Kryos 18, Imperial Year 1642
The Eastern Road, Mercia
The morning was cold enough to freeze the mud in the ruts, and Elara Greenhill's pony picked its way carefully along the edge of the road. Frost glittered on the grass like scattered diamonds, and the breath of the horses rose in white clouds.
They had been riding for three days since the Crossroads Tavern, heading east toward the borderlands where Viscount Hawkwood held his lands. The terrain had changed from gentle hills to broken ground, dotted with stands of birch and thorn. The villages were fewer here, and the people they passed were wary, their eyes tracking the group's orc and dwarf and gnome with suspicion.
Roderick rode at the front, his massive draft horse plodding along like a boulder with legs. His tusks caught the morning light, and he wore a hooded cloak to hide his green skin, but the cloak could not hide his bulk. He had stopped caring about the stares years ago.
"How much farther?" Miku asked from the rear. She was riding a small halfling pony, but her legs still dangled awkwardly, and she bounced with every step.
"Three days," Rosalind said. "Maybe four. The viscount's keep is in a valley called Fallowfield. My informant says it is a quiet place – farms, orchards, a small garrison."
"And Valeria is there?"
"That is what the informant said. A young woman, twenty years old, trained in arms. She is known as the 'Hawk of Fallowfield' for her skill with a bow."
Elara smiled. Sora Inoue had been an athlete – competitive, fierce, always running. It made sense that she would become a warrior in this life.
"She will be harder to convince than Miku," Roderick said. "Nobles have obligations. She may not be free to leave."
"Then we ask her to help us from within," Elara said. "Information, resources, shelter. She does not have to travel with us to be part of the group."
"That is a compromise," Hikari said softly. She rode beside Elara, her half‑elf ears peeking out from under a woolen cap. "And compromises are sometimes the best we can hope for."
Kaito, the gnome tinkerer, had been silent all morning. He rode a small donkey, his pack overflowing with metal tools and half‑finished devices. Elara noticed that he kept glancing at the sky, as if expecting something to fall.
"Kaito," she said. "What is on your mind?"
He blinked. "The assassin. The one who killed the Treasurer."
The group went quiet.
"I have been thinking about his weapon," Kaito continued. "A projectile that travels four or five kilometers. That is not a crossbow. That is not a sling. That is a rifle – a firearm with a rifled barrel, using gunpowder to launch a bullet at supersonic speeds."
"We know what a rifle is," Natsuki said dryly. She was walking beside her horse, preferring to stretch her dwarf legs. "You have talked of nothing else for days."
"Because it is possible," Kaito said, his voice rising. "I have been trying to build one for years, but the metallurgy is difficult. The barrel must be perfect. The cartridge must be precise. And the range – four kilometers – that is beyond anything I have attempted."
Elara looked at him. "Are you saying you want to build one?"
"I am saying that someone built one. Someone with knowledge from our world. Someone who has been here long enough to master the materials." Kaito's eyes were bright. "That someone could be one of us."
"Or he could be a native who stumbled upon the knowledge," Rosalind said. "There are mages. There are alchemists."
"No native built that rifle," Kaito insisted. "I have studied the reports. The projectile was a copper‑jacketed lead slug. The casing was brass. These are not things you invent by accident. These are things you remember."
The group fell silent again. Elara could feel the weight of the question pressing on them all.
Is the assassin one of us? And if he is, why has he not reached out?
She did not have an answer. She said only, "We will keep our eyes open. But we cannot let this distract us from our mission. Valeria comes first."
Kaito subsided, but his fingers twitched on the reins, and Elara knew he would not let the matter rest.
Kryos 19, Imperial Year 1642
The Village of Harlow's Ford
They stopped at midday to water the horses and buy provisions. The village was small – a few dozen houses clustered around a stone bridge over a shallow river. The inn was called the Wandering Stag, and its sign creaked in the wind.
Rosalind handled the bargaining, as always. She had a talent for it – a smile that disarmed suspicion, a purse that opened at the right moments. Within an hour, they had fresh bread, salted meat, and a bag of oats for the animals.
Miku sat on a bench outside the inn, her small feet swinging. She had been quiet since the conversation about the assassin. Elara sat down beside her.
"What is wrong?" Elara asked.
Miku looked at her hands. "I have been thinking about the others. The ones we have not found. What if some of them are dead? What if they died in childhood, before their memories returned?"
Elara's chest tightened. It was a possibility she had tried not to think about. Reincarnation did not grant immortality. Children died of fever, of accidents, of violence. If a reincarnator died before their past memories surfaced, they would simply… cease. No second chance. No third life.
"Then we mourn them," Elara said. "But we do not stop searching."
Miku nodded. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I am scared, Yuki. Not of the assassin. Of failing. Of being alone again."
Elara put her arm around the halfling's shoulders. "You are not alone. You will never be alone again. I promise."
It was a promise she did not know if she could keep. But she made it anyway.
Kryos 20, Imperial Year 1642
The Forest of Fallowfield
They entered the forest in the late afternoon, and the light changed. The trees were old oaks, their branches intertwined above the road, creating a tunnel of green and gold. The air was damp and cool, and the sound of their horses' hooves was muffled by fallen leaves.
Roderick raised a hand. "Wait."
They stopped. Elara listened. At first, she heard nothing – only the wind, the creak of branches, the distant call of a crow. Then she heard it: a low rumble, like thunder, but steady and rhythmic.
Horses. Many horses.
"Off the road," Natsuki said. She had already drawn her axe. "Now."
They guided their animals into the trees, hiding behind the thick trunks. Elara's heart pounded. The rumble grew louder, closer.
Then they appeared: a column of soldiers, perhaps fifty strong, wearing the colors of the Royal Guard – blue and silver, with the king's crest on their shields. At their head rode a man in polished armor, a plumed helmet, and a crimson cloak.
The soldiers did not stop. They passed the hidden group without a glance, their faces grim, their eyes fixed ahead.
When the last of them had disappeared down the road, Elara let out a breath she did not know she had been holding.
"Royal Guard," Rosalind whispered. "They are searching for the assassin."
"Or for us," Roderick said.
"Us? Why would they search for us?"
"A halfling, an orc, a dwarf, a gnome, a half‑elf, and three humans traveling together. We are not inconspicuous."
Elara realized he was right. They had been careless. The rumors of the assassin had made the crown paranoid, and a strange group like theirs would attract attention.
"We need to move faster," she said. "And we need to be smarter. From now on, we split up when we approach towns. No more traveling as a herd."
The others nodded.
They mounted and continued east, deeper into the forest of Fallowfield.
Kryos 21, Imperial Year 1642
The Viscount's Keep
The keep of Fallowfield was not a castle – not the great stone fortresses of the north, but a stout manor of gray stone, surrounded by a low wall and a dry moat. A square tower rose from the center, and from its top flew a banner: a hawk in flight, talons extended.
Elara approached alone. The others waited in the forest, hidden among the oaks.
She had changed into her best clothes – a wool dress, clean boots, a cloak of dark green. She looked like a merchant's messenger, nothing more.
The guards at the gate were young, their armor polished, their spears held at attention. "State your business," one said.
"I am here to see Lady Valeria," Elara said. "I bring a message from an old friend."
The guard frowned. "Lady Valeria does not receive visitors without appointment."
"She will receive me." Elara met his eyes. "Tell her that the thunder remembers."
The guard hesitated. Then he nodded and disappeared inside.
Elara waited.
Minutes passed. The wind blew cold. She heard the sound of a bowstring being drawn – someone on the wall, testing a weapon.
Then the gate opened, and a young woman stepped out.
She was tall for a human, broad‑shouldered, with red‑brown hair pulled back in a severe braid. She wore a leather jerkin over a linen shirt, and a longbow was slung across her back. Her eyes were gray, sharp, and suspicious.
"You are the one who spoke of thunder," she said.
"I am."
"What thunder?"
"The thunder that ended a life in a classroom. The thunder that scattered us across this world."
The woman's face went pale. Her hand moved to the knife at her belt.
"Who are you?"
"My name was Yuki Tanaka. I was the class president. You sat in the front row, second from the left. You always chewed on the end of your pen when you were thinking."
The woman stared at her. Then her expression cracked, and she laughed – a short, surprised sound.
"I still chew on things," she said. "Drives my father mad."
Elara smiled. "Sora."
"Valeria," the woman corrected. "Sora died in the bombing. I am Valeria now." She stepped forward and embraced Elara – a fierce, crushing hug. "But I am glad you came. I have been waiting."
They stood there, holding each other, while the guards looked on in confusion.
Then Valeria pulled back. "You are not alone, are you?"
"No. There are others. Seven more. We are all looking for each other."
Valeria nodded. "Then bring them. My father is away. We have time."
She turned and walked back through the gate, expecting Elara to follow.
Elara looked back at the forest, where her friends were hidden. She raised her hand in a signal – safe, come forward – and then she followed Valeria into the keep.
That night, they gathered in Valeria's private chamber – a small room at the top of the tower, with a fireplace, a bed, and a rack of bows on the wall. The fire crackled, casting warm light on their faces.
Valeria listened as Elara told the story: the bombing, the darkness, the scattering, the slow return of memories. She listened as Rosalind described their network of informants. She listened as Kaito spoke of the assassin and the impossible rifle.
When they finished, she was quiet for a long time.
"I have heard rumors of the assassin," she said finally. "My father received a letter from the capital. The king is terrified. He thinks it is the beginning of a rebellion."
"Is it?" Roderick asked.
"No. It is one man with a weapon no one understands." Valeria looked at Kaito. "You said you have been trying to build such a weapon."
Kaito nodded. "I have not succeeded. The metallurgy is too advanced."
"But you could, eventually."
"Perhaps."
Valeria stood and walked to the window. The stars were bright, the moon a thin crescent.
"I cannot leave Fallowfield," she said. "My father is old. His health is failing. I am his heir, and the people here depend on me. But I can help you. I have resources – horses, weapons, gold. I have informants of my own. And I have a bow that can hit a target at three hundred paces."
She turned. "Whatever you need, I will provide. But I cannot ride with you."
Elara had expected this. "That is enough," she said. "That is more than enough."
Valeria smiled. "Then we have an alliance."
They clasped hands – the class president and the viscount's daughter – and the fire crackled, and the night went on.
Kryos 22, Imperial Year 1642
The Forest of Fallowfield
Elara rode out of the keep at dawn, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. Valeria had given them supplies, fresh horses, and a letter of introduction to a merchant in the next town – a man who owed her father a favor.
The others rode behind her: Roderick, Rosalind, Miku, Hikari, Kaito, Natsuki, Rin. Eight reincarnators, bound together by death and hope.
"Where to next?" Rosalind asked.
Elara unfolded her map. "There is a halfling baker in the south – Yuto Nakamura. Finnian Dewberry. He is next on the list."
"A baker," Miku said, smiling. "I like bakers. They always have bread."
"Then let us go find him."
They turned south, toward the rising sun, and the forest swallowed them.
End of Chapter Six