Chapter 9 - Otto

"Wow," I mouthed in sheer amazement, eyes dilated to comprehend the impossible.

I stood in a grand stone courtyard, its ancient walls and pathways bathed in harsh sunlight. Intricate carvings adorned the towering walls, depicting mythical creatures and celestial bodies in a language of stone.

Ahead, a campfire crackled, sending spirals of smoke into the air and casting flickering shadows across the stone ground. Four corridors stretched out from the campfire's warmth, leading to the west, south, east, and north, each pathway a gateway to the unknown.

In each corner, gargoyles carved from dark, weathered stone loomed ominously, their grotesque features and twisted forms exuding an otherworldly terror that seemed to watch my every move.

This wasn't Brittanica. Nor Earth.

"I can assure you, this is Earth," a barbarian spoke with a slight chuckle hidden between his words.

His voice broke my trance. I retreated even further, wary of his danger. My attention scurried towards the west corridor. An escape.

However, there was still a problem. I returned my gaze to the man, eyes boiling with animosity.

I wanted to kill him. But death wasn't exactly an enticing experience, especially with a gut-wrenching pain in my abdomen. Such a decision wouldn't be sane.

"Tea?" The visionless monster spoke while swirling a ladle, his movements eerily similar to the liquid in the pot.

Is he using water?

The absurdity of the situation left a stunned look on my complexion. How could this barbarian use water freely. I retreated even further. Complacency had failed me before.

A ding sound reverberated through the courtyard as the old blind man dropped the ladle, "Those corridors will kill you faster than I can."

A few minutes of awkward silence ensued as I collected my thoughts. Not only had the environment been altered, but my wardrobe as well.

I wore an ornate blood-red robe adorned with intricate golden embroidery. The fabric felt unfamiliar against my skin. Unaccustomed to such clothing, I ran my hand downward, feeling the texture beneath my fingers.

My hand came to an unexpected stop upon reaching my chest. A bandage. My head tilted downwards, eyes focusing on the bandage covering the wound on my abdomen.

"If I wanted to kill you, I would have done so," he continued, raising his head toward the sky. "The tea will help."

His robe fluttered as he raised an empty porcelain cup in my direction. An offering? Before I could decide, a searing pain erupted within me.

I groaned, trying to stifle the agony, but it was overwhelming. The offer became increasingly alluring with each passing second.

Anguish pierced like a dagger as I rose to my feet. Limping, I made my way to the fire and sat across from the barbarian.

Truth be told, his offer and the pain had little effect on me. But the garlic sting of asafoetida, a scent of home, persuaded me.

Eyes narrowed, I watched the man's movements, his hands deftly maneuvering around the flames as he brewed tea. He moved with practiced precision, measuring leaves and pouring the tea into the cup.

"Take."

In a swift motion, he placed the white porcelain cup into my hands. Silence invaded the stone courtyard as I held the tea without taking a single sip. It sizzled with heat, leaves floating on the surface.

"You don't talk, do you?"

I let out a weak grunt, signaling my inability to speak.

"Oh…" his head still fixated on the clouds, "I understand... your price."

I moved my hand in a circular motion, swirling the leaves within the tea.

"You must have questions," he set his cup down. "Do you know Imperial Code?"

Baffled by his expertise on such a subject, I noted that one had to serve a fair amount of time in the military to know Imperial Code.

He stretched forth his arm, "Ask, and I'll answer to the best of my ability."

My confusion deepened when I noticed a slight smile on his expression. Was this the so-called 'barbarian'? Anticipation hung in the air. I wanted to ask but struggled to find the courage required.

But I had to know. After recalling the crash course I was given a few years back, the first question was prepared. I let out a small groan before leaning forward to tap his arm, "Do you know my father?"

The air became heavy, the silence deafening. Breaths slowed, the only audible sound was the occasional breeze.

"Yes," he answered.

My hand quickened with my heartbeat, "How?"

"I have no personal relationship with him, but we've spoken occasionally."

"How did you know I was his son?"

"You carry the same stench," his response was laced with a tinge of disgust.

"Are you from Brittanica?" I tapped.

After hearing his speech numerous times, his complete lack of an accent became noticeable. He spoke like a Brittanican and knew Imperial Code; his entire identity was a mystery.

"Well, aren't you quite the observant one," he chuckled before continuing, "I am from Songbai but was raised in Brittanica—St. Peter's in fact."

That explains some of it, I guess.

After a moment of serenity, I spoke once more, "Why me?" The frantic taps became a choked plea.

A long, heavy silence filled the vicinity. His voice, when it finally came, was a distant echo, "What do you know about the Crusade of Masse?"

"It started before I was born," I continued. "The Church accused the countries along the coast and initiated its continent-wide crusade."

His voice grew flat, "You know what they told you," the man leaned toward me, his voice a whisper, "Have you heard of the New Frontier?"

My complexion twisted with perplexion. "A myth of a world beyond the Mist."

The blind man lifted his cup to take a sip, "Is it not confusing how a dominant theocracy such as Brittanica decides to expand closer to the Mist, of all places?"

The Mist Wall, I had only seen it once, but that was enough. The wall was more than a mere obstruction; it was a living, breathing entity.

A colossal, amorphous mass of shimmering, ethereal substance that pulsed with an otherworldly energy. Its formation was gradual, creeping across the continent like a fog, until it solidified into an impenetrable barrier.

I had never really thought about it. Why did the Church accuse the surrounding countries of heresy? Before the crusades, Masse had been the most prolific religion the world had ever seen.

No one or thing came close the Church's reach.

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple," a distant memory of father resonated from within.

Then clarity struck.