The air smelled of old wood and dried herbs, a mixture so "welcoming" it might as well have been designed to keep any unwanted visitors away.
Lucy woke up slowly, every muscle protesting at the thought of moving. A sharp pain pierced his torso and legs, and his head throbbed like a relentless jackhammer. He was wrapped in thick, rough bandages from chest to legs—clear signs of recent and poorly closed wounds.
He heard no voices. Only the echo of his own breathing. The silence weighed on him, just like his body.
"Edgar?" he called out in a hoarse and weak voice, but no one answered. Silence settled in like an uncomfortable, persistent guest.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" he insisted, trying to sound firmer, though his voice barely rose above a whisper.
A faint, almost timid creak came from near the door. Lucy tensed. His heart hammered in his chest, and not out of excitement.
"Who's there?" he asked, voice trembling but resolute.
The familiar shiver of uncertainty returned, accompanied by an expectant silence. Then, a deep and calm voice broke the tension:
"Easy, Lucy. You're safe."
It was Edgar. His voice was deep, with a relaxed and serene tone, like someone who had been through the worst but knew how to stay calm. Despite everything he had seen—and how scared he had been that time with the bandits—he spoke firmly, without letting fear take over.
Lucy exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath.
"Where am I? What happened?"
"You're at my house, in the village of San Lázaro. You passed out in the forest. Thanks to a woman, we made it here."
"A woman?"
"Yes. She didn't give her name. Just said she had urgent business. But if you want to thank her, she said you could find her at the Old Bridge Inn."
"And what about you? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Not hurt, just a little shaken," Edgar replied with a tone of relief Lucy wasn't entirely sure he believed.
He swallowed. His stomach growled with a force that left no room for drama.
"I think I'm hungry..."
"That's a good sign!" Edgar laughed kindly. "Come on, I'll fix you something."
"And that creak?" he asked, remembering the sound that had made him nervous. "Is someone else here?"
"Oh, yes. My son," Edgar replied, chuckling softly. "He's curious. He was watching you from the doorway. I told him not to bother you, but it's hard to stop curiosity at his age."
"I didn't see him," Lucy joked.
Edgar didn't say anything for a few seconds, then let out a quiet chuckle.
A few minutes later, firm and careful hands helped him up. He was guided to a small table, where a plate of bread, cheese, and some fruit awaited him like a royal feast. Lucy ate slowly, as if afraid it would all vanish if he chewed too fast.
The old man offered him fresh water and started talking about simple things: the weather, the crops, the dog that had stolen a chicken last week. Lucy listened in silence, as if in those mundane stories he might find a clue about himself, though everything remained wrapped in a thick fog.
That afternoon, with some energy regained, he sat on the grass, leaning against the cabin wall. The sun was high, warm but not scorching. He chewed on an apple, unhurried. Though he couldn't see, he could feel the light on his skin, the breeze on his face, and the tingle of mana slowly returning to his body.
For the first time since arriving in that world, he wasn't running, or screaming, or bleeding. He was just breathing.
Maybe, he thought, this isn't so bad.
He stretched carefully. His body ached, but less. The wounds were healing. Something inside him seemed to be rebuilding, like an old machine sputtering back to life after years of stillness.
The sounds around him were soft, almost gentle: insects buzzing in the distance, the occasional bird singing, the murmur of wind through leaves. Nothing that hinted at immediate danger.
The day passed without much incident. Edgar prepared another simple meal—warm soup, toasted bread, a bit of tea—and Lucy accepted it without complaint. They didn't talk much, but they didn't need to. For once, the silence wasn't heavy.
As the sun began to set behind the hills, painting the sky in oranges and purples, Lucy went back inside. He collapsed onto the straw bed and let out a long, deep sigh. His thoughts were scattered fragments, disconnected images, like half-remembered dreams.
Sleep wrapped around him gently. It called to him. He removed the bandage from his eyes, closed them, and let himself drift.
The air smelled of old wood and dried herbs, a mixture so "welcoming" it might as well have been designed to keep any unwanted visitors away.
Lucy woke up slowly, every muscle protesting at the thought of moving. A sharp pain pierced his torso and legs, and his head throbbed like a relentless jackhammer. He was wrapped in thick, rough bandages from chest to legs—clear signs of recent and poorly closed wounds.
He heard no voices. Only the echo of his own breathing. The silence weighed on him, just like his body.
"Edgar?" he called out in a hoarse and weak voice, but no one answered. Silence settled in like an uncomfortable, persistent guest.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" he insisted, trying to sound firmer, though his voice barely rose above a whisper.
A faint, almost timid creak came from near the door. Lucy tensed. His heart hammered in his chest, and not out of excitement.
"Who's there?" he asked, voice trembling but resolute.
The familiar shiver of uncertainty returned, accompanied by an expectant silence. Then, a deep and calm voice broke the tension:
"Easy, Lucy. You're safe."