Goru Truanaka, a doctor from Balley Town outside Capecot City, came to Qumu District with a clear purpose—to collect some familiar medicinal herbs, as he claimed.

　　Charles, sharp and perceptive, clearly didn’t believe the doctor’s words. Few people went out at sunrise to gather herbs; it was more likely he sought something far rarer.

　　He didn’t press about the medicine or consult the local writer. The two guards beside the doctor had already told him that no one would give him a straight answer.

　　After a brief exchange, he finally asked what he truly wanted to know.

　　“I heard there’s a teleportation formation here. Can I use it? I want to go to the city to buy a proper bow—or maybe a crossbow—and a few sharpening stones for arrows.”

　　The two guards fell silent and glanced at the doctor.

　　Willie seemed inclined to believe the lizardman. “Dad, isn’t that simple enough?”

　　Goru’s thoughts were more cautious. “Mr. Orc, thank you again for saving my son. To show my gratitude, I can help you reach the city outskirts. Beyond that, it will be up to the patrol soldiers. If you promise to return right after and walk back into the forest, I’ll take you to the teleportation array. What do you think?”

　　The two guards nodded in agreement.

　　Surveillance? Charles wondered silently. This was his only chance to see the author, so he accepted without hesitation.

　　“Good,” he said. “But before that, I’d like to fill my stomach.”

　　He said it casually, not wanting to appear too eager—or suspicious.

　　After breakfast and gathering the doctor’s herbs, they waited until the tent was packed up before being led to a shallow cave.

　　At its center stood a pale-blue pillar blending in with the moss-covered stone, and beneath it, a purple flame symbol flickered faintly.

　　Goru took out a wooden sphere and said, “Let’s go inside. It’s quick.”

　　He threw the sphere to the ground. The pale blue light faded. Just before the teleportation array disappeared completely, Charles clearly saw the purple flame symbol crack—as if the array could no longer be used.

　　The morning was bright and breezy. Outside Balley Town lay a small forest where several figures removed twigs tangled in their hair.

　　Unlike the Lylet Forest, this was a realm ruled by human laws.

　　Beyond the woods stretched a well-paved road connecting nearby villages, smooth stone paths lined with rest stops at intervals.

　　Signs stood at the crossroads, pointing in every direction.

　　Travelers bustled along, each busy with their own errands.

　　“Lizardman, we part ways here,” Goru said, gazing toward Balley Town.

　　“Thank you,” the lizardman replied simply.

　　“Have a safe journey!” Willie waved goodbye cheerfully.

　　Escorted by the two guards, Charles made his way toward Capecot.

　　At first, his mood was good—but after half an hour, it soured.

　　Along the roadside were carts pulled not only by horses, but by orcs of every kind—winged folk like pterosaurs, centaurs of the forest, green-skinned orcs with human physiques, even broken-winged birdmen.

　　All looked miserable, iron chains binding their hands, bare feet in shackles, their drivers whipping them without remorse.

　　They were in the fields too, at the mills, repairing roads—the enslaved, just as Willie had called them.

　　“What’s wrong, lizardman? Thinking of doing something?” one of the guards asked.

　　“I’m not from the same world as them,” he answered firmly.

　　Sorrow and anger welled in his chest, but he was grateful his commander had ordered the retreat when he did.

　　Before noon, they entered the city. The gate guards questioned them thoroughly, then allowed Charles inside.

　　Because of his size, they assigned two soldiers to accompany him—just in case.

　　He had expected as much.

　　There were far fewer orcs within the walls. Clearly, the locals didn’t welcome too many outsiders.

　　The soldiers were diligent, guiding him through four blacksmith shops in succession.

　　All the while, Charles kept an ear out for any mention of the author.

　　After declining a deal at the seventh forge, one guard finally asked,

　　“What else are you looking for, sir?”

　　Charles understood the hint. He took out two gold coins.

　　“You’re not in the jungle anymore. It’s hard to pierce bear or beast hide without good gear. I need solid equipment—and so do you. Know a place nearby that serves good fruit wine? My treat.”

　　The guard laughed. “You’re a good orc. I’m starting to like you.”

　　After sharing a round of citrus wine, the guards resumed leading him through more blacksmith shops.

　　By evening, on the south side of the city, he left Capecot with eight fine iron bolts and a crossbow.

　　Before parting, the guards gifted him two new grinding stones and three days’ worth of food—a friendly farewell.

　　For nearly a day, he’d found no sign of the author of What You Didn’t Know About the War—only a few children sketching and some apprentices from the Noble Academy of Magic.

　　Maybe I should stay a few more days, he thought. The excuse was easy—he could simply say he’d gotten lost, even though the guards had given him a simple map.

　　After dinner, he found a quiet forest path and climbed up a few steps to admire the moonlight.

　　Those with secret motives often moved under the cover of night—and by chance, he encountered them.

　　Two small figures approached through the silver light—one human, one green-skinned orc, both cautious as prey.

　　The human child, around fourteen or fifteen, wore ragged clothes—a beggar. The orc child, about the same age, looked just as poor, though his hands and feet were free of shackles.

　　Their conversation was simple enough—they planned to scavenge damaged armor from an old battlefield and sell it for coin.

　　Naive, Charles thought. Most battlefield remnants were long reclaimed, and whatever scraps remained had already been looted by professional “cleaners.” They wouldn’t even find a single nail.

　　The war had ended years ago, and unless some fool warrior enjoyed digging through the dirt mid-fight, the Bloodblade Vanguard left nothing behind.

　　What should I tell them? he wondered.

　　“Kids, that’s dangerous. Give it up,” he said suddenly.

　　Both children jumped.

　　The orc boy grabbed a stick. “Who’s there?”

　　The human boy raised a rusty knife barely ten centimeters long. “Show yourself!”

　　Charles dropped silently behind them and tapped their heads with two chunks of venison.

　　“You’re too weak. Eat something.”

　　The orc boy blinked, oddly comforted. “Lizardman?”

　　“More precisely, a hunter. Charles. Some call me the Grey Hunter.” He tossed them a bottle of citrus wine.

　　“Dis,” the orc said proudly, “the smartest orc around. Are these for free?”

　　“Of course.”

　　The human child relaxed a little. “Madin, youngest beggar in the neighborhood. Can I have some too?”

　　“Sure. But being the youngest beggar isn’t something to brag about. Don’t use that title again. And the battlefield’s always been dangerous—it’s better to do something else than fight over scraps.”

　　“I’ve been an orphan since I was seven,” Madin muttered. “All I know is stealing and scavenging.”

　　“Same here,” Dis said calmly.

　　Charles figured he might as well teach them something useful.

　　He gathered some twigs, cleared a small space, ringed it with stones, and lit a fire.

　　Then, chatting idly, he whittled down a few thick branches.

　　When everything was ready, he showed them how to use the tools.

　　“This can help you catch fish. Learn it, and you won’t go hungry. Try it at the river tomorrow—I’ll show you how in the morning.”

　　Madin brightened. “You’d teach us? For free?”

　　“Just help me make breakfast.”

　　The boys exchanged a glance.

　　Madin grinned. “Deal! At least that way, we don’t have to risk going to Fort Zoran.”

　　Charles went silent for a moment, then asked, “Why do you want to go to Fort Zoran?”