Halfway through the journey, fear receded, giving way to the monotonous routine of survival. The forest, which had recently seemed like the maw of a beast, became merely scenery: endless trunks, roots eager to trip you up, and dust.
Lots of dust.
Izayoi walked in front, habitually leaning into the strap. The weight of five loaded carts had already become something like background noise to him, like the weight of a backpack to a schoolboy. But there was a problem that irritated him far more than the physical exertion.
The smell.
Sixty people who hadn't washed for several days, had survived extreme stress, fled through a forest, and were now sweating under the summer sun. The wind, as if out of spite, blew at his back, carrying this "bouquet" of sweat, dirt, and unwashed clothes straight to Izayoi's sensitive nose.
"Alright, stop the engine!" Izayoi halted abruptly.
The carts rolled forward a bit due to inertia, and the pushers in the back nearly crashed into the tailgates.
"What happened?" Hans immediately grabbed his sword, looking around. "Monsters?"
"Worse," Izayoi wrinkled his nose, demonstratively waving his hand in front of his face. "Biological hazard. You guys stink so bad, I'm afraid we won't attract demons, but flies from the entire continent."
People exchanged embarrassed glances. Women flushed crimson, men lowered their eyes guiltily. In survival conditions, hygiene was the last thing on anyone's mind, but hearing it from their savior, who didn't even seem to sweat, was awkward.
"There's water rushing nearby," Izayoi nodded toward a break in the trees. "We're taking a long break. One hour for water procedures. And that is not a suggestion."
The river turned out to be fast, cold, and crystal clear. Its bed was scattered with smooth boulders heated by the sun.
They split up simply: women and children went upstream, around the bend of the river, men stayed below.
Izayoi threw off his dusty blazer, carefully hanging it on a branch. Next flew his yellow t-shirt. Trousers.
When he was left in just his underwear and stepped toward the water, the conversations among the village men died down.
Hans, sitting on a rock and carefully washing his wounded leg, grunted. He expected to see a warrior's body—corded with veins, covered in scars and calluses.
But Izayoi looked... different.
His physique was perfect, as if carved by a sculptor who wanted to depict the god of athletics. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, sculpted abs resembling a washboard. Not a gram of excess fat, but without the grotesque bulkiness of circus strongmen. It was the body of a swimmer or a runner—flexible, functional, built for explosive speed.
And, what surprised Hans most of all—not a single scar. His skin was clean, smooth, almost glowing with health. For a person who crushed stones and monster skulls with his bare hands, it was unnatural.
"What are you staring at?" Izayoi threw out lazily, feeling their gazes. "Never seen a human wash before?"
He took a running jump and dove into the icy water. Spray flew in a sparkling fan.
Surfacing in the middle of the river, he snorted and pushed back his wet blond hair. The water was freezing, ten degrees, no more, but for him, it was bliss.
A little further upstream, hidden by willow bushes, the young village girls who were supposed to be washing clothes kept "accidentally" dropping things into the water to have an excuse to crane their necks and look at where their savior was splashing.
"He's so... handsome," whispered one of them, the baker's daughter, blushing to the roots of her hair. "Like a prince from a fairy tale."
"A prince, you say," giggled another, but didn't look away. "Princes ride horses, they don't pull carts. He... he's like a fairytale god."
Izayoi, whose hearing picked up this whisper even through the noise of the water, just smirked smugly. He liked the attention. It stroked his ego, which in size could rival this river.
"Well, at least my popularity rating is high here," he thought, lying on his back and letting the current carry him.
After the bath, the mood in the camp improved noticeably. People freshened up, washed their clothes (hanging them right on the sides of the moving carts), and now looked at the world more cheerfully.
Izayoi, dressed again in his strange suit, walked beside Hans's cart. Now that the dirt and fatigue had receded a bit, it was time for intelligence gathering.
"Hans," he began, twirling a blade of grass in his fingers. "Enlighten me about the local economy. Let's say we get to the city. What's in circulation? Crops? Pelts?"
"Gold," answered the knight, pulling a small coin from his belt pouch and handing it to the youth. "Gold coins of Stral."
Izayoi took the coin. It was heavy, made of quality gold. The obverse bore the profile of some stern woman in a cowl, the reverse—a sun with rays.
"Stral?"
"The Holy City in the Central Lands," Hans explained. "The main church of the Goddess is located there. Their minting is the most reliable. This coin will be accepted everywhere—from the Empire in the north to the southern ports. For one of these, you can live comfortably for a month, maybe two if you don't splurge."
"A month for one round piece?" Izayoi whistled. "Strong currency. What about paper? Promissory notes, banknotes?"
Hans looked at him uncomprehendingly.
"Major merchants use debt notes, but that requires a guild seal. Common people prefer to trust ringing gold."
"Got it. Cash is king," Izayoi nodded, returning the coin. "What about authority? Who's in charge in this fortress we're crawling to?"
"Baal is governed by a Count appointed by the King," Hans's voice became drier. "But right now, it's under martial law. Army officials and mages run everything. Izayoi, I must warn you. Nobles... they aren't like us. To them, commoners are a resource. And refugees are extra mouths to feed."
"Sounds familiar," Izayoi scoffed. "Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely."
"Be careful with them," the knight continued insistently. "You are strong, but you don't know their laws. If you don't bow when a lord passes, you can be flogged. If you don't yield the way to a mage, you can be burned on the spot, and no one will say a word. You have no status."
"Status is something you take by force, isn't it?" Izayoi winked. "But I get your hint. I'll be a good boy. As long as they don't touch me."
Hans sighed. "Good boy" and this guy in the same sentence sounded like an oxymoron.
"By the way," Izayoi pulled a folded sheet of parchment from his pocket. It was a trophy from the body of that aristocrat demon. He had forgotten about it in the chaos of battle. "That horned guy was carrying this. Looks like orders or a map. Take a look."
He unfolded the parchment and handed it to Hans.
The knight took the sheet, scanned the lines, and turned pale.
"This... these are troop movement orders," he whispered. "They are written in the Common tongue. It says here that Aura plans to cut off Baal from supplies in a month."
"Is that so," Izayoi peeked at the sheet over the knight's shoulder.
He saw crisp, calligraphic symbols drawn in ink. Beautiful swirls, sharp angles.
But to him, they were just scribbles.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "Localization failed."
"What?" Hans didn't understand.
"I can't read it," Izayoi admitted, and for the first time, a note of annoyance sounded in his voice. "I understand what you're saying. I understand what the demons say. But these symbols to me are like chicken scratch on sand."
Hans looked at him with surprise.
"You speak the purest Imperial dialect, without even an accent... But you don't know letters?"
"Where I'm from... the letters are different," Izayoi answered evasively. "Alright, Pops, read it out loud. What else is interesting there?"
He felt a prick of irritation. Being illiterate was a vulnerability. In a world where information rules, not being able to read a tavern sign or a wanted poster was a problem. He would have to rely on others, and he hated that.
"I'll have to learn as soon as we get to the city," he made a mental note. "The Strongest sitting there learning the alphabet with five-year-olds. Laughable."
By the eighth day, the forest parted.
The road, which had been winding between roots and hills all this time, suddenly straightened and went sharply downhill. The trees disappeared, replaced by bare, weathered stone.
Izayoi stopped, dropping the strap from his shoulder. The people behind him froze, huddling together.
Before them opened a view that took their breath away.
A massive canyon, like a scar on the planet's body, cut through the earth from east to west. Its bottom was lost in blue haze, and the opposite edge was barely visible.
And right above this abyss, growing out of the cliffs, loomed a colossus.
The fortress city of Baal.
It was a monster made of gray stone. High walls studded with towers merged with the natural rock. Powerful bastions faced north, bristling with ballistae and arrow slits. The only way across the canyon—a giant stone bridge—led straight to the fortress gates, which looked like the maw of a dragon.
The city looked impregnable. Gloomy. And absolutely indifferent to those standing at its foot.
"We made it," Hans exhaled. A tear of relief rolled down his cheek. "Baal... The Northern Frontier."
Izayoi looked at the fortress, narrowing his eyes. He saw patrols on the walls—small figures in shining armor. He felt the concentration of mana emanating from the towers—a defensive barrier similar to the one in Flamme's tomb, only cruder and harsher.
"Impressive," he admitted. "Reminds me of a maximum-security prison."
He turned to his charges. Sixty people looked at the city like the promised land.
"Alright, people," he clapped his hands. "Clean yourselves up. Wipe your noses, square your shoulders. We are not entering as beggars."
He picked up the strap again.
"Hans, prepare your command voice. Bureaucracy and the guards at the gate are on you."
The caravan moved, beginning the descent to the bridge that separated the wild forest from civilization. A civilization that did not yet know that the one who would in the future be revered as the "Monster Hero" had arrived at its gates.