There's a clearing half a mile from here, by the old oak," the knight answered, looking at the youth with endless gratitude. "Visibility is good there."
"Excellent. We'll haul it there and set up camp," Izayoi picked up the strap again, but this time allowed several men to stand behind the carts and "help" push.
The sun was setting, painting the forest in alarming colors of crimson. The caravan moved again, but now in the creaking of wheels one could hear not only hopelessness, but a faint, timid note of hope. They had no home, but they had a guide who, it seemed, could pull them even out of the underworld.