Chapter_2: South-Western City

Whispers danced in his ears, their ethereal melody caressing his senses. A gentle touch brushed against him, but he dismissed it. Another presence reached out, but it remained indifferent.

Within the room, laughter reverberated, a haunting chorus that stirred annoyance within him. Yet he resisted the temptation to unveil his eyes, shrouding himself in the enigma that enveloped him.

His eyes remained sealed shut, a facade of unconsciousness masking his true awareness. As the moments stretched into an eternity, a nagging sense of something missing tugged at his thoughts, an elusive piece just out of reach.

The echoes of laughter returned, bolder and louder this time. Men's voices intertwined in conversation, snippets of their words seeping into his consciousness. Amongst their banter, the word "Empire" emerged, accompanied by phrases like "They are fools for meddling with us." The mysterious dialogue danced in his ears.

The men's conversation persisted, their voices a muddled blur in his ears. Suddenly, the creak of a door interrupted their exchange, and they addressed someone as "Lady Ana."

As she stepped into the room, the conversation grew clearer. The young lady's presence seemed to bring a sense of order to the previously cryptic discussion.

"Lady Ana, is something wrong?" a man with a gruff voice questioned the young lady.

Lady Ana's voice softened as she replied, "Is that man still unconscious?"

A mix of curiosity and fear coursed through his veins, compelling him to open his eyes. However, he fought against the urge, choosing instead to remain hidden in the shadows.

Could she be talking about me? he wondered, his mind swirling with apprehension. Doubt and anxiety consumed him as sweat trickled down his temples.

Soft footsteps approached, drawing nearer to his still form. After five steps, the footsteps ceased, replaced by a gentle, ethereal voice that resonated through his being.

"Are you still alive? Wake up, mister," the voice whispered. "He must be dead; let's throw him into the river."

The words carried an unmistakable trap, a lure to coax him into awakening.

Lady Ana, undeterred by his unresponsiveness, began poking him from his chest to his face, her touch growing more insistent. Yet he remained steadfast, his eyes remaining shut, unwilling to succumb to the ruse.

Her voice, like that of an otherworldly being, captivated him. It held an ethereal allure, enchanting his senses.

"I have an idea!" Lady Ana exclaimed, her voice rising to a high-pitched tone. "Could this be akin to the tale of the unconscious princess? Shall I bestow upon him a kiss of true love to break his eternal slumber?"

A wave of discomfort washed over him, urging him to open his eyes. Yet a lingering hesitation held him back—an instinctive resistance to succumbing to the unknown.

He grappled with conflicting desires, torn between the yearning to see the source of the enchanting voice and the instinct to remain in the safety of his closed eyes.

As the presence drew nearer, the young lady's intention to kiss him became evident. Discomfort surged through him, compelling him to finally open his eyes.

With a cough, Ragnar's eyes fluttered open, and he found himself gazing directly into the lady's face. Flustered, their eyes locked in an intense moment of connection.

The young lady possessed hair as pure as ivory, cascading in smooth, silky strands that seemed divine. Her emerald-green eyes met Ragnar's dark gaze, and time seemed to stand still for a fleeting moment. Both were taken aback by the encounter, their hearts racing.

Ragnar's mind raced with questions and awe.

The lady elegantly wore a white dress paired with a leather jacket, accentuated by stylish dark sandals that exuded feminine beauty.

Lady Ana's slim hands pushed Ragnar's gigantic body, causing her to stumble backward in a slow, graceful descent. In an instant, the guards positioned themselves between her fallen figure and Ragnar, brandishing their lances with an unmistakable air of contempt. Their eyes, filled with disdain, regarded Ragnar as nothing more than a menacing intruder.

As Ragnar shifted from lying to a sitting position on the table, he took a moment to survey his surroundings. The room appeared disheveled, with light brown tables scattered about. It seemed as though a raucous gathering had taken place, with remnants of spilled beer and signs of a rowdy night.

Turning his attention to himself, Ragnar examined his own body. His arms bore numerous bruises, evidence of the ordeal he had endured. From his legs to his head, he was swathed in bandages, providing support and protection for his injuries. The only piece of clothing remaining was the leather pants he had worn the previous night.

As he moved about, a sharp sting emanated from his bruises, a reminder of the pain he had experienced.

With an unwavering stare fixed on Ragnar, they posed their questions with a mix of curiosity and caution. "Pray tell, who do you claim to be? And do you possess any recollection of events prior to your unconscious state?"

Caught off guard by the unexpected questions and the intense scrutiny, Ragnar's mind raced with fear and confusion. Though he hesitated to answer immediately, his thoughts churned as he sought to make sense of his own fragmented memories.

'Why am I here? I recall the harrowing presence of Ghouls and their relentless assault upon my very flesh. Did I manage to survive? Or was it all just a dream? Surely, this moment before me is far too vivid to be a mere figment of my imagination. Fae perished, as did the others. Yet Cliffe, in his selfless valor, shielded me until his last breath. Still, I bear the marks of their vicious bites.'

Finally, Ragnar found his voice and spoke, his words carrying a mix of desperation and hope.

"Tell me, is Cliffe unharmed? Is he safe?"

Ragnar's initial response did not directly address the soldiers' inquiry but instead posed another question, further complicating the tense exchange.

'The last image I have of Cliffe is him reaching out his hand towards me. Since our situations were similar, it is plausible that he managed to survive as well.' Ragnar's thoughts raced with a mix of desperation and resolve.

However, instead of receiving understanding, the soldiers' frustration grew, evident in their hardened expressions and the proximity of their blades to Ragnar's face.

"Answer our question first, or face the consequences," the soldier at the forefront declared, his tone laced with unyielding determination.

'Engaging in conflict with these soldiers would be unwise. I must carefully consider my actions and choose my words wisely,' Ragnar strategized, his determination growing.

Taking a deep breath, Ragnar finally spoke, his voice steady and unwavering.

"I am Ragnar Frostpyre, originating from the western lands," he declared, revealing his identity to the soldiers.

Ragnar's inner thoughts raced as he gazed at the soldier upfront. 'These guards may be royal guards as well. They mustn't suspect that I am a bandit, tasked by a noble to uncover hidden treasures. I need to remain composed and keep my true intentions hidden.'

"Press on, Ragnar!" the soldier bellowed, his heart pounding as the deadly tip of the blade inched closer to him.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Ragnar's gaze drifted to the window on his left, where the warm sunlight bathed the magnificent structures outside the room.

"I have been entrusted by my uncle to journey south alone in search of a specific item vital to the technological marvel he has been tirelessly constructing for the past several months," Ragnar began, his words carefully chosen to avoid arousing suspicion.

"However," he continued, his voice tinged with apprehension, "as I made my way back westward, the light of my lantern suddenly flickered out, leaving me vulnerable to the malevolent forces lurking in the darkness."

The soldiers eyed Ragnar with growing suspicion. The soldier at the front questioned him, "What item does your uncle need you to find?"

"It's a molten core," Ragnar responded, his voice steady.

The soldier's gaze narrowed, his suspicion mounting. "A molten core? What exactly is it, and what is its purpose?" he asked, his tone filled with suspense.

"A molten core is primarily used for conducting and serving as the central component for electrical systems. It is highly sought after and often sold at auction houses for a hefty price. Does that answer your questions?" Ragnar maintained his composure as he explained.

With a sense of relief, the soldiers cautiously withdrew their lances from Ragnar's vicinity. Ragnar exhaled, grateful for his newfound safety.

"Well, it appears you pose no threat. You are free to leave," one of the soldiers declared, settling back into their seats alongside the young lady who had been conversing with them.

Despite feeling a sharp sting, Ragnar persisted, slowly making his way towards the exit. As he reached for the door handles, the soldier's voice echoed once more.

"Here are your clothes; these are new ones we bought for you." With a toss, the soldier handed Ragnar the new clothes, to which Ragnar responded with a sly smile.

As Ragnar's hand touched the door handles, signaling his intent to leave, a serious expression appeared on the soldier's face.

"Wait, we're not finished yet…" The soldier gazed at Ragnar once more. "Didn't you claim to have traveled to the south alone?" The soldier's voice carried a sense of suspense as he questioned Ragnar.

"Yes," Ragnar replied, his confusion evident.

The soldier continued, his tone filled with judgment: "Then tell me… Who is this Cliffe?"

A chilling shiver coursed through Ragnar's spine, his realization of a grave mistake sending shockwaves through his body. With wide eyes and a bewildered expression, he stared at the soldier, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. The air grew thick with suspense as the room fell into an eerie silence.

The other soldier, caught off guard by the unexpected question, exchanged a surprised glance with his comrade. The tension in the room escalated, and the atmosphere crackled with anticipation.

Ragnar's mind raced, feeling a sense of dumbfoundedness wash over him. How could he have forgotten that he had asked that very question? His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to gather his thoughts amidst the mounting excitement.