The flashback unfolded in the warm, dappled sunlight of a memory from months ago.
In the far north of the United Realms of Averidane, near the jagged, mountainous border that separated the free lands from the icy grip of The Argent Theocracy, lay the Bannon Territory. This region was known as the "Rust Belt" of the Kingdom—a place of hard labor and people tougher than the iron they forged.
But on the very edge of this territory, where the mines gave way to untamed wilderness, was a small, quaint village named Oakhaven. It was a place forgotten by maps, where everyone knew everyone's business, and the most exciting event of the year was the harvest festival.
One crisp autumn morning, the village hunter squad was patrolling the deep woods. They were tracking a wounded bear. Instead, they found something far more pitiable.
Lying in a patch of thorny brambles, curled into a fetal ball, was a frail girl. Her clothes were little more than rags, stained dark with dried blood and mud. Her skin was pale to the point of translucence, and her breathing was so shallow it barely stirred the leaves around her.
"By the Gods," the head hunter, a gruff man named Harlin, whispered. "Is she...?"
They approached cautiously. She was alive, but barely. They didn't know how she had survived the night, let alone the predators that roamed these woods. Harlin wrapped her in his fur cloak, lifting her feather-light body with gentle hands. She simply let out a soft, unconscious sigh.
They brought her back to the village. The arrival of a stranger—especially one in such a state—was an event. The village midwife, a kind, stout woman named Mara, who was also Harlin's wife, took charge immediately. She cleaned the girl's wounds, which were strange—jagged tears and puncture marks that didn't look like any animal they knew.
For days, the girl slept. The village rallied around her. The baker brought fresh bread; the weaver brought soft blankets. They took turns watching over her, a silent vigil for a lost soul.
When she finally woke, her eyes were wide and terrified. She scrambled back into the corner of the bed, trembling.
"It's alright, child," Mara soothed, holding out a bowl of broth. "You're safe here."
The girl opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, a sound emerged—a rhythmic, frantic hissing.
Shhh-shhh-shhh.
It was the sound of silencing. The sound of hiding.
"Shhh," she repeated, her eyes darting around the room as if expecting a monster to burst from the shadows.
The villagers were confused, but patient. The children, naturally curious, found it fascinating. They would peek through the window, giggling and mimicking her. "Shhh-shhh!" they would whisper to each other, turning it into a game of hide-and-seek.
Weeks turned into a month. The girl's physical wounds healed, leaving pale scars. Her strength returned, thanks to Mara's stew and the fresh mountain air. But her voice never did. She remained mute, save for the occasional, instinctive shushing noise she made when startled or focused.
Despite her silence, she began to help. She carried water, chopped wood, and mended nets. And then, one day, she followed Harlin into the woods.
That was when they discovered her gift.
Harlin was tracking a deer, moving carefully to avoid snapping twigs. The girl walked beside him. She moved like a phantom. She stepped on dry leaves without a sound. She passed through bushes without rustling a branch.
But the most shocking moment came when they found the deer. The magnificent beast looked up, saw Harlin, and tensed to flee. Then it looked at the girl. It simply stared at her, unbothered, as if she were just another tree or a shadow.
She was invisible to the wild.
From that day on, she became an integral part of the hunting team. With her help, the village's larder was always full. She would simply walk up to game, calm and silent, allowing the hunters to get within perfect range.
They never learned her name. She didn't seem to remember it herself. But they gave her one. They called her Whisper.
Life was simple. It was hard work, good food, and the warmth of a community that asked for nothing in return. For the first time in a life she couldn't recall, the girl felt happy. She would sit by the fire at night, listening to Harlin tell stories, a small, contented smile on her face. The darkness of her past was locked away behind a door she no longer had the key to.
Oakhaven became livelier. The "Shushing Girl" was their lucky charm, their mystery, and their daughter.
But as the winter winds began to blow from the north, carrying the scent of frost and prophecy, the shadow of her past began to lengthen once more.
…
Meanwhile, in the Talbott Duchy, the atmosphere was completely different.
In the bustling market square of the border town of Vanguard's Reach, a new trend was booming. A simple roadside stall, constructed of polished bamboo and draped with green silk, had become the center of attention.
The people called him Iroh, the Jasmine Dragon.
A handful of locals—farmers, merchants, even a few off-duty knights—stood patiently in line, waiting for the old man to open his stall.
From the corner of the street, they saw him. Iroh walked side-by-side with a Watcher patrol unit. But unlike the officers in Evercrest who rode in sleek rune-cars, these Talbott officers rode atop a magnificent beast crossed between a lion and a tiger: a Liger.
Iroh was chatting amiably with the officer riding the beast. "I think I have to hurry, Officer," Iroh said, glancing at the line forming at his stall. "As for your problem... you have to own up to it. You cannot keep running away from a mistake. I am sure your heart also tells you so. Shame is heavy armor; forgiveness is a light cloak."
The officer paused, patting the flank of his Liger. He sighed, a tension leaving his shoulders. "Yeah. I think I'll do that. Thank you, Jasmine Dragon."
"Haha," Iroh chuckled warmly. "It is good that you found your way."
He walked toward his stall, clapping his hands together. "Alright, people! Today I didn't bring too much of the Gold-Tip variety, so I hope you understand and only buy one cup per person!"
The crowd groaned in collective disappointment but didn't leave. They stayed for the tea, yes, but mostly for the peace the old man sold with every cup.
"Come," Iroh smiled, tying his apron. "Let us share a moment."
…
Back in the village of Oakhaven, near the Bannon border.
The day started easily for Whisper. She sat at the rough-hewn kitchen table, sharing a simple breakfast of porridge and honey with Harlin and Mara. These old couple had become the parents she never knew she deserved. They teased each other, joked about the neighbors, and laughed with a warmth that filled the small cottage.
"Whispy, my child," Mara said, setting down her spoon. "I would like to make a request."
Whisper tilted her head, her large, pale eyes inquisitive. "Shhh?"
Harlin cleared his throat. "The whole village is busy for the Aurora Festive. We've never done a festival this big before—the whole prophecy about the Aurora Ribbon has everyone excited. It was supposed to be our turn to hunt for the feast."
He tapped his leg, which was wrapped in a bandage. "But as you know, my injuries from the last bear encounter haven't fully healed yet. Will it be okay for you to hunt without me today?"
Whisper's expression saddened immediately. She reached out, touching his hand.
"Hahaha!" Harlin laughed, patting her head. "It's okay! No need to pity me! I can still help around the village. I'm not a child!"
"He is too old for your pity, dear," Mara teased, winking at Whisper. "Let the old bear rest."
"Hey! I'm not that old, woman!" Harlin protested.
They bantered back and forth, the love palpable between them. Whisper laughed silently, her shoulders shaking, and nodded her agreement.
"Shhh," she said, a sound of affirmation.
"Thank you, dear," Mara and Harlin said in unison.
Whisper grabbed her bow and quiver, wrapped her cloak tight against the biting wind, and stepped out into the cold morning, ready to hunt for her family.
…
Back in Evercrest, the morning sun was just beginning to burn off the mist.
In the locker room of the 7th Precinct, Erwin Smith looked like a man who hadn't slept in a week. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, and his movements were stiff as he buttoned his uniform shirt.
"Morning," Wolfe grunted, walking in with a cup of coffee.
"Morning, sir," Erwin replied, forcing his spine to straighten.
"You alright, Officer Erwin?" Wolfe asked, eyeing the rookie over the rim of his cup. "You look like you went ten rounds with a bear."
"I'm great, sir," Erwin lied smoothly.
In his mind, he was cursing Gellert. 'Fucking Gel. He worked me to the bone.'
{Flashback: 4 Hours Ago}
The Mirror Dimension was a kaleidoscopic nightmare of shifting gravity. Erwin hung upside down from a spectral blade, gasping for air.
"Wake up, Officer," Gellert's voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere. "The weight of the entire police work rests on your shoulders. You cannot falter."
Erwin's breath came in ragged wheezes. "Can we... rest? You keep attacking to the point my demon body feels sore. Do you know how that feels? It takes a lot to make an Archdemon sore!"
Gellert, floating casually on a shard of pavement while sipping tea, shrugged nonchalantly. "I do. I am also Zero's clone. Unlike you, I train my magic and intertwine my Kaecilius and Gellert aspects into my very soul. What I want is for you to integrate all your cards into you. Seamlessly."
"I have done that, you mad wizard!" Erwin shouted.
Gellert scoffed. "Oh, have you? Then you have no problem warping while maintaining your awareness and answering my quiz about the Watcher's Guide Book, can you? Section 4, Paragraph 3: Rules of Engagement for a Class-C Magical Beast. Go."
"Fuuucckkk," Erwin groaned.
The Mirror Dimension lurched again, the floor becoming the ceiling, effectively torturing him into maintaining consciousness of every skill he possessed while reciting police code.
{Flashback End}
Erwin sighed, adjusting his badge. "Well," he muttered to himself, "at least I got one more connection out of it."
It was the Bow of the Clever.
The moment he had stumbled out of the Mirror Dimension, exhausted and bruised, a twinkling shard of blue light had detached itself from the spectral mist of the Armiger. It floated to his hand and solidified into a sleek, intricate crossbow of royal design.
He felt the connection instantly. A king was versed in myriad arts, both martial and intellectual.
The Bow was a tool of precision and calculation. It fit perfectly with his detective persona and the Conan card's analytical abilities.
Even then, Gellert had been insatiable. The wizard seemed more curious about why the connection triggered only after leaving the dimension, and had tried to drag Erwin back in for "experiments." If Erwin hadn't had a shift at the precinct, he would still be trapped in that geometric hell.
"Well," Wolfe said, breaking Erwin's reverie. "If you say you're great, then good. I've got business with Detective Celvise regarding the Aurora security detail. You can prepare the car."
"Yes, Sarge," Erwin said, grabbing his cap.
"He didn't call you 'Boot' anymore," a voice noted from the doorway.
Domin Jullien leaned against the frame, grinning.
"Are you eavesdropping on my conversation, Domin?" Erwin asked, smiling tiredly.
"I arrived just when Sergeant Wolfe called you 'Officer Erwin,'" Domin said, walking over. "Moving up in the world."
"Don't worry about it," Erwin said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "You are the best officer I know from the Academy. Your instincts are sharp."
Domin snorted. "I only ranked 4th. You were 1st. Havisa was 2nd. There are three recruits better than me, and you know it."
Erwin chuckled, opening his locker to grab his belt. "Ranks aren't everything, Domin. We are in the streets now. The test scores don't matter when you're staring down a gang member. Let's do our best, shall we?"
Domin bumped his arm against Erwin's. "Of course. Let's keep the city safe."
As they walked out to the motor pool, Erwin felt the phantom weight of the 5 kings gaze on the back of his neck.
…
Back in the dense forests near Oakhaven, the small hunting party moved with the silent, practiced rhythm of seasoned woodsmen. The crunch of dry leaves was almost nonexistent under their soft leather boots.
"Is the Village Chief still hurt?" the youngest hunter, a boy barely sixteen named Toren, whispered, looking back at Whisper.
Whisper shook her head, her pale hair swaying. "Shhh," she hissed softly, then made a fluid gesture with her hands: mimicking a strong, steady stride. 'He can walk easily now.'
The senior hunter, a scarred veteran named Brom, nodded his approval without turning around. "Good. Now let's focus. Let's not make the same mistake Harlin did and come back with injuries. Winter is coming; we can't afford to lose another hunter."
They fell silent, their eyes scanning the undergrowth. The forest was alive, the air thick with the scent of pine and impending frost.
Suddenly, a rustle from a thick bush to their left made Toren jump. He raised his bow in a panic, the string trembling. Brom and the third hunter, Leyle, instantly leveled their spears.
The bush parted. Out waddled a small, round creature covered in soft, verdant fuzz. A Moss Kitten. It looked at the armed men with wide, innocent eyes, let out a tiny, squeaky mewl, and scampered away.
The tension broke instantly.
"Hehe... sorry," Toren muttered, lowering his bow, his face flushed.
Brom sighed, shaking his head. "Nerves, boy. Control them."
They continued deeper into the woods. The canopy grew thicker, the light dimmer.
After hours of hunting, time to go back to the village. But in a sunlit clearing ahead, grazing on a patch of late-blooming flowers, stood a magnificent Herb Stag. Its coat was a lush, shimmering green that seemed to ripple like wind through grass. Its antlers were made of hardened wood, blooming with tiny white flowers. It was a prize kill—its meat was legendary for its tenderness and healing properties.
"Let's let it go," Brom whispered, lowering his spear. "We already have ten rabbits and 4 boars. That's enough for the week."
"Come on!" Toren hissed, his eyes wide with greed. "We have the festival to prepare for! I heard their meat is so tender it melts in your mouth! The whole village would feast!"
"No," Brom said firmly. "We take what we need. That is the way."
"Shhh."
Whisper stepped forward. She gently touched Brom's arm, then gestured toward the stag. She mimed a swift, clean slit across the throat. 'Kill it.'
Brom looked at her, surprised by the cold practicality in her eyes. He sighed. "Are you sure you're okay doing this again?"
Whisper nodded once, her expression serene.
Brom reached to his belt and unclipped his hunting dagger. He handed it to her hilt-first. "We will spread out and watch over you. Don't worry. We will keep you safe."
Whisper smiled, a small, ghost-like expression, and nodded. She took the blade.
"You like her, don't you?" Toren teased Brom in a barely audible whisper as they moved into position.
Brom's face turned red. "Focus, dumbass."
"You're no fun," Toren muttered.
Meanwhile, Whisper began her approach. She simply walked into the clearing.
The Herb Stag lifted its head. Its large, liquid eyes locked onto her. Usually, this was the moment the prey bolted. But the stag didn't move. It stared at her, its ears flicking lazily.
Whisper walked closer. Ten feet. Five feet.
She looked into the stag's eyes. In the deep, dark pools of its pupils, she saw a reflection of herself—a small, pale figure with a knife.
The stag remained relaxed. It even lowered its head slightly, as if bowing.
Even as she stepped right up to its flank, raising the dagger to the soft, pulsing spot on its neck, the animal did not flinch. It accepted her presence as if she were a part of the forest itself—a tree with a blade.
"It still feels jarring to see," Toren whispered from the brush. "It's unnatural."
"That's because she is calm amidst adversities," Brom corrected quietly, watching her with a mix of awe and affection. "We all should learn from her."
Slit.
It was fast. Merciful. Whisper's hand moved in a blur. A thin line of crimson appeared on the green fur. The stag's legs buckled, and it collapsed to the ground without a sound, life fading before it hit the moss.
Blood pooled around Whisper's boots. She stood over the carcass, staring down at the stag's glazing eyes, her own expression unreadable.
"Great job as usual," Brom called out, emerging from the trees with the others.
Whisper kept staring.
"Whisper?" Brom called again, stepping closer.
Whisper snapped out of her trance. She looked up, blinking.
"I said, good job," Brom repeated, his voice gentle.
Whisper smiled brightly and nodded.
Brom was caught off guard by the sudden shift, the warmth of her smile piercing his rugged exterior. He cleared his throat, looking away. "Alright. Let's tie this up and bring it back with the rest of our game. The village will eat well tonight."
**A/N**
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**A/N**