Chapter 6: The Clash in Saikono
Saikono Village—though "town" would be a more fitting description—was a world apart from Petita. It was a place of contrasts, where civilization met nature in a delicate balance. Circular in shape, it was enclosed by towering wooden walls, each plank standing over four meters high. But this was no ordinary wood. The timber had been harvested from the supernatural trees of this world, since the trees breathe in minma particles, this has given their wood an above-natural toughness, but the features vary from one tree to another, depending on the type of tree. The scent of the wood was unlike anything found in a mundane forest—earthy, yet tinged with something mystical, a fragrance that hinted at ancient power.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange-pink and violet, the village of Saikono stirred to life. Lanterns flickered to life in the streets, casting pools of warm golden light onto the smooth, cement-paved roads. Unlike Petita's rough dirt paths, these roads carried a sense of refinement, their polished surfaces reflecting the glow of lanterns like rivers of molten amber. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling meat, baked bread, and exotic spices, mixing with the faint aroma of fresh ink from calligraphy stalls and the fragrant oils of perfumers hawking their wares.
People bustled through the lively streets, draped in silk garments that shimmered under the evening lights, a stark contrast to the ragged attire of those in Petita. Shops lined the pathways, their architecture simple yet elegant, wooden beams etched with intricate carvings that spoke of a long and rich history. The chatter of merchants, the laughter of children, and the rhythmic clinking of coins being exchanged all merged into a symphony of urban life.
Amidst the crowd, Fayrouz and Fulan walked side by side. Fayrouz moved with her usual composed elegance, her long, dark coat flowing behind her, while Fulan's eyes darted from stall to stall, taking in the unfamiliar sights with quiet fascination.
"This place is so lively compared to the last village," Fulan murmured, his gaze flitting across the colorful fabric stalls and street performers juggling flames.
Fayrouz, however, remained focused. Her expression was as serene as ever, her voice unwavering. "We need to find a merchant or someone with a cart to take us to the Kingdom of Saita. We should reach it by tonight. Don't forget that."
Fulan turned his gaze toward her, smirking. "I know... You seem so calm, like you're used to places like this."
Without breaking stride, Fayrouz tilted her head slightly. "Places like this? You should see the Kingdom of Saita from the inside. This village is nothing compared to it."
A brief silence settled between them before Fulan spoke again, this time more thoughtfully. "So this isn't your first time going to the Kingdom of Saita…"
Fayrouz didn't hesitate to answer, though she kept her eyes ahead. "So you're the type who likes to talk about the past? I don't mind telling you, but I doubt you'll share your real story with me."
Her words struck a nerve. Fulan's steps slowed slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he masked it with a casual smile. His tone, though light, carried an undertone of caution.
"I don't recall doing anything that would make me seem suspicious."
Fayrouz kept walking, her tone as steady as ever. "Maybe. But I'm curious about your Menma particles..."
Fulan let out a faint chuckle, the corner of his lips curling into a playful smirk. "You should stop observing me in such a perverse way."
Fayrouz halted. She turned to face him, her expression unreadable, but the shift in the air was unmistakable.
"Excuse me?"
Fulan didn't flinch. "Nothing. It's just that watching the particles and cells flowing through my veins seems a bit... invasive."
"A good attempt at changing the subject," she remarked, her voice unshaken.
Before their conversation could continue, a voice thundered through the street, cutting through the noise of the village like a blade through silk.
"THAT'S ENOUGH! I'LL PUT AN END TO THIS TONIGHT!"
Fulan and Fayrouz exchanged glances before turning toward the source of the commotion. The lively murmur of the village had shifted—curiosity and unease rippled through the streets as people gathered in a wide circle. In the center stood two men, locked in a confrontation that had drawn everyone's attention.
One of them carried a massive sword strapped to his back, its hilt wrapped in worn leather. He wore a simple brown shirt and black pants—the rugged attire of an adventurer. His posture was composed, his expression unreadable, as if conflict was something he had long since grown accustomed to.
The other man was broader, more imposing, with a thick silver-streaked beard and sharp eyes filled with barely contained fury. A battle-worn axe was strapped to his back, its handle gleaming with use. He wore a military-style jacket and dark trousers, the uniform of someone accustomed to war.
The bearded man's voice thundered with emotion, his stance aggressive. "I was insane to let her follow someone like you! I should've dragged her away by force if I had to!"
His anger pulsed through the air, thick and suffocating, but the swordsman remained still. His voice, when he spoke, was calm—serious, yet distant. "I never asked her—or you—to come with me. You both knew what the life of an adventurer entailed from the start. Death is something all humans share. I may die in the adventure I might embark on tomorrow, or perhaps in the adventure that follows. This is the essence of adventure. I respect her decision, so I won't mourn her death excessively."
The bearded man's fury ignited. His hands clenched into fists, his breathing sharp and uneven. Without hesitation, he grabbed the swordsman by the collar, yanking him forward.
His voice trembled with rage. "If you love death so much, I'll make you see it today! That fool only loved you, you bastard! She didn't care about the adventure or any of that! Don't you feel even a little regret for her death?!"
The crowd barely dared to breathe. All eyes were on the swordsman, waiting for his response.
His gaze remained unreadable, his voice steady and cold. "No. I don't regret anything."
That was the final spark.
The bearded man's restraint snapped. In one fluid motion, he shoved the swordsman forward and tore his axe from his back.
It glowed red-hot, as if it had just been pulled from the heart of a forge. Steam hissed from its surface, the air around it distorting from the heat. The sheer pressure of his anger radiated from the weapon, like the first wave of an impending storm.
"Good. Then I can kill you without remorse!"
Whoosh!
But before the axe could descend, Fulan moved.
A faint white aura flickered around his body as he vanished from his spot.
He darted through the crowd, faster than the eye could track, reappearing between the two men in a heartbeat.
At the same time, Fayrouz moved with precision.
Her glowing blue bands shot forward, stretching through the air like living tendrils. They wrapped around the bearded man's axe, tightening with unnatural strength.
The weapon halted mid-swing.
The crowd gasped as the two strangers intervened, their actions swift and decisive. Fulan stood protectively in front of the swordsman, while Fayrouz's luminous bands kept the axe locked in place.
The tension in the air was electric, thick enough to taste.
For now, the immediate danger had been stopped. But the storm was far from over.
.
.
Chapter 7: The Duel at Dusk.
The sun hung low on the horizon, its golden light bleeding into the sky, casting long, jagged shadows across Saikono Village. Though small in scale, the village pulsed with life, its streets bustling with merchants closing their stalls, the scent of grilled meat and fresh-baked bread lingering in the cooling evening air. Paper lanterns flickered to life, their soft glow dancing across the smooth, stone-paved roads, creating a scene that felt almost peaceful.
But amidst this tranquility, a storm brewed.
In the heart of the village, a crowd had formed—a sea of curious faces, their collective breath held as tension crackled like a live wire between two men.
Two adventurers, once comrades, now stood at the precipice of battle.
Just as the bearded man's axe was about to descend, Fulan and Fayrouz moved.
A faint white aura erupted around Fulan's body as he vanished from his spot, his speed a blur, cutting through the still air like a phantom.
At the same time, Fayrouz's glowing blue bandages whipped forward, shooting out like striking serpents, wrapping around the axe's handle just before it could cleave the swordsman in two.
The impact never came.
The crowd gasped, a wave of murmurs rippling through the gathered villagers as they bore witness to the sudden, seamless intervention.
The swordsman, still standing behind Fulan, blinked in shock. His gaze locked onto the young man who had just saved his life.
"This speed... This aura..." he muttered, barely above a whisper.
Fulan, his black eyes sharp and focused, stood silent, a fierce aura radiating from him as a faint white glow surrounded his body. Like a feral cat poised to strike, he remained still, his expression unwaveringly serious. His back was turned to the swordsman, yet his gaze was locked onto the bearded axeman before him.
On the other side, the bearded man's grip tightened around his metal weapon. His sharp gaze flicked to Fayrouz, irritation simmering beneath his calm tone.
"Young lady," he said, his voice controlled but carrying a weight of barely restrained fury. "What do you think you're doing?"
Fayrouz met his gaze with an expression as still as a frozen lake. "Stopping a fool from committing murder in the middle of a peaceful village."
The bearded man's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening.
"Murder?" His voice dipped into something colder, sharper. "You've got it all wrong. This is justice—a simple discussion between friends. So, why don't you step aside before things get worse?"
The crowd fell silent, the air thick with tension.
Fayrouz, however, didn't flinch.
She tightened her grip on the glowing bands, her voice even but laced with steel. "Things get worse? The only person who'll have a bad time here is you. To me, you're just a ticking time bomb that needs to be thrown in a cell for a few days to cool off."
The bearded man's face darkened, his expression twisting in barely contained rage.
The axe in his grip flared to life, its surface glowing orange, steam rising in furious tendrils as the heat intensified.
Fayrouz's blue bandages began to burn.
A flicker of pain flashed in her glowing blue eyes, but it wasn't from the heat.
For a split second, an image surfaced in her mind—her mother's face. A memory, distant yet sharp, flashing like a bolt of lightning before she pushed it away.
She reacted instantly.
With a swift movement, she retracted her bandages, allowing them to shrink and shift, condensing into a small blue ring of fabric around her finger. Her gaze flickered to it for a moment, relief washing over her as she confirmed it had taken no damage.
Meanwhile, the bearded man raised his axe high.
Fulan's body tensed, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. His stance shifted subtly, every fiber of his being prepared to counter the instant the attack fell.
But the attack never came.
Instead, the bearded man swung his axe down—not at a person, but at the ground itself.
Crash!!!
The axe struck the ground with tremendous force, sending jagged shards of cement flying in all directions. A thick cloud of gray dust erupted into the air, momentarily blurring the surroundings. The crowd instinctively shielded their eyes, coughing as the debris settled. But the dust wasn't thick enough to obscure their vision completely.
No, the strike had another purpose entirely.
The bearded man released his grip on the axe, leaving it embedded in the shattered ground as he turned to walk away. His broad shoulders tensed, but his voice remained firm as it carried over the murmuring crowd.
"Tonight. Three hours from now, at exactly nine o'clock. You and I will settle this the way warriors do. If you truly call yourself an adventurer, then meet me here. If you want to run, do as you please.
For Lamaria's death, I'll end our friendship tonight."
A tense silence followed his words.
The swordsman stood still, his gaze unwavering as he watched his former comrade walk away. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a small, enigmatic smile—one that did nothing to hide the weight behind his words.
"We've known each other for nine years." His voice was calm, steady, but beneath it lay an unspoken depth of emotion. "Do you really think I'd run?"
The bearded man paused mid-step.
For a second, he said nothing. Then, without turning back, he spoke again.
"Yes. If you had valued her more, you'd be the most perfect man I know."
With those final words, he continued walking, disappearing into the dispersing crowd.
The confrontation had ended, but the weight of it lingered in the air.
The villagers, though visibly shaken, were already buzzing with murmurs of excitement and speculation.
Some children, their expressions filled with disappointment, grumbled as they shuffled away.
"No fight? I was so excited to see adventurers battle. What a waste of time. My mom won't let me out at nine anyway."
Others, however, were already making plans.
"They're fighting at nine? It'll be a bit chilly by then."
"So? Are you staying home?"
"Of course not! A duel between professional adventurers is rare. I'm not missing it."
"Want to bet on the outcome?"
"Only if you let me bet on the axe guy."
"The swordsman looks weak. There's no point in betting..."
The casual tone of the villagers made it seem as if this upcoming duel was just entertainment—a spectacle to break the monotony of village life.
But for Fulan and Fayrouz, the situation was far more complicated.
Fayrouz's blue eyes met Fulan's black ones, a silent exchange passing between them. In a way, she sympathized with what the bearded man had said. Her gaze carried a quiet promise—one that assured him she would watch over him until the time came.
Fulan gave a slight nod in return, a subtle signal that he understood. He would remain with the swordsman until the appointed moment.
His eyes followed Fayrouz's retreating figure as she walked in the direction of the bearded man, her back turned to him.
Then his gaze then shifted to the swordsman—a man who, despite everything, stood unnaturally calm, his eyes concealing a storm of pain beneath their surface.
There was more to this story than what had been said.
Fayrouz, on the other hand, could feel the weight of the bearded man's grief, the way it clung to him like a heavy chain.
She understood his anger, his need for closure.
Losing someone dear was never easy, and no amount of wisdom or philosophy could ease that pain.
Fayrouz chose the bearded man because she had experienced the pain of losing someone she loved. Fulan, on the other hand, chose the swordsman, knowing that only certain men could truly master their emotions. He wanted to hear the swordsman's side of the story.
The swordsman and the bearded man.
Silence and rage.
Fulan and Fayrouz.
The sun dipped below the horizon, its dying light casting elongated shadows over Saikono, one question lingered in the air—
Would this night end in tragedy or redemption?