"This feels weird," Kalem muttered to himself, boots crunching against the gravel. "I suppose… seeing the Paths twist and bend under my feet all those months made straight roads feel unnatural."
The sky was calm. The world above was painfully normal—bright sun, drifting clouds, no screaming mana or whispering walls. Just the wind.
It had been nearly two weeks since he left Garron's settlement in the southern woods. Since then, Kalem had traveled west, away from the routes marked on most maps. His only companion was his own silence—and the occasional crow or whisper of brush as beasts skirted around him.
He kept his armor on during the day—not for protection, but concealment.
His face, ever since the Abyss, was something else now. The structure was still vaguely human, but the skin glinted faintly under sunlight, like darkened steel dusted with silver grains. His eyes had no whites—just a dull, amber glow like cooling embers.
The first time a child saw him, it cried so hard its parents nearly summoned a local priest. Since then, he kept his helm on. It was easier than explaining. And frankly, he had no explanation himself.
The armor was a thin, sharp-lined black shell, etched with faded sigils from the lower depths. His back still carried a bundle—tools, food, a few small items—but most weight came from the sheer presence he exuded. A quiet, oppressive stillness.
He was walking along a public trade road now, and the handful of merchants and peasants giving him space looked at him with thinly veiled awe—or fear.
"Hey," Kalem called softly to a passerby, a man pulling a cart of fruit. "How far is the next city?"
The man blinked up at him, swallowed once, and stammered, "Th-three hours ahead! Arsenic City! North-west gate!"
Kalem nodded, and the man practically scurried off, his cart rattling behind.
"Is the armor that imposing?" Kalem wondered aloud, sighing under his helm. "I even polished it."
One Hour Later — Arsenic City, North-West Gate
The outer walls of Arsenic City loomed high—built from jagged, gunmetal-colored stone mined from the nearby Iron Hills. Smoke drifted from smelters and forges, giving the whole skyline a haze of shimmering heat. Arsenic was famous for three things: alchemy, metal, and mercenaries.
"Next!" a city guard barked, waving forward the next traveler. He wore a leather vest over chainmail and had the look of someone two hours into a shift and already regretting life.
The guard looked up casually—and promptly fell on his butt.
Towering in front of him was a massive, dark-armored figure, eight feet tall, silent and unmoving. Its helm gleamed like an abyssal statue carved from night.
Kalem tilted his head slightly.
"Are you alright?" he asked, voice a quiet rumble.
The guard scrambled up. "Y-yeah! Yeah, just—uh, you startled me."
Kalem stood patiently as the other guards stared, slack-jawed. One reached for a halberd. Another began whispering.
"…You wouldn't happen to be… Kalem, would you?" the first guard asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Kalem considered lying. Then shrugged. "I am."
There was a beat of stunned silence, and then a flurry of whispering among the guards.
"That's him!"
"Destroyer of the Abyss!"
"He's real?! I thought it was just a guild myth—!"
Kalem sighed.
"I'm just passing through," he said, raising a hand. "I'm not here to fight or start anything. I just need to rest and maybe find work."
The guards nodded in unison, their heads bobbing like panicked pigeons.
"Of course! Of course, honored one—uh, sir—Lord?"
"Just Kalem is fine."
The gates creaked open and Kalem strode through, the noise of the outer city washing over him like a tide.
The city was chaos layered over function. Shouts from competing smithies echoed in the air, mingling with the hiss of molten metal and the crack of hammer on anvil. Potions vendors lined the central streets with colorful flasks, while mercenary guilds advertised everything from monster-hunting to political sabotage.
Kalem walked slowly through it all, feeling the eyes. He knew this routine by now—the glance, the double-take, the sudden silence. Some people recognized him by the armor, some by the feel of him—a sensation like standing near a silent furnace.
A group of young adventurers crossed his path. One nudged the other.
"That him?"
"No way, the Abyss guy wouldn't just… be walking here."
"Dude. That's the armor. Look at the sigils!"
Kalem ignored them and ducked into a quieter alley, sighing as the noise dimmed.
He found a small tavern nestled between two shops—The Bottled Ember. It smelled like metal shavings and boiled herbs, but it had a seat and a shadowed corner. He entered without a word.
The tavern keeper, a thick-armed woman with goggles around her neck, looked up.
"You here to start a bar fight or drink?"
"Drink. And maybe eat."
"You pay?"
Kalem tossed a silver coin onto the counter. It was a strange, weighty piece, from a kingdom that no longer existed.
She took it, nodded, and returned with bread, meat, and dark tea.
Kalem sat quietly in the corner, helmet off now—his face hidden in shadows.
He could hear the murmurs begin again. Whispers of recognition. Half-truths. Dangerous interest.
He knew what would come next.
Someone would approach. Ask a question. Make an offer. Try to bait him into speaking about the Abyss. About power. About crafting.
But Kalem wasn't interested.
He just wanted to eat in peace.
Elsewhere, from a rooftop across the plaza, a cloaked figure observed the tavern.
"Confirmed. He's here," the woman whispered into a crystal earpiece. Her voice was cold, practiced. "Armor matches, behavior matches. We have visual on the Abyss survivor."
A voice crackled on the other end. "Maintain distance. Do not engage."
She watched him for a few moments more, noting how he sat perfectly still in the tavern corner, like an old war sculpture come to life.
"Understood," she said, fading back into the shadows.