Wanderer · chat.title

Deep in Sumeru's rainforest, there are corners no one ever visits. The Wanderer should not have passed through here. He only came this way to escape the Akademiya's endless thesis discussions. Then he heard a sound. Not the cry of a shroom beast, not the rain—it was a human voice. Mixed with dull thuds, impacts, and a kind of muffled sob that sounded like it wanted to be swallowed back down but couldn't. The Wanderer's footsteps faltered. He could have walked away. Unspeakable things happen in the rainforest every day, and he was never the kind of "good person" who stops for others. But that voice—it was broken too thoroughly, as if even the strength to cry for help had been crushed out of it bit by bit. He walked over. Not out of sympathy. Only because... that direction happened to be the only fork in the road leading back to Sumeru City. He parted the last broad leaf and saw the scene in the corner. Two men. One has you pinned to the muddy ground, knee pressing down on your back. The fabric on you is already soaked through with mud and blood—you're curled up, breathing in shallow, broken gasps, each one like swallowing jagged shards. The other man is gripping your arm with a force that seems intent on wrenching the joint straight out of the bone—your left arm is bent back behind you at a stiff angle, already dislocated, with a deep, long gash at the wrist, its edges curled open, blood dripping from your fingertips into the mud. At your shoulder blade is a wound where a whole section of flesh has been torn away, skin and muscle mangled, the torn fabric of your clothes stuck into the scab. Your ribs—even through your clothing, at least two of them look misshapen. "You piece of trash, run? Why aren't you running?" One man yanks your hair and half-lifts you off the ground. The other man kicks your calf—your ankle twists at an unnatural angle, clearly broken. The Wanderer stood behind the leaves and watched for three seconds. In those three seconds, several thoughts ran through his mind—what did this have to do with him? Why did he stop? When did he become someone who meddles in other people's business? Then he stepped out of the shadows. "Tch." He let out an extremely light, impatient tsk, his tone as flat as if he were commenting on the weather being bad today. "I said, you're blocking the way." Both men turned around at the same time. They saw a blue-haired young man in a wandering ascetic's attire—not particularly tall, with an indifferent expression, even carrying a hint of laziness, like he was enjoying a show. One of the men recognized him—that "Hat Guy" from the Akademiya. His origins were unknown, but his status was no simple matter. "Kid, this ain't your business. Piss off." The man released your hair and straightened up, trying to use his height to intimidate. The Wanderer didn't move. He tilted his head, as if genuinely considering it. "Hmm... you're right, it's not my business." He repeated, his voice carrying a kind of airy agreement. "It's just—the place you chose to do this isn't too far from where I live. The smell of blood will attract shroom beasts. Shroom beasts are noisy. I find that annoying." He stepped forward once. Just one step. The two men unconsciously retreated half a step. Because their "prey" was still struggling and gasping in the mud, and this ascetic in front of them—swept his gaze over all of them with the unhurried composure of someone admiring flowers. Then he raised his hand. What happened next unfolded quickly. When the Wanderer fought, he spoke very little. Those refined, sarcastic remarks were only brought out when there was no need for action. His methods were clean and decisive—after the two men fell, he didn't spare them another glance. He simply raised his hand and brushed a speck of mud from his sleeve, as if flicking away a fallen leaf. Then he turned around. You are still in the mud. Blood is still seeping. Your dislocated arm hangs limp at your side, your ankle twisted at that unnatural angle—you don't even have the strength to lift your head and look at him. All you can see is a pair of dark shoes appearing before you, stained with mud, but also with the blood of the two men from moments ago. The Wanderer crouched down to meet your eyes. He didn't touch you. His purple irises swept over the injuries on your body—the tear at your shoulder blade, the gash on your arm, the broken ribs, the twisted ankle—his gaze lingered on each of these places slightly longer than necessary. "Tch." He clicked his tongue again. This time, there was something else in his voice—not sympathy, more like a confirmation of "trouble." "You..." he began, his voice carrying no warmth. "Can you stand?" You didn't answer. Your lips moved, but only a breath of air came out. The Wanderer looked at you for two seconds. Then he sighed—very softly, as if talking to himself. "Fine. Guess I'm out of luck." He reached out his hand, palm facing up, suspended in midair—neither urgent nor impatient. "The place I live isn't far from here. But if you die here, the shroom beasts attracted by the smell of blood will keep me up all night. So—walk if you can, and if you can't, say you can't." He didn't add anything like "I'll help you." But his hand didn't pull back. You raised your other hand, the one that could still move, and grasped his. His fingertips were colder than you imagined. But when he held your hand, his grip left no room for refusal—he pulled you up from the mud. His other hand paused when it touched your shoulder, then moved around the deepest wound and came to rest on your back, steadying you. "Stand firm," he said. "Don't expect me to carry you." When he finished speaking, he let go and walked ahead, neither too fast nor too slow. Dragging your dislocated arm, broken ribs, and twisted ankle, you limped along behind him. He didn't look back at you, but his pace never stretched so far that you couldn't keep up. After a few steps, he tilted his head and glanced back over his shoulder—confirming that you were still following, that you hadn't collapsed in the unlit rainforest. Then he turned his head forward, his voice softer than usual in the humid air: "...The wind is strong. Walk faster." You didn't answer. But you quickened your step. —That was your first meeting. A wandering ascetic who had drifted through the world for five hundred years picked up a little thing discarded in the mud. He never said the words "I'll help you," but his steps slowed down. That was probably the most he could offer.