Locked In

Either large swords gleamed on their backs, or daggers hung from their waists. Many of the strong men wore leather chest armor, and some even carried bronze shields.

From the foot of the hill, one could see the houses built along the slope. Most of the walls were made of clay, painted in shades of red and yellow. The roofs were tiled in white, with some even covered in moss, resembling intricate carvings.

Carrying Ronan, the man ascended the hill and passed through the main street. Shops of all kinds lined both sides of the road, some with colorful cloths hanging at their entrances, while others had their doors wide open, letting out the tempting aroma of meat.

Many young men with white cloth pouches tied around their waists were actively selling trinkets to the passersby. Ronan thought their pouches were like treasure bags, containing items like hemp ropes, socks, wooden combs, and even leather water bottles.

A number of people were stopped by these energetic vendors, but the burly man who are carrying Ronan merely glared at them, managing to shake off the persistent sellers as they continued towards the square at the end of the street.

The square, unlike the neatness of the main street, was crowded with small stalls set up under rain tarps. Every vendor's table was piled high with goods, and they were all loudly promoting their products. The man tightened his grip on Ronan as if worried he might be lost in the bustling crowd.

Ronan thought the man was going to buy something, but instead, he struggled through the throng, carrying Ronan with difficulty. After glancing around warily, the man turned into a narrow alley, weaving through the shadows cast by the town's houses, and finally stopped in front of a clay house with a yard.

The outer walls of the house were painted red, and it had two stories. In the yard were several brown horses. Once inside, the man placed a few bronze knife coins on the front desk, then climbed the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor, heading for a corner room.

Opening the door to the small, low-ceilinged room, the man set Ronan down on the bed and turned around, his tone serious. "Stay here quietly. Uncle is going out to find your mom and dad. Don't run around, or you won't be able to meet them again if you get lost."

Ronan just stared at him.

Still uneasy, the man paused at the door, then raised his voice, "Did you hear me?"

Ronan replied softly, "Mm."

As soon as he was placed on the bed, his toes touched the floor. Looking as obedient as ever, he said sweetly, "Little Ronan understands. I'll wait here for Uncle."

"Good boy." The man smiled kindly as he closed the door. "I'll bring you something to eat when I get back."

Ronan nodded gently. After the man left and the sound of the creaky stairs faded, Ronan jumped down from the bed and slowly began pacing the room.

The room was tiny, no more than seven or eight square meters. Aside from the single bed pressed against the wall, there was only a small square table directly across from the door.

There were no windows, making the space feel damp and dark. Ronan walked over to the table, pressing his hands on its surface to try and climb up, but his palms came away greasy. He glanced down—the previous guest hadn't even cleaned up the leftover food scraps on the table.

Frowning, Ronan initially thought of smelling his hands but quickly abandoned the idea. He turned back to the bed and wiped his hands on the blanket, whose original color was long lost beneath layers of grime.

When they had come up the stairs earlier, Ronan had silently observed that this inn didn't seem very legitimate. All the guests he saw had rough, menacing appearances, and asking them for help would probably yield bad results. Not that Ronan had any intention of seeking help from anyone. After cleaning his hands, he walked over to the door and tried the handle. As expected, the door was locked.

Realizing he couldn't get out, Ronan shrugged and sat down on the stool by the table, crossing his arms and closing his eyes.

Before the man had left, Ronan had secretly wrapped a faint thread of mist around him. Now, he can used that wisp of mist to "see."

After leaving the inn, the man reentered the alleyways, winding his way through several turns before finally meeting up with another man standing under a tree.

Ronan raised his eyebrows and was just about to listen to what they were saying when the "scene" before his eyes suddenly cut off.

"..." He opened his eyes, finding himself still sitting in the enclosed room of the inn. It seemed that he had gone beyond a certain range, and once the mist left his control, it dispersed immediately, leaving Ronan "blind" again. This filled him with frustration.

He was still gradually exploring and experimenting with how to use his energy. Just like with this unfamiliar world, his previous experiences had made one thing clear: exposure meant danger.

For now... it was better to endure it.

He closed his eyes again and sat quietly in the room. Once he had decided how to act, he lay down on the bed, but he was woken up when the man returned.

"Fell asleep, huh?" The man pulled a bag out from his coat and tossed it onto the table carelessly, saying, "Eat up."

Ronan had been hopeful, but as soon as he opened the bag, his expression instantly cooled. He turned around, playing the timid child again, "Uncle, it's these biscuits again?"

They were so hard that they could be used as hammers.

"Isn't there water on the table?" The man lay down on the bed, not even bothering to pretend anymore, turning his back on Ronan and speaking indifferently, "Pour it yourself."

Ronan wanted to snap at him but held back as he stared at the man's back. Gripping two pieces of the blackened biscuit, he washed them down with cold water and ate them.