Starvation finally drove him to the edge of a village.
The last of his strength had carried him this far. The five heavy, stolen layers of clothing, topped by the damp green shawl, had drained what little energy he possessed. Weakly, he stripped off three layers, discarding them by the wayside, and pressed forward into the settlement wearing only the remaining two and his shawl.
Seeking sustenance, he knocked on the door of the first cottage.
No one answered.
He tried the second. Nothing.
The village lacked any semblance of life; it bore the hollow, quiet air of an abandoned ruin. He checked house after house, encountering only locked doors and unyielding silence. With every empty threshold, his hope began to wither. No people meant no food ,a terrifying realization given the hollow, gnawing ache in his stomach.
Then, he found a house that differed from the rest.
Though his knocks went unanswered like all the others, something about the structure held his attention. Driven by pure instinct, he abandoned caution and threw his weight against the entrance. The fragile, rot-weakened wood gave way with a sharp crack.
Inside, the interior was swallowed by a dense, pitch-black gloom. The air smelled wrong. Yet, compelled by hunger, he raised his foot to step across the threshold.
"Long ago, this is where he found his daughter. Or so the myth says."
A girl's voice cut through the dark.
Relief surged through him at the sound of a human tongue, though the absolute blackness within remained deeply unsettling. He immediately pulled his leg back, retreating several steps into the gray daylight.
His lips moved, desperately trying to form words, but his throat was too dry; no sound came out.
The voice spoke again, harsher this time, tinged with anger and suspicion. "What is your name? Nobody willingly comes here. So why did you?"
He tried again, his vocal cords straining until a rough, raspy tone finally birthed itself. "I'm sorry... I shouldn't have broken into your home."
Turning his back on his hunger, he forced his fragile legs to carry him away. But as he walked, a terrible realization struck him like a physical blow.
He couldn't remember his name. He slowly began to chant the word under his breath. "Name. Name. Name."
Speaking the word aloud brought a strange, otherworldly vertigo. He realized, with sudden horror, that he remembered absolutely nothing prior to awakening under the frozen leaves of Yanaha. Dizziness washed over him in a violent wave. His head throbbed so intensely he had to clutch his temples, staggering across the dirt like a drunkard. In the blur of his vision, fractured images flashed, a woman's face, the towering sails of ships.
He lunged toward a nearby fence, gripping the wood as he violently retched. The vomiting gradually eased the pressure in his skull, but it claimed the absolute last of his stamina. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto his back.
The biting wind swept over him, turning his ears red and aching. His head had cleared slightly, but the void in his stomach remained ravenous. Refusing to die in the dirt, he forced himself back up and dragged his feet back to the broken house.
He picked up the shattered door, propping it awkwardly against the frame to afford himself some privacy. "Ouhoo?" he called out weakly.
Silence answered. He knocked against the wood anyway. Receiving no reply, he stepped back into the dark. "I'm sorry," he whispered into the gloom. "Please... help me."
This time, the pitch black did not deter him. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a solitary shaft of daylight piercing a hole in the roof, weakly illuminating the center of the room.
The house had no floor. Instead, the ground gave way to a massive, deep pit, dropping down the depth of nearly two men. At the bottom of the dark trench grew a cluster of vibrant plants, their branches heavy with glowing, crimson berries.
Food.
He hesitated for only a second before dropping over the edge. His weakened body could not absorb the impact; a sharp, blinding pain shot through his ankle as it sprained beneath him. He ignored it. Crawling on his hands and knees through the dirt, he tore the berries from the branches, shoving them into his mouth in a wild, animalistic frenzy.
Tears welled in his eyes as he chewed. Relief, joy, and pure desperation mingled in his throat. There were four plants in total, and within minutes, he had stripped them entirely bare.
Yet, the phantom hunger still lingered, demanding more. Driven by an insatiable urge, he began to strip the leaves, chewing the bitter greenery down. When those were gone, he tore at the fibrous stems, masticating the wood until his jaws ached.
Finally, the void in his stomach fell silent. The immediate threat of starvation was gone.
But as the frenzy faded, a new problem presented itself. Exhausted, he leaned back against the dirt wall and looked up toward the distant doorway. The pit was too deep, his ankle was throbbing, and he lacked the strength to climb out.
Then, his eyes caught something resting in the shadows,a dusty, ancient wooden ladder.
With the anxiety of entrapment lifted, his eyelids grew impossibly heavy. He collapsed into the dirt and fell into a profound sleep, turning his back to the world like a newborn child.
While he slept, an unnatural phenomenon occurred beneath his clothes. His stomach began to emanate a soft, vibrant crimson glow. The light grew bright enough to illuminate the intricate network of his veins, revealing two distinct, yolk-like spheres pulsing gently at the center of his core. The internal luminescence lingered for a few seconds before fading away, leaving his body looking completely normal once more.
From the deepest shadows of the pit, the girl materialized, her form camouflaged by the dark. With every step she took toward the sleeping man, the shadows seemed to stretch and follow her, as if she and the darkness were woven from the same fabric.
She stood over him, gazing down at his dirty face. "Hungry, no name, and no home," she murmured, a faint, amused chuckle escaping her lips. "Poor body."
Reaching down, she touched his swollen, sprained ankle. A cool sensation washed over the injury, instantly knitting the tissue and reducing the swelling. Without another word, she dissolved backward, moving toward the upper structure like a swift, dark cloud. As she departed, the oppressive gloom broke, leaving the house merely dim.
When the green man finally awoke, the heavy lethargy had vanished. He felt remarkably fresh, his limbs surging with a newfound strength. Standing up, he tested his ankle—the pain was entirely gone. Not sure how, he didn't give it any thought.
He scaled the ancient ladder and climbed out of the pit. Before leaving the house, he paused, gently pressing his forehead against the wooden wall in a silent gesture of gratitude to the house that offered him food.
But as he stepped out into the village lane, an old man approached him, his withered face twisted in a mask of pure rage.
"You filthy grave robber!" the old man shrieked.
The green man froze, utterly perplexed. He opened his mouth, but no words came out to defend himself.
The old man lunged forward, striking him repeatedly with a heavy wooden walking stick, shouting bitter curses with every blow.
"What is your problem?" the young man finally shouted, his patience snapping. He shoved the old man back.
The old man stumbled and fell into the dirt. Instead of rising in anger, he broke into sudden, heavy tears. "First the others, and now you... have you no respect?" he sobbed, his voice cracking with immense exhaustion. "You all have ruined my life."
The sudden outburst seemed to drain the elder of his remaining vitality. The green man felt his anger evaporate, replaced by a quiet pity. He stepped closer, kneeling slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said softly. "I was just passing through."
The old man wiped his eyes and studied him closely. The youth carried no sack, no tools, and no stolen goods. He was just a lone, bewildered man wrapped in a stained green shawl.
At last, the elder let out a ragged sigh,
stepping aside to let him pass into the wild.
********
Meanwhile, far in the east, where winter had not yet sharpened its teeth.The sky darkens unnaturally fast. Rain gathers, heavy with intent. When it begins to fall, it is light—but wrong. Thunder murmurs in the distance, patient and deliberate.A convoy of chariots and wagons rushes along a dirt road, urged forward by fear rather than urgency.
One wagon in the center of the line stood apart from the rest.
At its center sat a large iron cage, completely exposed to the sky. Inside the bars sat a child—perhaps five or seven years old. The boy gripped the iron rods with small, dirt-caked hands, his gaze fixed entirely on the roiling storm above. His eyes were a striking, unnatural shade of deep purple. Beneath his pale skin, a network of faint, violet veins pulsed softly, perfectly mirroring the distant rhythm of the lightning.
The wagons directly ahead of him were empty.
The wagons directly behind him were empty.
Only the third wagon in the rear carried passengers. Inside its covered interior, a group of well-dressed individuals sat in uneasy, suffocating silence. One of them slides aside the curtain and peers out.
The sky, the rain, the thunder," he muttered, his brow furrowed. "They're all moving in perfect sync. What is happening out there?"
A woman seated beside him slowly lifted a silk cloth from her face, revealing eyes wide with trepidation. Her voice was a low whisper. "Haven't you noticed, Arman? It's a Sin."
The word settled heavily in the cramped space. The other men shifted uncomfortably, glancing at her in silence. Arman let out a soft, humorless laugh that failed to reach his eyes.
"Don't frighten us, Miss Mansiri. We've already endured enough trouble on this road."
She offered no rebuttal, silently drawing the cloth back over her face.
Across from them, another man struck a match, lighting a thick cigar. He took a single, deep puff and leaned toward the small window to exhale—but the moment he opened his mouth, a violent crack of thunder exploded directly overhead. The shock caused the cigar to slip from his fingers. The howling wind snatched it instantly, vanishing it into the driving rain
A sharp, nervous burst of laughter erupted from the occupants.
Arman patted the man's trembling shoulder. "Careful, brother."
The brief levity died instantly when a younger man in the corner spoke up, his voice hollow. "And what of us? We style ourselves as scholars of history and ghosts... yet here we are, witnesses to absolute cruelty. Kidnappers of children."
His mournful gaze drifted through the window toward the isolated cage wagon ahead.
Arman's superficial smile vanished entirely. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised, dark circles weighing heavily on his features as he stared into the dark.
"Necessity demands it," Arman said, his voice flat and unyielding. "And we obey."