When YozaRu stepped through the gate of the safe zone, for a fleeting moment, he almost felt like he belonged to this world — until the stares reminded him otherwise.
Curiosity, caution, and then quiet avoidance — the cycle of human judgment was swift.
Some smiled politely, others shut their doors. In their eyes, he was both stranger and shadow.
The village center was small — a muddy square surrounded by homes patched with wood and clay.
He stopped in front of an old inn; travelers were entering, dripping from the rain, asking for hot soup.
YozaRu looked down at his torn clothes. He hadn't eaten since Sentarion's cave.
He needed to survive first — but his heart, still haunted by memories of his family, ached with every child's laughter and every flicker of firelight behind closed windows.
He began with small work.
Carrying firewood for the baker, fixing a collapsed fence, cleaning weeds from the fields.
Words didn't come easily — his voice still felt foreign in his throat — but his actions spoke for him.
Gradually, suspicion softened.
A woman shared bread with him; an old man patted his shoulder.
Little things, but for YozaRu, they were pieces of something he thought he'd lost — belonging.
One night, chaos broke the calm.
A shepherd's scream echoed from the north hills — his flock under attack.
YozaRu ran before anyone else could react.
He saw it: a small Feral One, lean and snarling, its claws dripping.
Fear flared in his chest, but beneath it burned a memory — Sentarion's words: "Control it. Survive first."
He gripped his sword but didn't charge recklessly.
He moved with precision — scattering stones to block its path, distracting it long enough to pull a child to safety.
Then, just for a second, he felt it: a spark inside his veins, the black flame itching to break free.
A faint red glow flashed in his eyes.
He forced it down, panting — and the creature fled into the dark.
The next morning, whispers spread.
"I saw his eyes," someone muttered in the market. "Red — like burning coal."
"His hands," said another. "Covered in black marks, like ash."
Rumors spread faster than fire.
YozaRu said nothing. He kept working, even as the stares followed him again.
Days passed.
Children approached him first — curious, fearless.
One boy asked about his family, and YozaRu, without naming them, told stories of warm kitchens and shared laughter.
Tears stung his eyes as he spoke, but the child only smiled.
"I'll play with you," he said.
It was such a small, human thing — yet it reached deeper than any victory in battle.
Still, trust is fragile.
Some of the younger men guarded the village walls at night, while others whispered in the shadows.
A few — merchants and wanderers — saw opportunity.
Information was valuable, and rumors about strange power even more so.
If someone in the Upper World paid well, why not sell a story or two?
One evening, YozaRu overheard a group behind the inn.
"…if the hunters come, we'll hand him over," one hissed.
"He's not one of us. Better safe than sorry."
The words stabbed deeper than any blade.
They were planning to betray him.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
Inside his mind, the same dark voice echoed:
"Use it. Let them fear you."
But Sentarion's voice still lingered: "Never reveal who you are."
He clenched his fists. No. Not yet.
To win their trust, he'd have to show strength — not through fear, but through kindness.
The next morning, disaster struck.
A fire broke out in the market — a stall caught flame, spreading fast through the wooden roofs.
Panic erupted.
YozaRu rushed forward, dragging a child from the smoke, then doused the flames with buckets of water.
He moved without thinking, guided by instinct, his every motion precise and fearless.
When it was over, people stared — not with fear this time, but gratitude.
A woman with soot-streaked cheeks hugged him tightly.
"You saved my son," she whispered.
The rumor of red eyes was replaced, for a moment, by the story of a savior.
But not everyone believed.
In a dark corner, the merchant's aide watched silently, his mind already plotting.
"Let them love him," he murmured. "The higher they raise him… the harder he'll fall."
That night, YozaRu sat by the inn's window, staring at the pale moonlight spilling across the muddy street.
"I'll earn their trust," he whispered. "Slowly, step by step."
Protect them first. Reveal nothing. Wait.
Beyond the village, in the unseen lands, the echo of YozaRu's past power still pulsed faintly.
It reached far — stirring old minds, dark hearts, and ancient loyalties.
Two distant figures, cloaked in shadow, paused as they felt it again.
One smirked:
"He's alive."
The other looked up at the crimson-tinted sky.
"And this time… he's among them."