Heir of the Fog

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

An Uneasy Homecoming

Finally, I was returning to the familiar guard post after so many years spent in the fog. I approached at dawn, the sun hanging bright in the sky—higher and clearer than I had seen it in ages. My eyes, accustomed to the fog's diffused light, took a moment to adjust to the sun's brilliant outline; I realized I might lose this enhanced vision over time inside the ward, as so often happened before.

In the distance, I spotted the same guards who had been there when I left: Roran, Kael, and Mareth. They stood behind the ward boundary, casting wary glances my way. To avoid any misunderstanding, I left the legendary sword back home in the fog, knowing I could retrieve it later. I hoped to arrive looking as harmless as possible, approaching with my hands raised in a non-threatening gesture.

I took one last look at the bright sun, engraving its image into my memory, then walked toward the guard post. The guards huddled together, exchanging whispered remarks as I drew nearer, but I tried not to let their cautious stares unnerve me.

Once I was close enough for them to see my face clearly, I called out in the same formal tone I had heard other Chainrunners use when they reported in.

"Apprentice Chainrunner Omen Blackthorn," I said, my voice echoing a bit in the still morning air, "reporting back from a mission in search of lost artifacts. Permission to enter?"

Normally, an individual returning inside the ward would not bother with such formality; they would stride in and settle the explanations later. But District 100 had taught me caution. The last thing I wanted was another incident where guards panicked or misunderstood my intentions. I was fully aware that a lone traveler moving between wards was more than just an oddity.

Around me, the fog lingered, though fewer beasts prowled this close to the ward. I sensed their presence behind me, but none seemed inclined to attack, as though they too recognized I was no easy target.

My heart pounded with nervous excitement. I wondered if rumors had traveled here from District 99 or 100—tales of a wandering Chainrunner. Fear of rejection gnawed at me, but Mareth's brusque words cast those worries aside.

"What are you waiting for?" she barked, sounding oddly concerned. "Come in, quick!"

Not exactly a warm welcome, yet I heard genuine relief in her voice. How could I ever doubt them? My tension ebbed. With a nod, I stepped across the ward boundary, leaving the fog behind me.

The moment I was inside, Mareth rushed forward, her tone urgent. "Is it really you? We heard the reports, but that was years ago. How on earth did you survive? What happened out there? Are you hurt? Where did you go?"

Her torrent of questions tumbled forth without pause. Before I could respond, Roran placed a hand on her shoulder, urging her to let me breathe.

"I think we'll get answers faster if we let him talk," he joked, offering his hand in greeting. I shook it, feeling a surge of familiarity. Then I turned to greet Kael, who stood just a step behind, arms folded as though trying to contain his own surprise.

"It's been a while, boy. Actually, you're not a boy anymore, are you?" Kael remarked with a half-smile. "Kids these days sure grow up fast."

He was a tall man, but at one hundred and sixty-four centimeters, I had sprouted enough to be considered tall for my age—at least by District 98 standards.

Roran gave a light chuckle. "I don't think we can call anyone who's spent years in the fog a kid. But you have grown, Omen—no question about that."

"I have to thank the dense mana in the fog," I blurted out, momentarily forgetting that these people didn't truly understand what the fog was. But then I hesitated—did I? Surely, it had to be more than what Markus had told me, more than just mana.

Or perhaps mana itself was more than we thought. I mulled over the idea for a while, only to be pulled from my thoughts by the sudden sensation of someone pinching my nose, as if trying to get my attention.

"Haha, some things never change," Kael quipped, exchanging grins with Roran. "You're definitely Omen."

I realized Mareth had been speaking, and I'd ignored her in my daydreaming. The difference was staggering. In the fog, ignoring my surroundings could mean instant death. Yet here, inside the ward, my mind already felt safer, freer to drift.

A sudden urge overcame me—to write down my experiences, to discuss my bestiary, to share my discoveries. Thoughts that had never surfaced in the fog now flooded my mind all at once.

What would Elina or Lirien think of what I had uncovered? There was no reason to keep this knowledge to myself anymore.

Mareth pinched my nose once more, frowning. "Did you hear a word I said?". Once more, I had drifted out of the conversation without even realizing it.

"Sorry," I mumbled, noticing Kael and Roran smothering laughter. "Could you repeat that?"

She rolled her eyes. "I was asking why you never came back sooner. Did something keep you stuck outside all this time?"

A weight settled on my chest at her words. Yes, I could have returned for a few days at any point. Even after that mishap at District 100, I might have slipped into District 98 with minimal trouble. I swallowed, grappling with the reason I had not done so.

"I had a mission," I answered at last. "It felt wrong to come back without completing it."

"A mission?" Roran echoed, his smile fading into an expression of eagerness. "So you've found an artifact, then?"

I had—dozens, actually—though I had managed to bring back only a few. Officially, my mission from Lirien was simply to search for any artifact. By that standard, yes, I had succeeded. Yet something deeper had driven me beyond that.

Was it ambition? Or merely curiosity? Either way, it had taken me further than the mission ever intended

"Yes," I replied, deciding not to drown them in details just yet. "I found one… in fact, multiple."

"Great news!" Kael said, excitement sparking in his eyes. "Is it a weapon? Tell us more. Maybe you'll be recognized as an Artifact Holder!"

In District 98, only those with particularly influential artifacts—capable of safeguarding the ward or significantly aiding the district—were honored with that title. My items seemed to qualify. Hazeveil let me slip past enemies with stealth. The Gauntlets of the Starving Maw unleashed a fearsome blow. My Shardbound Bracers formed a lifesaving barrier.

Above all, the storage ring was the most precious—an artifact that could, on its own, change the fate of the district and the way the Chainrunners operated. And, of course, the legendary sword loomed out in the fog, though I doubt we would easily find anyone capable of wielding it.

The Prophet's Tongue, however, was something I would keep a secret—at least until I understood more about it.

I shrugged off the thought and began removing my Gauntlets of the Starving Maw so the guards could examine them. The first glance sent a wave of disbelief across Roran's face. He flipped through old record books, failing to find any mention of such an item.

"These are made of… Voidweave?" he repeated incredulously, scrawling notes in a battered ledger. "I've never heard of that material. I'll file it under unknown for now."

I explained its function, describing how the gauntlets could charge up a single, devastating punch. He nodded, eyes wide with skepticism.

Next, I handed him my Shardbound Bracers, which garnered a different reaction. Roran recognized certain marks from a captain's gear in District 2, though he was not entirely sure. Kael's eyes flicked over them, then back to me.

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"Wait… If these belonged to District 2's captain, you'd have had to journey all that distance," Kael murmured. "That's… unbelievably far, Omen."

I offered only a small smile. They had no idea what I had been through—District 3's pit, the Life Tree of District 2, and more. A deep weariness settled in my bones. But I remained silent. They would learn the rest in time.

Roran cleared his throat. "Well... We can give you a provisional notice confirming your ownership, but your mother—Captain Lirien—she's the one who can legitimize these findings." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I expect she'll be surprised to see you. It has been years, after all."

I felt a tightness in my chest at the mention of Lirien. She was the one who had issued my mission, the adoptive mother who had brought me into the Blackthorn name. Yet she was more soldier than parent—someone who seldom let emotions cloud her stern demeanor.

I sucked in a breath, bracing myself for the meeting. "Yes," I said quietly, "I suppose she will be."

…

I decided it was time to report back to my adoptive mother, Lirien Blackthorn. Though she was my mother, she was also the Captain of the Chainrunners—the very person who had assigned me this mission. My work could not truly be considered complete until I stood before her again.

So I threaded my way through the district, heading for the Chainrunners' headquarters. As I walked, people paused in the narrow streets to watch me. Some offered faint smiles or hesitant waves, uncertain whether they knew me or not. A few might have recognized my features from years ago, but more likely, they noticed me as someone new in the district, an unfamiliar figure carrying an unusual aura. Regardless, each stare made me conscious of how much I had changed.

Eventually, I arrived at the sprawling complex of the Chainrunners' headquarters. Its broad doors stood open, revealing a large reception hall that led deeper into the building. Taking a breath, I stepped inside. A heavy atmosphere loomed over everything now, weighing on the people gathered in the open area.

Rows of chairs lined one side of the space, and many Chainrunners occupied them. Some sat hunched over, crying quietly. Others looked lost or distant, as if trapped in a shock they could not escape. One large man in blood-stained chain armor rubbed his reddened eyes, muttering, "He was right in front of me," over and over. A cluster of onlookers hovered near him, equally dazed.

It wasn't usually this grim, I thought, swallowing hard. They must have lost more members in a recent run beyond the ward. Such casualties were not uncommon, but the rawness of the grief suggested this tragedy was fresh and severe.

Suddenly, a voice barked from somewhere ahead. "What are you doing here, boy?"

I turned and saw Dain, the second-in-command of the Chainrunners, striding toward me. Lines of exhaustion etched his face. His stance was guarded, as though he might have to deliver more bad news at any moment.

Around us, people lingered in small clusters, discussing the failure of the recent run. Mourning and shock saturated the air. The entire reception area felt heavy with sorrow.

I drew myself up into a salute, the way I had practiced for so long in the fog. My voice resonated through the chamber, a clear, formal tone that felt odd amid the tears and hushed voices. "Apprentice Chainrunner Omen Blackthorn, reporting back from my mission."

Dain's expression shifted as he got a better look at me. Skepticism gave way to stunned recognition. "You're alive?" he asked, blinking. "You actually came back?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, arms lowering. "It's good to see you again."

A flicker of relief kindled in his tired eyes. "You don't know how glad I am to hear that." He gestured at the room, where some stared at us absently, while others were lost in their own grief. "I'm sorry about all this. The last run… we lost several people. These folks are here to submit their reports, which I'll compile with the Captain's for the council."

I nodded, a pit forming in my stomach. The Chainrunners had experienced another devastating run. So many faces soaked in sorrow— some might be criminals conscripted as Chainrunners, or volunteers hoping to assist our cause. Regardless of their backgrounds, each fallen runner left behind friends and family. What a relentless cycle, I thought.

Most of the time, even convicted criminals had friends or even lovers among those present. In District 98, the most common crime was simply theft—stealing food to survive the winter. It was a strange cycle; every year, at winter's end, a new batch of recruits joined the Chainrunners. I couldn't entirely blame them.

"But don't worry," Dain said, trying to soften his tone. "I'll let the Captain know right away that you've returned. Just give me a few minutes."

"No," I said quickly.

He frowned, uncertain. "No?"

"These people shouldn't have their time with the Captain delayed," I explained, keeping my voice level. "Let them turn in their reports and rest. I'll wait."

Dain looked at me, his brow creasing. He seemed torn, perhaps viewing my news as high priority. But he caught sight of the drawn faces around us, many still clutching bloodied chainmail or trembling from shock, and he nodded. "All right, if you insist. Just take a seat."

He was about to move off when the large man in the blood-stained chain armor let out a wrenching sob, drawing Dain's attention. Dain sighed, then disappeared down a corridor to organize the queue of distraught runners. Overhead, lamps flickered against walls plastered with notices and old mission logs.

As I scanned the reception area, I realized there were rows of seats, with many empty spots. I sat down, taking a deep breath to steady myself. The sounds of hushed sobs and quiet murmurs blended with the scraping of chairs as people were called away one by one.

This was not the triumphant return I had imagined, I reflected. The sight of so much grief cramped my chest. I'd spent so long in the fog, slaying creatures day in and day out. Yet the danger of the outside world never felt as personal as seeing friends bereft at losing comrades. I wondered how many had died, who they were, and whether I might have known them once.

Time slipped by slowly. Dain stood by a door leading to the stairs, calling one after another of the wounded Chainrunners. Some cradled bandaged arms or limped on splinted legs. Others looked physically fine but stared past me with hollow eyes. Each emerged from the office with a similar expression—a mixture of relief, sorrow, and finality.

Even though the Captain had been present during the run, she still needed to hear everyone's account to fully understand what had gone wrong. She also had to remain impartial, submitting their statements to the council—it was protocol, after all.

Once seated, I traced the runes in the air to retrieve an item from my storage ring, focusing on my bestiary. In an instant, the book materialized in my hands. A few nearby Chainrunners noticed but seemed too tired to ask.

I flipped the pages, mentally reviewing sketches of gloomwings, diremaws, and other fog monsters. The morning stretched into afternoon, and the once-crowded reception hall gradually emptied.

Eventually, night fell, the lights outside dimming. The building quieted until only a handful remained. By then, I was the last person in the waiting area. I heard footsteps approaching. Glancing up, I saw Lirien Blackthorn step into the reception. She paused, as if surprised someone was still here.

Dain sidled up beside her, speaking in a hushed but soft tone, though my enhanced hearing caught most of the exchange.

"He insisted on letting the others finish first," Dain said, nodding in my direction.

She tilted her head, brow furrowing. "And who is that?" she asked, her voice tinged with fatigue.

"That is your son, Omen," Dain replied softly. "He returned a few hours ago."

A flicker of genuine surprise crossed her features. Then she composed herself, her face regaining the unyielding mask of a military leader. Still, even from a distance, I spotted a brief gleam in her eyes. For all her discipline, there was a moment of raw emotion there. She really hadn't expected me to come back.

She walked toward me with such soft steps that even my enhanced senses barely registered them. Once in front of me, she glanced at what I was drawing, while I pretended not to have heard their exchange. After all, eavesdropping might be considered rude. I wanted to avoid listening in on other people's conversations—but it wasn't as if I could simply turn off my hearing.

I was sketching a gloomwing with careful strokes, labeling its anatomical parts. She paused behind me, peering over my shoulder, studying my notes in silence. I forced myself not to tense, letting her read.

After a few moments, she stepped forward to face me. I looked up and rose from the chair, snapping the book shut. I half-expected her to wrap me in a hug or speak soft words of relief, but Lirien never forgot her role as Captain first. Her voice was collected, cutting through the hushed air of the hall.

"We received word from District 99 about you arriving there, and some rumors that you appeared in District 100 as well," she said. "But months… years have passed since then. Where have you been, Omen?"

I blinked, slightly taken aback. "Well… you gave me a mission, to find artifacts in the fog. I was fulfilling it." The statement came out simple and firm, laced with honesty.

Lirien seemed at a loss for words, as if she had half-expected a different reply—perhaps that I had simply been hiding in another district or something of the sort. But I was certain she had already checked by now, especially after hearing the news from District 99. "And did you find any?" she asked, her tone more curious now.

"Yes," I said, and I pulled from my pouch a letter Roran had given me earlier. "I have this letter from the guards describing my finds. They said an evaluation is necessary before the records can be updated."

I hadn't had the chance to mention the storage ring to Roran, so the letter was mostly about my bracers and gauntlets. There was no mention of the sword either, but I fully intended to disclose all my findings.

She accepted the parchment, skimming its contents by the glow of a nearby lamp. A small, genuine smile broke through her stoic exterior, though she schooled her features in an instant. "Come with me," she said. She stepped aside, beckoning me to follow. Then she glanced at my attire—or lack thereof—and added with a note of disapproval, "And next time, consider your clothing. Wearing just that hooded cloak in public is not acceptable, especially since you're a Blackthorn. Show some dignity."

The admonishment stung a bit, but beneath her strictness, I sensed relief. Lirien had always been a stern woman. I was fully aware that she saw me more as a family asset than a son. I doubt it's much different with Tarin. Still, her eyes betrayed a glimmer of warmth.

I realized that, to her, my safe return represented the success of an artifact search mission—one that could bolster the Blackthorn family's influence in District 98. But there was more, something she would never say out loud: she was glad I was alive. And in that unspoken admission, I found enough to content myself, at least for now.