This kingdom was far larger than the others.
Not just on maps—
but in presence, in breath, in the way it swallowed people whole.
The reason was simple.
The Manul race lived here in overwhelming numbers.
Shafi walked forward at an unhurried pace. His steps were steady, neither rushed nor lazy, as though the world had long since lost the right to hurry him. Around him, Manuls filled the streets—some riding animals, some walking, some overseeing cargo with practiced hands. The city was alive. Loud. Restless. Breathing.
Carriages passed in front of him one after another.
Yet not a single horse could be seen.
Every carriage was pulled by boars—thick-bodied, powerful creatures with eyes dulled by obedience.
Shafi's gaze lingered for a fraction of a second.
Then he looked away.
In this world, asking questions was often more dangerous than accepting strangeness.
He continued walking until he entered a small establishment that resembled an inn. The wooden door creaked softly as he pushed it open. A young servant girl stepped forward immediately.
"Welcome."
Her voice was gentle.
She looked human—but she was not. A Manul.
Manuls resembled humans closely, yet their existence was fundamentally different. Four genders. A structure of society that followed rules humans would never fully understand. Shafi knew these things. He had learned them long ago.
He simply no longer cared.
Without a word, he chose a table in the corner and sat down.
A few moments later, a Manul boy—no older than fourteen or fifteen—approached with a menu.
"Sir, what would you like to eat?"
There was no fear in the boy's eyes.
That alone made Shafi pause for half a heartbeat.
This city had not yet stolen innocence from its children.
Shafi skimmed the menu slowly, as if time itself had briefly slowed for him.
"One plate of kebaf," he said at last.
"And two glasses of Nilet wine."
Nilet wine—
a drink known throughout the Second World. Not for its flavor, but for its familiarity.
The boy nodded and hurried away.
The restaurant was quiet. Almost empty.
Shafi noticed this.
Places like these were chosen by people who did not want to be seen—or heard.
The food arrived quickly.
Shafi ate in silence.
The taste was ordinary.
Nothing memorable. Nothing offensive.
He ate because eating was necessary.
Not because he enjoyed it.
When he finished, he stood and walked to the counter. An elderly Manul sat there, his posture bent not only by age, but by years of repetition and survival.
Shafi placed a gold coin on the counter.
The old man stared at it for a long moment.
Then he sighed deeply and returned nine hundred ninety-two silver coins.
"If everyone pays in gold," the old man said heavily,
"how are others supposed to use silver? You just took away two years' worth of my change."
The silver coins clinked against the counter.
The sound was heavier than it should have been.
Shafi gathered them calmly.
"What choice do I have?" he replied.
There was no cruelty in his voice.
Only truth.
He turned and left.
---
The street stretched endlessly before him.
Suddenly—
Two figures sprinted past him like a storm.
Then came a scream.
A middle-aged man with a swollen belly collapsed to his knees, clutching his hand. Blood poured from where a finger had been severed, dripping onto the stone road.
"Stop them!"
"Please—someone stop them!"
His voice cracked.
Not from pain—
but from despair.
Shafi stopped walking.
He removed the bundle tied to the end of his staff and placed it gently into the man's trembling hands.
"Stay here," Shafi said.
"Watch this."
Hope flared in the man's eyes—fragile and desperate.
Shafi turned and ran.
The thieves were fast.
Fear made them faster.
Shafi closed the distance with ease.
His staff swung.
The impact landed cleanly.
One thief collapsed instantly.
The other spun around, raising both hands. The air itself seemed to twist as if being dragged toward him.
Shafi's body was forced slightly off balance.
His eyes narrowed behind the cloth covering them.
"A Power Fruit user."
The thief sneered.
"Knowing who I am won't save you. Walk away. Don't invite your own death."
Shafi raised his left hand.
Snap.
A single finger flick.
Shadows surged.
Chains formed from darkness itself, binding the thief completely. He froze, unable to move, unable to breathe properly.
Shafi stepped forward and picked up the briefcase.
He closed his eyes.
Took one step forward—
—and behind him, a head fell to the ground.
Blood sprayed.
A single crimson arc splashed across the cloth covering Shafi's eyes.
Silence swallowed the street.
The remaining onlookers froze, terror locking their bodies in place.
One of them whispered with a shaking voice,
"This isn't a Power Fruit… this is something else."
Shafi did not respond.
He continued walking.
Then he exhaled.
A slow, heavy breath.
The sound of necks snapping echoed behind him.
Then—nothing.
"I came alone," Shafi murmured.
"I will leave alone."
His voice was calm.
Final.
He turned back toward the wounded man.
The shadowy chains dissolved, releasing lifeless bodies to the ground.
The old man rushed forward, collapsing before Shafi and pressing his hands together.
"Thank you… thank you… truly. You saved my life."
Shafi offered a small smile.
Nothing more.
He walked away.
From behind, a woman's voice called out, amused and intrigued.
"Your power is fascinating. And covering your eyes—how thrilling."
Shafi did not stop.
He did not turn.
He left.
---
Night approached.
He needed a place to stay.
The main road was crowded with life—carriages, livestock wagons, merchants, noise. Markets stretched endlessly along both sides.
Shafi entered a faded three-story building.
At the desk sat a young Manul.
"I need a room," Shafi said.
"One silver per night," the Manul replied quickly.
"Breakfast included. Tea is free if you stay all day."
"That's fine."
"Are you a merchant?" the Manul asked hesitantly.
"No," Shafi replied.
"A traveler."
The Manul nodded and gestured to a boy beside him.
"Show him the room."
The boy motioned for Shafi to follow.
Shafi did.
His shadow stretched long behind him as he walked.