Without a second thought, Lucas jumped out of bed and threw open his window.
The night air rushed in—cold and biting. Under the dim glow of an oil lamp, he saw a woman running down the village street. Her hair was wild and tangled, her face pale as death, and her wide eyes filled with terror. Her dress was torn in several places, revealing bruises that hadn't fully healed.
She was screaming incoherently. Her hands flailed in the air as if warding off something invisible, her steps dragging like someone barely in control of her own body.
Lucas squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Around the woman, not a single villager approached. Instead, doors and windows slammed shut in a hurry, as if her appearance was something expected—something that had happened far too often.
'What the hell is going on in this village?'
Lucas leaned in, studying her body language. She wasn't gravely injured... but something was clearly very wrong.
"Stay away! Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" the woman suddenly screamed, collapsing to the ground, thrashing wildly. Her whole body trembled, like she was having a severe panic attack.
Moments later, an old man appeared from a narrow alley, carrying a wooden staff. Two younger men followed behind him, holding a net and some rope.
Lucas watched as they cautiously approached her. They didn't speak a word—only exchanged quick nods before moving.
One of them hurled the net over the woman, trapping her in a swift motion. She shrieked hysterically, struggling to break free, but she was too weak to resist. The two young men tied her hands with rough rope and began dragging her, still kicking and screaming, back toward the alley.
Lucas could only watch in silence.
No one explained anything. No one else in the village made a sound. The street returned to silence, as if nothing had happened at all.
Holding his breath, Lucas slowly shut the window.
'What... was that?'
He sat on the edge of the bed, then stood again. His fists clenched, then relaxed.
'What I just saw… that wasn't normal,' he thought. 'But… should I get involved?'
Lucas closed his eyes, trying to calm his thoughts. He knew all too well that acting recklessly was the reason he nearly died just a few days ago. No matter how strong he might be now, this world never ran out of ways to kill a fool who rushed in without thinking.
"You're not a hero," he whispered to himself. "And they're not your responsibility."
But another voice inside wouldn't let him rest. Something about all of this gnawed at him—not just the woman, but the entire village. The villagers' blank stares pretending everything was fine. Their too-quick reactions, slamming their doors shut. It wasn't concern he saw in them. It was fear.
Finally, with steady but cautious steps, Lucas left his room.
The inn's hallway was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of wall-mounted oil lamps. He descended to the ground floor and found the middle-aged man who had greeted them earlier sitting behind the reception desk, sipping a cup of hot tea.
Lucas approached slowly.
The man smiled as he noticed him. "Ah, can't sleep, young man?"
Lucas didn't respond right away. He just stared at him, eyes sharp but not hostile.
"Who was that woman?" Lucas finally asked, his voice low but firm.
The man's smile faded immediately. "Woman… who?"
"Don't play games," Lucas cut in, his tone rising slightly. "The woman who was screaming. The one they dragged into the alley. You know exactly who I mean."
The man stared into his teacup for a moment, then took a deep breath.
"I suggest you don't get involved, son," he said softly. "It's not your concern."
"Then make me not care," Lucas replied. "Give me a good reason, and I'll go back to bed without another word."
Silence fell between them.
Then the man spoke again, even more quietly than before. "That woman… lost her husband and child two weeks ago. Taken by monsters during the night. She hasn't been right since. Sometimes she screams, sometimes she wanders, sometimes she disturbs the villagers. We don't want her hurt. But we also can't let her cause chaos."
Lucas listened without a word. It sounded plausible… but something felt off.
"And you always tie up the insane with nets and ropes, then drag them into dark alleys?" he asked, voice cold.
The man didn't answer.
Lucas watched him closely. His hand trembled slightly as he held the cup. His breathing was shallow—not from fear, but like someone trying to hide something.
He's lying.
Lucas could feel it.
But for now, he didn't have enough proof to press further.
"Thanks for the explanation," he said flatly.
He turned and walked back up the stairs.
But in his heart, he had already made up his mind.
He wouldn't sleep tonight. And when the world was quiet… he'd start investigating on his own.
Lucas sat at the edge of his bed, a dagger resting on his lap. The faint blue glow of the runes etched into its blade pulsed gently in the dark. It had been nearly an hour since he returned to his room, and the whole time, he had kept watch, waiting to see if anything else would happen outside.
But nothing did. The village street remained silent.
Oil lamps still flickered on porch posts, but no shadows passed by. No sounds. Not even the wind dared to move.
Lucas stood slowly and walked to the window. He carefully pulled back the curtain, then opened the shutters after confirming the outside was still clear.
The night air met him again, sharp and damp, carrying the scent of earth and old wood. Lucas looked down. His room was on the second floor, but the drop wasn't far. He could jump without trouble.
'Enough waiting,' he thought.
Silently, he hoisted himself onto the window ledge, balanced for a moment, and leapt. He landed lightly on the grassy ground. Crouching low, he pressed himself against the building wall, listening intently.
Still quiet.
Once sure no one had noticed, he began moving—slowly, carefully—along the inn's outer wall, toward the alley where the woman had been dragged.
His steps were light and practiced, barely making a sound. He moved in the shadows, slipping from corner to corner, staying hidden. Every muscle was tense. Eyes and ears sharp.
At the alley's entrance, he stopped.
There were drag marks on the ground—signs of something being pulled along. The dust looked disturbed, like someone had tried to cover it in a hurry. On one side of the alley, a small wooden door hung ajar. Inside, pitch black.
Lucas crept closer, dagger tight in his right hand.
He pressed his ear to the door.
Nothing. But he smelled something—sharp, metallic, mixed with damp earth and something unmistakable: blood.
Lucas closed his eyes briefly.
Holding his breath, he pushed the door open—just enough to slip through.
Then, he vanished into the darkness.