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Translator: penny
Chapter: 265
Chapter Title: Entrance to Autumn #1
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“Put it there, right there. Yeah. Up higher—a little more, a little higher.”
“Is this good?”
“Yeah. Right there, perfect! Good, that wraps up today’s quota of boxes. Those things are so heavy four strong men would struggle with them, but you’re lifting them like nothing. Impressive.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really. You seemed a bit green at first, but you picked it up quick. Good with your hands, too. Calmer than I heard. If you put your mind to it, you do it well. You can head out now.”
His words lifted my spirits a bit. Was it the gruff middle-aged man’s clumsy praise, or just hearing I could clock out? Hard to say.
“Phew.”
Straightening my back, my waist and shoulders screamed from the day’s grueling labor.
I’d hauled boxes two or three times my weight up and down endlessly, straining muscles and joints.
Not just today—yesterday, the day before, too. I was hitting my limit.
The Samaritan arson case.
Days, weeks had passed since the big event folks called the Sodomora public trial.
New rules and ordinances sprang up from it, and plenty of people gained or lost based on their stakes.
Things really had changed.
The stifling heat that wrinkled noses had eased, cool breezes blew, leaves turned red—autumn was upon me before I knew it.
And I, Hissan of Samaria, a man in his mid-twenties, felt changes in many ways too.
“Good, that’s it for today. My shift’s up anyway. Kinda sad thinking this is the last time, Hissan.”
I looked at the middle-aged man running the carpentry shop at the east gate.
He’d been picky at first, nitpicking everything. But after days of hard work together, he’d warmed up, speaking leisurely now. He’d lumped me as “that Samaritan” before—now he used my name, Hissan.
I said, “We’ll meet again someday if fate allows.”
“Sure. That’s what makes life interesting. But I still don’t get it, Hissan. Why’d you set the fire? You don’t seem the type.”
“Doesn’t everyone have that urge once in a while? Seeing dry leaves tumble, or a perfect campfire—you wanna spark one yourself, right?”
“True. But acting on it’s another story. Folks lack the guts or fear the fallout.”
“I just did it. And now I’m paying the price.”
“I see. Makes sense. Given how they’re treating you these days, I can almost understand the arson.”
“Yeah?”
“But you sure you’re okay?”
His question drew a familiar smile from me.
“I’m fine.”
That ended my time at Berdu’s carpentry. Tomorrow, back to helping at Galad’s laundry repairs.
Daily work kept things from getting boring. Moving my hands focused me, time flew.
Wake in the morning, work.
Clock out in the evening.
Ordinary life—nothing special, what everyone dreams of. Surprising I was living it now.
I’d once taken such normalcy for granted, then it became my aspiration, and now it’d circled back.
I’m a Samaritan, after all.
Heh, time to head home. Scary as hell.
Not quite the everyday I wanted, though. Reasons obvious.
I pulled my robe low over my face, dodging eyes and ears, heading to my spot.
No garden, no cozy hut, no women’s laughter—just a cheap north gate inn.
Jingle.
The rickety bell rang as I opened the door. Rough men’s gazes snapped to me.
Mumble mumble.
Whispering again. Annoying, but causing a scene might leave me homeless.
Did he just say “mumble mumble” out loud? Idiot? Or their code?
Probably misheard. I walked on.
“Innkeep, dinner please.”
After telling the bored owner wiping bowls, I headed to my long-term room on the second floor, farthest corner. Creak, creeeak.
The stairs and floorboards shook like they’d collapse under my heavy steps. Strangely comforting.
My room greeted me as always: broken doorknob, walls slashed with knives.
“Home sweet home.”
I flopped onto the torn bedspread without changing. Sleep came even here, eyes closed.
“Fucking sucks.”
No escaping reality, crashing like a tsunami.
Days after the trial.
I fought loneliness head-on. No eerie spider barks, no girl giggling while brushing with Menthe oil.
Just broken doors, crude curses scratched like stone-throws, stinky blankets.
I stared at the ceiling.
“Fuk san, di zera.”
Damn, shitty handwriting. Spelling’s all wrong. How’d they carve the ceiling? Rode a pony up there with a knife?
Imagining burly guys piggybacking to graffiti made me chuckle.
“Fuck.”
Then a pang hit my chest like a stone. Explained the downstairs whispers. Thought I’d gotten used to it—not just one or two days.
Staring at frog-killing slurs, my cheeks and eyes twitched.
Did they know casual stones killed frogs like me?
Probably.
Stones thrown to kill frogs. If I died, they’d spit and mock my corpse.
But I had no intention of going their way.
That thought rallied me. Mindset matters.
Yet despite the surge, eyelids grew heavy, consciousness sank into deep sleep.
*
*
*
Rustle.
Strange noise woke me. Pitch-black room, no candle.
Creak, creak.
Door was shut despite the busted knob—now wide open, rattling.
Wind?
Rising to close it, I sensed another presence in the cramped room. Eyes adjusting to dark spotted a shadow.
“Luna?”
No, I corrected— presences, plural. And Luna wouldn’t be here.
“Fuck.”
Hand to my waist, a noose snared my neck.
Crunch.
Someone behind yanked a rope to strangle me.
“!”
I tensed, wedging fingers between rope and throat. Breathing eased. Swung fist into dark.
“Argh!”
Hit something—a thick man’s yelp.
Thrashing, the rope loosened, fell.
From bed, I grabbed my club from waist, faced shadowy group in dark.
Who?
Not important now. Surviving mattered.
“You know who I am and still jumped me? Wrong room, guys. Single occupancy.”
“Know who? Hissan of Samaria, you filthy arsonist. Time to pay.”
“See? Didn’t know me. Dumbasses, wrong address.”
Slash.
Right cheek burned. I dodged left fast. Blade—dagger?—whistled past, slicing air.
Screeeee.
Aimed for face or neck full force. They meant to kill.
I uppercut the shadow’s gut hard.
“Urk!”
Ribs cracked, he screamed, flew back into wall.
“Guaaaagh!”
Impact thud, then vomiting splatter. Gross, hate sleeping near puke.
Quick punches smashed the other two heads.
Thud, thwack.
“Ugh!”
“Guh!”
Short groans, shadows crumpled.
My grace, Dark Eyes, activated—room sharpened. Always amazing.
First guy: wall-smashed.
Two twitching on bed.
One on ass, staring up, masked, holding club or branch.
Kicked it away, grabbed collar, yanked to my face.
Size gap left his feet dangling.
“Eeeeek! M-monster! Fuck, you even human!?”
“You came knowing me. Should know small fry like you can’t touch me. Didn’t expect this, huh?”
“Fuck!”
“Yeah, so you didn’t know me. Right? Came to kill anyway. Why?”
“Obviously—”
He smirked slyly.
“Count Sardichi’s orders.”
Bullshit. No reason for the count to off me.
Their protection let me scrape by. And hiring these punks? Unlikely.
“Lie and see what happens.”
Crunch.
“Hyuuk!”
Shaking him like a drunk hurling, he screamed.
“Now, truth.”
“You bastard, the underground market tanked ‘cause of you! Arsonist scum strutting like you’re hot shit—serves you right!”
“Good answer.”
“Guek!”
Jabbed finger under jaw—pressure point. He flopped like twisted chicken, rolling.
“Shit.”
Getting kicked out now.
Wanted to lay low, but trial fame spread my story. Old grudges bit hard.
Knew showing weakness meant doom here, yet soft sleep weeks ago felt unreal.
I rifled attackers—ex-underground market remnants. Rusty dagger, chains, junk.
“Ugh, fuck. Bums. Hey, quit whining. Didn’t hit that hard.”
“Uwaaaah.”
Checked wrists: Hans, Zimmer, Cornero, Marco. Common names, levels 5,3,4,3. Normals.
“Hans, Zimmer, Cornero, Marco.”
Naming them panicked the floor-bound thugs.
“F-fuck, how’d you know our names!?”
“We hid everything...!”
From rage to terror. Scary knowing unspoken names.
What else do they know? My place? Family?
Imagination spirals to hell. Hell’s in the fearful mind.
Names alone induce panic.
I knew—always been scaredy-cat.
I said, “Now you know who I am. Go. Tell your pals, buddies. Who I am, what I do. How you got wrecked. Spread it wide.”
Thud.
“Eek!”
Kicked floor hard, they scattered like rats from a cat, limping, helping each other.
Dragging off—satisfying.
“Punks.”
Spit on floor, back to bed.
Fuck, sleep gone.
Too much stamina? Should’ve kept ‘em, chatted. Truth or dare all night maybe.
Silly thoughts, eyes closing—rustle. Small build. Woman? Dwarf?
“Wanna get beat too?”
Growled with killing intent. Nights fighting thugs honed my intimidation.
Most punks’d flee like nymphs from boiling water.
But this one didn’t.
Entered, spoke to me.
“Using thugs as messenger horses...! Lord Hissan’s Hellish Wail of Terror, the Dread Evangelist!? Wise move! Ruthless wisdom befitting Hell’s heir...! Saw it all outside! Not ‘cause I was scared—nooo!”
Fuck.
I bolted up. Small girl with lantern eased in.
“Fuck!”
“Lord Hissan! Heard you torched foolish Sodomora...!! Bringing Hell yourself! Perfect example for Hell’s son—! P-Paranoia was so moved, wept on spot...!!”
“Fuck, Paranoia!”
“But... one regret...! If you’d tipped Paranoia beforehand, could’ve said where and when to burn for city-wide inferno...!!”
“What?”
“All my fault for not being there—! Paranoia fasted candy one day in remorse! You know how huge that is, Lord Hissan...!!”
“Yeah, sure.”
Paranoia loves sweets. Breathes sugar. Skipping one day? Heroic willpower.
“But Paranoia, what brings you? Been ages!”
Loneliness made me glad. She said,
“Long story... But could you buy food first? Starving...”