It was the following morning. The village had noticeably grown more docile after the previous night's loud and erratic mingling—mostly due to the chief's revealed statement, no thanks to Kyle.
It was moments like those that made living in Hollow's Rest the tiniest bit more bearable; otherwise, everyone would be a walking corpse riddled with depression and all sorts of mental maladies.
Despite everything, Kyle always found himself up early. It was a habit he'd developed after that fateful day—a habit he wished he could associate with anything else in the world. He trained himself relentlessly. Whether it was to tire himself out or to become stronger, he didn't quite know. Even if he did, to what end? Strength served to rule over the weak—everyone knew that. So why try to become strong? He felt no need. He was content. Maybe he could never be truly happy, but he was content with life as it was.
This place was home to him. Yes, he had nothing to his name, nothing of what once was, but in front of him—the what is—was his family. The chief, and all the aunts and uncles who raised him. That's what he had, and he wanted to protect it, at the very least.
Unbeknownst to Kyle, the chief observed him training from afar, a solemn look plastered on his face. He seemed—guilty—if not outright sad. He turned away, returning to whatever task awaited him. Being the chief meant protecting his people, including their well-being. Yet this child, his son, seemed so far from him, even though he was always close.
He moved to his office and sat down with a heavy sigh.
"If you keep up that look, you might end up looking as old as that child treats you, Roland," a feminine voice teased from the hidden kitchenette—one of the office's few luxuries.
"How can I get rid of this feeling? The feeling that we're slowly ruining him, Esmeralda," Roland said, looking toward the woman Kyle cherished as an aunt.
"Please don't say such scary things. Explain your thoughts better, and preferably in a less grim manner if you can." Esmeralda spoke.
"Kyle... he's content, we all see it. But he isn't happy. I fear he hasn't truly moved on from that fire. It's like, despite everything that's changed, he's still there—at that damned fire." The words spilled out like venom, yet were laced with deep regret.
"You might be right. But remember, there was no way any of us could've foreseen the events of that night. Be proud that we came together to try and save a lost soul. That child is a reminder of our goodwill—and he's only trying to help us because he feels it's right," Esmeralda said, trying to calm him.
"But you see it too, no? It might've been a joke at first, but now people have started questioning it. The child—Kyle—he can use mana. Everyone knows Willow's Rest is one of the few deadzones found… well, anywhere."
"A place that can't hold mana, yet that boy seems to have mana in his body. And we all know the only people who can retain mana in Willow's Rest are…"
"The nobles," Esmeralda spat.
"Yes. I'm aware of the shifting looks people are giving him. He's shown enhanced strength a few times, and that's all it took. I bet he doesn't even realize it himself, but the boy is special," she added.
"Heh, good. Then we agree," Roland said with a soft chuckle.
"What do you mean?" Esmeralda asked, visibly confused. In fact entirely lost.
"I, through all the luck I've accumulated in this life, managed to register Kyle to enter Sanctum Magna. Whether they allow him to take the exam is up to the principal now," Roland said, meeting Esmeralda's shocked gaze.
To her, the decision—though good—felt like it wouldn't be received kindly, given the nature of the process.
But before she could voice her protest, they heard a disturbing sound:
CLIP-CLOP, CLIP-CLOP.
The tax collectors were here.
Roland walked over, holding a chest with the village's tax payment. Their visits were routine, sometimes too often, and always framed as "a generous tithe to your keepers." Of course, they took far more than a tithe—otherwise, tax collectors would be out of business for being honest.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. You came early. Is there a celebration you're preparing for?" Roland asked with faux intrigue.
"Can it, chief. Lord Malloran believes it's time you contributed your share, as others have before you," said the blonde collector.
"I see. Then, as the lord wills, I suppose." Roland handed over the chest and its key. "Safe travels now. I won't be showing you out."
Roland turned to leave, but the collector passed the chest to his subordinate and called out.
"It seems the chief, in all his slyness, tried to cheat the lord out of his tax," the collector said as he pocketed a few Rads—the unmistakable gold coins.
Outraged, Roland stepped back in front of him, the two locking eyes. He shouted, berating the man for his lack of empathy. The commotion drew attention—Kyle included—and he did not look pleased.
"You son of a bitch! You have less empathy than a corpse. How dare you try to extort us? A struggling village—and you expect us to roll at your feet? Think again. We aren't some dogs you come to for entertainment or when you're bored. Now I need you to listen to me, and listen good. Every single one of us is about fed up with you collectors; the last thing we need is a commotion that ends up with dead advisors and officials--- the nobles would be so sad.
So like I said before, think again."
Despite the heat of the moment, Roland never laid a hand on the man. And the collector, knowing the risk, didn't dare retaliate. He simply accepted the confrontation and turned to leave.
His parting words? A clear warning.
"Watch yourself, chief. Next time won't be so pretty."