Dawn in Sordin Town began with the tearing of flyers.
The Er River's surface mirrored a somber gray sky. Several burnt-out fishing boats listed, half-submerged near the bank, black smoke coiling into the morning mist. Townspeople gathered silently in the square, fingernails picking at the still-damp flyers plastered to the walls. Crude charcoal scrawls defaced the rough paper:
"I WILL DEVOUR YOU!"
The Pope on the flyer wore his triple crown, yet it was drawn as a fanged maw, dripping blood. His mouth stretched ear to ear, revealing sharp fangs, his tongue a forked serpent's. The Pope leaned forward, a withered, claw-like hand pointing directly at the viewer, its nails dagger-sharp, as if poised to rip through the paper itself.
Crookedly drawn Church emblems, pierced by a dagger, adorned the flyer's edges.
Old Tom's knuckles were raw, bleeding from his efforts to scrape one off; his ten-year-old grandson had been snatched the night before. None dared pursue. The torch-wielding bandits, on their departure, had hanged three resisting Church faithful from the elm at the town entrance. Their tattered robes were stained dark with blood, their boots swaying gently in the night wind.
Mao Hai squatted before his wrecked spice stall, fingertips brushing a bloodstained flyer. As one of the Ashengleam Empire's few adherents to the Nuwa faith, such scenes were grimly familiar. Being a heretic invited constant scrutiny and pointing fingers from the other villagers. Open conflict was rare, but petty vandalism—a smashed stall—was commonplace.
He was a peddler, his wares dried fish, herbs, and spices smuggled from the distant Huaxu Kingdom. His appearance set him apart: black hair, black eyes, slightly prominent cheekbones, and sallow skin – clearly no local. His ancestors hailed from the far-off Huaxu Kingdom, and in this land devoted to Jupiter, his faith was an anomaly. Yet, Sordin Town's folk had long grown accustomed to him. After all, his spices undeniably improved their stews.
"They even stuck one on the pickled fish," the lame old potter spat, pointing at a pried-open barrel. "Only Church dogs pay tithes!" was scrawled across its side.
A flicker of derision touched Mao Hai's black eyes. These bandits, calling themselves the "Purity Army," made a show of plundering only Church-affiliated shops. But was it only tithes they coveted? His sandalwood box, which had held fragments of a Nuwa idol, had been chopped into firewood.
The river wind carried a scorched, acrid smell. North of town, the granary still smoldered – the aftermath of the Purity Army's celebratory bonfire. They'd burned half a granary of wheat to roast meat, then, in their drunken revelry, pasted flyers on every corpse.
And the Church knights, sworn to protect the town? They'd retreated to their fortress three days prior. The night before leaving, the local clergyman had grandly stood upon a man-high table, proclaiming the bandits "mere rabble, nothing to fear, the advantage is ours!"
Mao Hai's face was a swollen ruin, his right eye nearly sealed shut. He squatted by the river, pressing a wet, torn cloth to the bleeding corner of his mouth, hissing with pain.
He knew his attacker – old Jacob's son from next door, young Toby. Only seventeen. Last year, Toby had helped him dry fish, his smile revealing a single, endearing canine tooth. Today, Toby, wielding a torch, clad in the Purity Army's distinctive uniform, had stormed in with the bandits, his first act to kick over Mao Hai's stall.
Toby's face had been a stranger's, contorted with rage. As the blows fell, Mao Hai had even smelled the salty tang of his own pickled fish on the boy's hands.
"I don't even believe in your damned god!" Mao Hai had yelled, shielding his head. "Rob me if you must! I'm not with the Church. Why beat me?"
Toby had frozen for an instant, then his frenzy redoubled. "So you don't believe! Don't believe, heretic!" Fists rained down, each blow laced with an inexplicable hatred, as if Mao Hai's faith, his very otherness, were a searing brand.
"Too noisy."
A skinning knife sprouted from young Toby's chest, its tip dripping. He'd looked down, seemingly more confused than Mao Hai. Behind him, an iron-masked bandit flicked his blade. "A believer, siding with the Purity Army?"
As Toby fell, his fingers still clutched Mao Hai's bloodied collar. Mao Hai slumped amidst shattered pottery, watching pinkish, bloody bubbles form at the boy's twitching lips. He wiped his face; his hand came away smeared with blood and mud.
"What's wrong with people…" he muttered, to no one in particular.
Sunset bled across the sky. Mao Hai dragged his aching body to his thatched hut. The warehouse door beside it stood open, revealing sacks of spices and herbs that had, by some chance, escaped the looting. He lacked the strength even to tally his losses.
He was about to push open his door when a *crack* from the backyard stopped him – the sound of wood splitting.
Mao Hai paused, then rounded the hut. A familiar figure was swinging an axe, chopping firewood. A well-built young man, his movements deft, each swing cleaving a log neatly in two. He wore a short tunic of coarse cloth, a faded blue belt cinching his waist, strikingly visible in the gathering moonlight.
"Silas?" Mao Hai's voice was a hoarse croak, the effort pulling at his split lip, making him hiss.
Silas stopped, turning. Early twenties, black hair, black eyes, yet a perpetual shadow of gloom clung to his brow. He glanced at Mao Hai's injuries, a flicker in his eyes, then his expression settled back into its usual calm.
"Haha, sorry to trouble you. Nothing much to sell today, so no wages, I'm afraid," Mao Hai said, a hint of weary laughter in his voice.
Silas didn't reply, merely set down the axe, picked up a bucket of water from the woodpile, and offered it.
Mao Hai drank deeply, the cool water washing the blood from his throat. He wiped his mouth. "Never mind. You're not one for talking, anyway."
He shuffled into the hut. Silas followed, skillfully building a fire, boiling water. He found herbs in a corner jar, crushed them, and handed the poultice to Mao Hai. Sometimes, Mao Hai truly admired the young man; quiet, yet resourceful, capable. He wondered what had made him so.
He applied the herbs to his bruises. Cool, soothing, the pain eased.
Mao Hai leaned against the wall, watching Silas. A sudden smile. "By the way, I'm planning to leave."
Silas's hand stilled for a moment, but he didn't look up.
"Can't stand this gods-forsaken place anymore," Mao Hai continued, his tone self-deprecating. "I'm an outsider. From Huaxu, don't worship Jupiter, look different. Even selling spices is witchcraft to them." He shook his head. "That kid Toby today… Hah. I don't even know why he hated me."
Silas listened silently, ladling porridge into a bowl, then poured wine, pushing both towards Mao Hai.
Mao Hai downed the wine. The spirit burned his eyes. Staring at the empty cup, he murmured, "Tell me, why must people believe? And if you don't, you get beaten?"
The hut was silent save for the fire's crackle.
"How many of them this time?"
The low voice startled Mao Hai; he nearly dropped his cup.
Silas was looking at him. Speaking.
And… in a fluent Ashengleam Empire capital accent, perfectly enunciated, with an almost aristocratic elegance. Mao Hai had only heard its like from high-ranking missionaries and scholars. The mark of the elite.
"That accent… so pure."
Mao Hai's eyes widened, his mind racing. A nobleman from the capital? An exiled scholar? Or…
"F-fifty… or thereabouts…" he stammered, face forgotten. "You… you can talk?"
Silas ignored his shock, nodded, and finished his wine. He stood, his tone as casual as if discussing the weather.
"Don't leave."
"I'll go find them tonight."
Before Mao Hai could react, Silas turned and was gone, his steps light, astonishingly fast, as if treading on air, vanishing into the night.
"Wait! Are you mad? There are over fifty of them!" Mao Hai stumbled to the doorway, but the darkness held no trace of Silas.
A gust of wind chilled him. He stood on the threshold, empty cup in hand, a sudden, unsettling realization: he knew nothing about this mysterious young man.