Chapter 302: He Says He’s A Raith

The scorched earth crunched beneath my boots with every step I took.

Ash fell from the bleeding crimson sky like gray, toxic snow, dusting the remains of crushed ironwood trees and shattered stone. For miles in every direction, the landscape was completely devoid of life.

No birds, no beasts, not even the ambient hum of wild mana. Just dead, silent waste stretching toward the jagged horizons.

I narrowed my eyes, pulling up the collar of my doublet to shield my nose from the stench of sulfur and old decay.

Where the hell is everyone?

My mind raced with uneasy possibilities. How long had Yuki's stasis kept me buried in that subterranean dungeon? Weeks? Months? A year?

If the entire countryside looked like this, had the Academy fallen completely? Had the capital been wiped off the map?

Just as the suffocating silence began to convince me that I was walking through a dead world, a thin, dark plume of real woodfire smoke caught my eye in the distance, rising from behind a rocky ridge.

I ducked low, picking up my pace as I moved along the shadowed incline of the gulley. Peering over the ridge, my breath hitched slightly.

Nestled in a dry creek bed below was a crude, makeshift camp.

Wooden pikes bound with rough rope formed a low perimeter wall around a handful of battered canvas tents and supply wagons. Smoldering fire pits warmed small clusters of weary, dirt-caked people, a mix of wounded regional soldiers, commoners, and a few low-tier adventurers clad in dented armor.

Relief flashed through me, quickly replaced by caution. I stepped over the crest of the ridge, making no effort to hide my approach as I walked down the loose gravel slope toward the makeshift barricade.

I didn't even make it ten yards into the open.

"HALT! DON'T MOVE A SINGLE INCH!" a harsh, panicked voice screamed from behind a sharpened log barricade.

SHING!

An iron-tipped spear thrust out toward my chest, its wooden shaft trembling violently in the grip of a young spearman.

He looked no older than eighteen, his leather armor stained with dried blood and soot, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and completely unhinged with terror.

Beside him, an archer hastily notched a crude wooden arrow, aiming it squarely at my throat.

"Step back, beast!" the spearman yelled, his knuckles white against the wood. "Show your hands! SHOW YOUR HANDS!"

They were terrified, not just of my sudden appearance from the dead wastes, but of what I might be.

In a world overrun by demons, a solitary man walking out of a demon-infested warzone in a clean coat was practically a death flag.

I slowly brought both hands up to shoulder height, palms open, keeping my movements deliberate and unthreatening.

"Easy with the steel," I said, keeping my voice calm, flat, and steady. "I'm human. I just crawled out of the mountain ridge."

"Liars! The dark ones can take human form!" the archer hissed, his bowstring pulled taut near his ear. "Look at him! He's got no mud on him, carrying a high-grade sword, he's one of their skin-walkers!"

"I'm not a demon," I replied, tilting my head slightly. "If I were a demon, you two wouldn't have had the time to finish that sentence. Lower the weapon."

The sheer cold confidence in my tone made the spearman hesitate. He swallowed hard, exchanging a nervous glance with the archer before barking down the line.

"Captain! We've got a wanderer at the north post! Claims he's human!"

Moments later, the heavy wooden barricade scraped open, and three heavily armored guards flanked by a battle-weary officer stepped out.

The officer was a broad-shouldered man with a scarred jaw and a missing left ear, his broadsword already resting in his hand.

He approached me, his sharp gaze sweeping over Oathstorm at my waist, the remnants of my Academy doublet, and the calm lack of fear in my eyes.

"Disarm him," the captain ordered gruffly. "Bind his wrists. If he twitches or tries to cast a spell, put a bolt through his spine."

Two guards stepped forward cautiously. I didn't resist as they unclasped Oathstorm from my belt and bound my wrists behind my back with heavy, iron-threaded rope.

Fighting them would only confirm their suspicions, and I needed answers more than I needed a fight.

And it's not like I can't break free from it.

They marched me into the heart of the camp, past rows of groaning, bandaged refugees who stared at me with hollow, fearful eyes.

Then shoved me into a large, dimly lit command tent that smelled of stale ale, wet wool, and map ink.

The captain threw himself down behind a creaking wooden table covered in yellowed tactical maps, resting his heavy gauntlets on the wood.

He stared up at me, his scarred face illuminated by the flickering yellow light of a single oil lamp.

"You're either the luckiest bastard alive or a dead man walking," the captain said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rasp. "Nobody walks out of the northern ridge alone anymore. Not since the capital's lines shattered."

He leaned forward, slamming a dagger into the wooden table.

"Name and origin," the officer demanded coldly. "And speak fast if you want to keep your tongue."

I stood tall under the dim lamp light, my face completely expressionless despite the heavy iron ropes cutting into my wrists.

"Jin," I replied smoothly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Jin Raith."

The captain's scarred face instantly froze. The heavy, air-sucking silence that filled the command tent was so sudden you could hear the oil lamp sputtering against its tarnished glass frame.

His jaw went slack, his bloodshot eyes widening until the whites were completely exposed.

The hard, interrogation-style composure he had maintained collapsed into pure, unadulterated shock.

"What..." the captain breathed out, his voice cracking slightly. "...what did you just say?"

I tilted my head, looking down at the heavy iron ropes binding my wrists before meeting his wide-eyed stare with an unbothered, flat expression.

"Can't you hear me?" I asked, a faint, sarcastic edge creeping into my tone. "I said Jin. Jin Raith. Do I need to spell it out for you?"

Instead of taking the bait or threatening to chop off my tongue like he had two seconds ago, the captain practically scrambled backward, his wooden chair scraping violently against the dirt floor.

He didn't even look at me anymore. He spun abruptly toward the guard standing watch by the tent flap, his hands trembling as he slammed them against the edge of the map table.

"You!" the captain barked, his voice laced with a frantic, breathless urgency. "Call the Commander. Go! Right now!"

The guard blinked, caught completely off guard by the sudden panic in his captain's posture. "Sir? Sho—"

"I said fetch the Commander, you fool!" the captain snapped, leaning over the table, his knuckles turning white as his breath came in short, ragged gaps.

"He says he's a Raith! Hurry up and notify her!"

I raised a single eyebrow.

The guard didn't ask another question. The raw terror in the captain's voice was contagious enough that the soldier practically tore through the canvas tent flap, his heavy iron boots sprinting frantically across the gravel out in the creek bed.