Chapter 5. Dean
North City’s slum district — territory of the Lard Gang.
Inside a remote inn at the end of a dim alley, a sowhat lean young man with bright black eyes stood by the window, his expression tense and complicated as he stared at the unfamiliar street below, heavy with the sll of rust and pig fat.
‘Sister said she went to find her younger brother… I wonder if she’s found him yet…’
Everything here was utterly different from the quiet little town where he had grown up. Noisy. Prosperous. Crowded. And extrely dangerous.
Not long ago, while he and his sister had been hiding inside the room, trendous roars had echoed across the sky again and again. Only long after the terrifying pressure and sounds of battle ceased had they finally dared to breathe normally.
“Stupid boy! Now you know how dangerous this world is, don’t you? Rember—until I co back, you are not to step outside this door even half a step! Do you hear ?!”
Her repeated warnings before leaving still echoed in his ears.
Dean had never imagined that one day he would truly plunge headfirst into the fantastical world described by bards—a world of dazzling strangeness that had once existed only in his dreams.
Growing up in a remote town, the strongest person he had ever seen was the captain of the town guard, a Formal-tier warrior. The man could shatter a half-human-tall boulder with his bare hands, whirl his spear with such force that gusts of wind followed its arc, splintering wooden stakes several ters away.
Yet even such a warrior had been torn to pieces within monts by several towering werewolves that had suddenly stord into town. The stench of blood and entrails filled the street.
The once peaceful town dissolved into screams and cries. Watching the werewolves draw closer, Dean’s body trembled as he pulled a pitchfork from a haystack.
Just as he summoned the last of his courage—ready to trade his life for even a sliver of escape ti for his sister—he witnessed sothing beyond his wildest imagination.
One werewolf crossed dozens of ters in the blink of an eye and appeared before him. Its sharp claws slashed downward. Before he could comprehend what had happened, his body was yanked backward. The claws shattered his pitchfork into fragnts, leaving only two shallow gashes across his chest.
Crack… rip!
The sound of bone breaking and flesh tearing echoed.
He slamd heavily into the wall of the shop behind him.
Before losing consciousness, he saw a familiar figure toss a massive, blood-drenched werewolf head into a patch of weeds by the roadside. The golden eyes he knew so well had turned a vivid crimson.
Then darkness claid him, accompanied by the thunderous crash of a werewolf’s corpse hitting the ground.
***
Crackle… crackle…
Amid the popping of burning wood, Dean slowly regained consciousness.
Struggling upright, he realized he was lying inside a cave, cushioned by soft hay. The wounds on his chest had been stitched and bandaged. Nearby, a pot simred over a campfire, releasing a mouthwatering aroma.
Through his still-blurry vision, he saw a familiar figure sitting by the flas, her silver-white hair radiant in the firelight.
“You’re awake?”
Caitlin gently stirred the small pot with a carved wooden stick. Steam rose in thick curls, carrying the rich scent of at.
Without turning around, she said irritably, “Next ti you try playing hero again, I’ll toss you into this pot and stew you… Ah, forget it. There probably won’t be a next ti…”
Dean opened his mouth but found his throat too dry to produce sound.
As if anticipating this, Caitlin turned and handed him a bowl of warm soup. Green wild vegetables floated atop the broth.
“Drink. It won’t taste as good once it’s cold.” She kept her face stern as she stared at the foolish boy she might never see again.
Dean accepted the bowl but did not drink. His chaotic thoughts churned violently.
Caitlin did not urge him. Instead, she sat casually beside him, resting her chin on one hand and said lightly, “Stop overthinking it, my dear ‘Lord Paladin.’ I’m the vampire you’re so determined to ‘uphold justice’ against.”
Vampire… vampire… vampire…
The word struck his mind like a hamr, making his ears ring.
Scenes of their life together unfolded before him—
—----------
The orphanage closing. The older brothers and sisters setting off with young Dean, destination unknown.
A winter night of howling wind and snow. Frail figures huddled in a street corner, the youngest—him—shielded by frostbitten hands.
When despair was about to swallow them whole, a creaking wooden door slowly opened.
Inside the grocery shop, pine logs crackled warmly in the hearth.
The children, wrapped in blankets, sat in a circle, clutching steaming bowls of soup.
Silver-haired sister sat among them, her voice gentle as water, telling tales of glowing foxes in the forest, whales crossing mountains and seas, and countless stories they had never heard before.
Under dim candlelight, her slender figure in a plain dress stitched torn clothes in the shadows. If a child kicked off a blanket in sleep, she would quietly set down her needle to tuck them in again.
Study days were the hardest.
Red, ruler-struck hands were held tightly in her cool ones as she guided his fingers again and again through letters traced in sand. Every sound, every stroke—she taught them patiently, countless tis.
When spring blossoms blood, she would don a loose black robe and lead them to the river like sparrows freed from a cage.
…
As ti passed, the older children left one by one, grateful and grown, until only he remained.
Each departing brother or sister would remind him: be a man, protect sister. He had promised each of them solemnly, engraving those words deep into his heart.
When the mories returned to the bowl of soup in his hands, his fingers slackened. The fragrant broth spilled across the ground.
He struck his own cheeks repeatedly, trying to force clarity into his mind.
…After a long, long while…
He finally fell silent. His eyes burned red as he looked at the woman before him—his most beloved and respected family, without equal. To hell with ‘Paladin’! Anyone who sought to harm her would have to step over his corpse.
“If becoming a Paladin ans becoming Sister’s enemy, I’d rather die!!!”
***
Just as Dean remained imrsed in that heart-rending mory, a teasing yet sincerely approving voice suddenly sounded behind him.
“Wow. Not bad, kid. I approve of you.”
Dean’s hair stood on end. He spun around abruptly—only to find that, at so unknown mont, two figures had appeared in the cramped inn room.
Kyle and Caitlin had actually arrived long ago. Kyle simply wanted to see what kind of boy had stolen both his sister’s heart and brain.
Using a blend of ntal illusion and causal guidance, he had drawn Dean’s thoughts back through his mories with Caitlin—while simultaneously projecting those scenes into a crystal ball for his sister to watch.
The snowy rescue. The warm years of growth. Their playful quarrels. The werewolf attack. Each mory was woven with pure, blazing emotion.
“What a touching story. If we sold this to a bard, it’d be a bestseller! No—better I keep it and publish it myself. I could make a fortune—” Kyle muttered aloud.
Bonk!
Caitlin flicked his forehead hard.
“Can you forget about your damned money for once?! And at a ti like this?!”
Eyes red and brimming with tears, she shoved her brother aside without ceremony.
She rushed forward and wrapped her arms tightly around Dean, her voice choked yet firm beyond doubt:
“Stupid boy… don’t talk about dying ever again.”
Kyle rolled his eyes.
So once you’ve got a sweetheart, your real brother becos adopted, huh?
Brat. Just you wait. I’ll make you suffer for this.
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