Southmark.
It had been nearly a decade since Ryuuji last set foot in the humble southern city of slate rooftops and twisted alleys, where flower boxes leaned from windowsills and taverns carried the scent of sweet mead and grilled venison. Once a bustling merchant hub, Southmark had faded over the years, its shine dulled by rising nobility and corruption creeping in like ivy on an abandoned wall.
Ryuuji pulled the hood of his dark cloak lower, the late spring breeze ruffling the fabric as he walked through the gates without fanfare. The guards barely spared him a glance. That was good. Anonymity was better than any sword right now.
Jarred... it's been a long time.
He still remembered that night. Lost, injured, fresh from a bloody skirmish with bandits who'd tried to ambush him weeks after his arrival in this world. Ryuuji had stumbled into Southmark half-starved and fevered, dragging his broken sword behind him. Jarred Lennon, a loud-mouthed, soft-hearted tavern owner, had not only fed him but given him a room and treated his wounds—never once asking for coin.
And now Jarred's letter had arrived by a carrier hawk spell, the message scrawled in anxious ink:
"Ryuuji… I wouldn't ask unless it was serious. Marla's gone. My wife… she was taken. I've tried everything. I've begged, I've tracked. I only have one lead… Count Mallen's manor. I'm afraid, Ryuuji. I'm afraid for her. Please. I don't want to lose her."
Ryuuji clenched the edge of the paper in his inner pocket, the memory of it etched behind his eyes.
He passed the familiar inn sign of The Copper Lantern, the shutters drawn, the lantern itself unlit. A younger man might have barged in looking for Jarred, but Ryuuji took the long way, his senses tuned to every shadow, every idle whisper.
Southmark had changed. There was wealth here now. Too much of it.
The cobbled roads near the manor district had been polished clean. Perfumed carriages rolled lazily past flower-laden archways. But the deeper Ryuuji wandered, the more it smelled… off.
He could feel it.
Too quiet. Too perfect.
At the edge of the merchant quarter stood Count Mallen's estate—a sprawling manor of white stone and silver spires, surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence laced with magical threads. No ordinary noble could afford that level of security.
Ryuuji circled the perimeter slowly, hiding in the guise of a curious traveler. The enchantments on the fence were subtle—a ward against eavesdropping, scrying, and low-level teleportation. Not the kind of magic you used to protect heirlooms or wine cellars.
It was used to hide people.
Or worse—activities.
A voice startled him from his thoughts.
"You lost, traveler?" came a stern voice behind him.
Ryuuji turned slowly. Two estate guards stood there, armed with poleaxes and the distinct purple sigil of Mallen's house stitched onto their breastplates.
He bowed politely, his smile warm but unreadable. "Just admiring the architecture. You don't see black fences like that where I'm from."
One guard narrowed his eyes. "What town are you from?"
"Uplands," Ryuuji lied easily. "Eastern border. Bit of a hike."
The guards looked at each other, unconvinced.
"We don't give manor tours."
"I figured," Ryuuji replied. "Pretty place, though. Shame about the smell in this district."
That got a visible twitch from the younger guard.
Ryuuji walked away slowly. The guards didn't stop him—but they definitely watched him leave.
Back at The Copper Lantern, Ryuuji waited until nightfall before slipping inside through the back entrance. The tavern was cold, half-shuttered, and dust lingered on the tables like forgotten dreams.
A single lantern flickered in the backroom.
Jarred sat there, hunched over a mug that hadn't been touched in hours. His dark red hair had gone gray at the temples, and his once-muscular arms were now thin with sleeplessness.
He looked up as Ryuuji entered—and for a moment, time rewound.
"...Ryuuji?"
"In the flesh."
Jarred shot up, stumbling to embrace him. "Gods, I didn't think you'd come."
"You don't ask for help unless you're drowning," Ryuuji said, gripping his shoulder. "Tell me everything."
Jarred's eyes burned with unshed tears. "It's Marla. My wife. You remember her—worked the kitchen, always humming? She's… she's pregnant. Five months. A week ago, she left to fetch herbs from old Nellie's farm. She never came back."
Ryuuji pulled up a chair. "What did the guards say?"
"They blamed it on bandits. But I've lived here long enough to know that's just their go-to excuse." Jarred's voice dropped. "The next night, one of Mallen's footmen came to my tavern. Just stood there. Didn't say a word. Watched me."
Ryuuji leaned in. "What kind of footman?"
"Wore a ring with an obsidian crest. Looked more like a merc than a servant. His eyes were wrong. Hollow."
"You're sure it's Mallen?"
"I asked questions. Paid some street kids to spy. One of them said he saw a woman with Marla's description being dragged inside Mallen's estate late that night. I tried sneaking close, but the place… it's warded. And I'm no warrior, Ryuuji. I'm just a barkeep."
"No," Ryuuji said gently. "You're a husband. And you've done more than most would."
Jarred covered his face with trembling hands. "I don't know what he wants with her. She's just—she's just a baker! She sings to our unborn baby every morning. She wanted to name them after her grandmother. I…"
Ryuuji stood slowly.
"You'll get her back. I promise."
The following day, Ryuuji returned to the manor—this time, not alone. With his cloak enchanted and his form masked in a light concealment spell, he crept through the alleyways beyond the estate, eyes tracing the magical lines in the walls and fence. He wasn't here to fight. Not yet.
He was here to observe.
And the manor's staff... were strange.
Too few for such a large estate. No gardeners, no stablehands visible. Just a tight group of armored men and a few pale-faced servants who moved like puppets.
At dusk, a cloaked figure emerged from the rear gates—pulling a heavy cart draped with cloth.
Ryuuji narrowed his eyes. His instincts prickled.
Not food. Not laundry.
He followed.
Across two alleys, down a side street, the cart was wheeled into a warehouse bearing no signs.
Ryuuji waited until night.
When the stars cloaked the sky in silence, he moved.
The warehouse door gave little resistance under his lock charm. Inside, crates were stacked to the ceiling—but what caught Ryuuji's attention was the smell.
Blood. And herbs. And something wrong.
He opened a crate.
Inside lay a collection of magic suppression collars. The kind used for slaves. Illegal even in this part of the world.
He opened another.
Clothes. Torn and stained.
In the third, shackles.
He didn't find Marla. But what he did find was enough.
As he turned to leave, he spotted a sigil scorched into the side of one pillar—a binding rune. And underneath it, a faint smear of blood… fresh.
Ryuuji's jaw tightened.
No more waiting.
He vanished into the night, his heart beating with silent resolve.
Back at the tavern, Ryuuji laid the evidence on the table. Jarred stared at it with trembling hands.
"They're smuggling people," Ryuuji said grimly. "Mallen's involved. Probably higher up than we think."
Jarred's lips trembled. "Is she…?"
"She's alive. I found fresh blood. Not enough to be lethal. And the rune was used for containment. Which means he's keeping her for something."
Jarred gripped the edge of the table. "Then what do we do?"
Ryuuji looked up, eyes hard as steel.
"I'm going in. Tonight."
Jarred swallowed. "Alone?"
"You'll stay here. Safe. I need you to keep this place quiet. I'll bring her back."
Jarred looked at him for a long time. "I trust you. Always have."
Ryuuji nodded.
As the moon rose above Southmark, casting silver shadows across the city's underbelly, Ryuuji stepped into the darkness once more—not as a farmer, not as a wandering swordsman, but as the man who had once slain the Demon Lord and his generals.
But this time, it wasn't about glory or saving kingdoms.
It was for a friend.