---

  One day, in a place utterly barren, there stood a small city in the middle of an endless sea of sand. The city was called Pandora—a land that knew no light, where crime, lies, and darkness lived as culture, not as sin.

  In that city lived an old Sheriff, nearly a century in age. His body was frail, his steps unsteady, yet his faith stood taller than the city’s bell tower. He held firmly to morality and his belief in God, even though the world around him had long since turned away.

  His name was Mustang.

  Every morning, before the sun truly pierced the desert dust, Mustang performed his worship in silence. He knew that in this city, prayer was considered weakness. Faith was seen as a disease. Yet Mustang never prayed for power or authority—he prayed only to remain worthy of being called human, even while living in a hell that rejected light.

  That morning, after finishing his prayer, Mustang rose and stepped toward his weapon rack. His hands trembled—unable even to firmly grasp the revolver that had once been part of him. Before he could reach the door, a knock was heard.

  A knock that changed everything.

  Mustang opened the door. There was no one there. Only the morning light, as if it had descended through a裂 in the clouds… then vanished again, replaced by an eerie chill. As he was about to close the door, he heard the cry of a baby.

  In front of his home lay a worn basket, wrapped in tattered cloth—yet to Mustang, it was more precious than all the gold in the desert. He lifted the baby with trembling hands, and in that moment, his life found a new reason to keep breathing.

  The baby was raised with whatever Mustang had. Milk from traveling merchants, unending prayers, and the love of a father he had never planned to become.

  On a silent night, the baby was called to prayer and given a name:

  Benjamin Yin.

  The baby smiled.

  And Mustang knew— in this inverted world, God still sent miracles.

  ---

  Benjamin grew up in Pandora, not as a child of the city, but as a child of faith.

  At five years old, he was already serving as makmum for his aging father. Mustang often coughed during prayer, his voice barely audible, yet Benjamin always stood behind him—upright, focused, devout.

  After dawn prayer, Benjamin knew he had to hurry. The wages of an old sheriff were not enough to live—only enough to survive. So young Benjamin worked as a server in a tavern, the foulest place in Pandora.

  There, he learned the true face of the world.

  He was hated. Insulted. Beaten. Spat on.

  Forced to drink beer, inhale smoke, dragged violently toward the wrong path. His cries were never heard. His wounds rarely marked his skin—but they remained etched into his soul.

  Yet Benjamin did not fight back.

  He swallowed it all with a small, honest smile—the smile of a child who still believed that what was broken could be fixed.

  At night, beneath the frozen desert moon, Benjamin often cried in silence. His tears fell onto cold stone—witnessed by nothing but the sky.

  ---

  Time passed. Benjamin grew.

  At twenty-five, he was no longer the small child in the tavern. He became a tall, muscular man, his body hardened like a bullet forged by the world. Yet at home, he remained a son to Mustang—now nearly a hundred years old.

  They often sat on the rocking chair together.

  Once, Mustang told stories of prophets and companions. Now, he only smiled, his vision blurred, his hand stroking Benjamin’s silver hair.

  Mustang knew his time was near.

  Benjamin knew it too.

  But they chose silence instead of reminders.

  ---

  One morning after dawn prayer, Benjamin prepared to earn a living. But he found their cart destroyed, their water tank slashed by something massive. Giant footprints still damp in the sand.

  Benjamin followed the trail.

  One morning. One afternoon. One evening.

  Until he reached a cave not far from Pandora.

  Inside the cave, he found a pool glowing blue—deadly poison. And there he saw it:

  a colossal creature, its body badly wounded, in pain.

  Benjamin prayed.

  And the creature… understood.

  He treated its wounds. The scars on its body formed the letter Syin. And so Benjamin named it Syin.

  Near the pool lay an old saddle—a sign that the creature once had a master, then was abandoned. That night, Benjamin and Syin became companions. The desert felt like a playground, and Benjamin felt like a child again—for the last time.

  ---

  The next day, Benjamin returned home.

  And found his father dead.

  No one helped. No one was willing to stand as makmum.

  Benjamin bathed, prayed for, and buried his father alone—under sudden rain, as if the sky itself mourned.

  Pandora instead pelted the body with mud and insults.

  In the cave, Mustang’s body fell into the pool. The poison was neutralized. The water became pure. Syin drank from it. Benjamin drank as well.

  The pool changed—like destiny.

  ---

  Weeks later, Pandora sank deeper into sin.

  Benjamin was appointed sheriff.

  And the world repaid him with cruelty.

  He was tortured. Mutilated.

  His face slashed. His cheek branded with hot iron. His right eye blinded. His ear melted. The ring fingers of both hands severed. His body filled with scars that would never fade.

  Until finally… he was buried alive.

  As sand nearly covered his face, Benjamin remembered his father. His prayers. Syin. His purpose.

  And the storm came.

  Pandora was erased by the wrath of the sky.

  Benjamin awoke on Syin’s saddle, fleeing a city that had never deserved salvation.

  ---

  Now, Benjamin and Syin wander the desert.

  Without direction. Without a home.

  But with scars as their map, and faith as their compass.

  In the distance, a city awaits.

  AnveDure.

  And there—

  the story truly begins.

  The desert was slowly dying

  The yellow sand that had once stretched like a boundless sea began to fracture under fields of dry grass. The land turned into savanna—flat, vast, silent, with a sky that felt lower than before. The wind no longer carried dust, but the scent of scorched grass and old blood.

  It was there that Benjamin Yin walked.

  He was not riding Syin.

  The massive creature was hidden far behind the folds of the savanna hills, concealed by stone shadows and tall grass. Benjamin knew—Syin’s presence was not meant to be shown lightly. Not yet.

  In the distance, screams rang out.

  Two female voices. Identical. Twins.

  Benjamin stopped.

  He stood upright, his body facing the direction of the sound, while the wind tugged at the old sheriff’s coat he wore—the coat that once belonged to his father. The fabric was worn, its color faded by sun and rain, yet the star-shaped sheriff badge still clung to his chest. Dented. Scratched. But intact.

  The clothing hung from Benjamin’s large frame. Not large in the way of a thug, but dense—his muscles tight, shaped not by training, but by labor, wounds, and survival. Each step was heavy, as if the ground itself had to acknowledge his presence before allowing him to pass.

  At his right hip hung an old revolver. Its metal dulled, its grip finely cracked—a weapon inherited from Mustang. Across his back was strapped a long-barreled rifle of the Rover type, bound with leather cords. Not a weapon meant to be shown off—only a tool, ready when needed.

  Benjamin approached without a sound.

  In the middle of the savanna, six bandits surrounded the twin girls. Their clothes were torn. The ground beneath their knees was soaked with blood and tears. One bandit laughed, another fumbled with his belt.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Then—

  someone clapped.

  Softly.

  The bandits turned.

  And they saw him.

  A lone cowboy stood about twenty steps away.

  The old sheriff’s hat shaded part of his face, but not enough to hide what remained of his past.

  Benjamin’s face… was nearly ruined.

  On his left cheek was the scar of a hot iron brand—the mark of the Pandora bandits, once pressed into his flesh. The skin there was uneven, darkened red and black, like meat forced to remember pain forever.

  His right eye was partially shut by a long, healed slash, yet the eyelid never fully opened. That eye was blind—empty, pale, like cracked glass that no longer reflected the world.

  His right ear… was barely shaped. Hot iron had once melted it, leaving a rough cavity that served as the only reason he could still hear. Its edge was uneven. Inhuman. But real.

  The ring fingers on both his hands were gone. Not cleanly severed—rough cuts, bone once visible. Now only short stumps remained, covered by thick scar tissue.

  Yet what silenced the bandits was not his wounds.

  It was the way he stood.

  Benjamin did not draw his weapon.

  Did not shout.

  Did not threaten.

  He simply stood there, shoulders straight, one hand hanging at his side—close enough to the revolver, yet not touching it.

  His face was blank. Not angry. Not hateful.

  As though he were looking at something he had known for far too long.

  One bandit chuckled nervously.

  “Hey… look at that. An old sheriff lost in the savanna.”

  Another squinted.

  “Wait… is that guy blind?”

  Benjamin lifted his head slightly.

  His left eye—the only one that still saw—looked at them one by one. The gaze was calm. Cold. And… very tired.

  “I won’t repeat myself,” Benjamin said, his voice low and hoarse, like sand scraping against steel.

  “Leave them.”

  The bandits laughed. Six against one. A crippled cowboy dressed in the past.

  None of them noticed—

  that the savanna behind Benjamin had gone too still.

  The wind stopped.

  The birds vanished.

  And in the distance, something vast… waited for a signal.

  Benjamin lowered his hand slightly. A small gesture. Almost invisible.

  And Syin—

  remained hidden.

  For now.

  The bandits kept laughing.

  One of them spat on the ground and stepped forward half a pace.

  “Go away, cowboy. This ain’t your—”

  The sentence broke.

  Not by a bullet.

  Not by a scream.

  But because the ground behind Benjamin moved.

  Tall savanna grass slowly parted—not by wind, but by something rising with heavy, restrained breaths. A massive shadow stretched across the earth, devouring the evening light.

  One of the bandits turned first.

  His laughter died in his throat.

  Behind Benjamin stood Syin.

  Not roaring.

  Not threatening.

  Just standing there. Calm.

  Its colossal body emerged fully from the grass—dark, hardened skin etched with old scars that looked like carvings. The lines formed unnatural patterns, as if created with intent rather than accident. An old saddle was fastened to its back, the leather fused to Syin’s body as though it were part of him—waiting for its rider at any time.

  Syin did not bow to the bandits.

  It bowed… slightly toward Benjamin.

  Like a horse to its rider.

  Like a companion to a companion.

  Benjamin did not turn around.

  He knew Syin was there.

  “Now,” Benjamin said quietly,

  “you leave.”

  There was no more laughter.

  One bandit dropped his knife.

  Another stepped back, pale, unable to tear his eyes from the creature behind the crippled cowboy.

  “W-what is that…?”

  Benjamin exhaled.

  “He’s not your concern.”

  And that was their final mistake—

  they ran.

  Panicked footsteps tore through the savanna. Six shadows scattered, trying to escape something they did not understand.

  Benjamin remained still. He walked toward the twin girls, opened his sheriff’s coat, and draped it over their bodies. His hands were large, his fingers incomplete, yet his touch was careful—like a father shielding his children from the cold.

  “You’re safe,” he said simply.

  Behind him—

  Syin looked at the girls.

  Its eyes were large, deep, and wet.

  It breathed in the air—the scent of fear, blood, and near-fulfilled malice. But it also sensed something else:

  They were untouched.

  Syin released a low sound—not anger, but relief mixed with sorrow. From the corner of its eye, something fell to the ground.

  A tear.

  The creature lowered its head, touching the earth with its foreclaws. Not a human bow—but close enough for the sky to understand.

  It prayed.

  Benjamin felt it. And did not stop it.

  Syin then raised its head.

  Its eyes changed.

  Not wild—

  but certain.

  It turned toward the fleeing bandits.

  And the savanna fell silent again.

  There were no prolonged screams.

  No blood put on display.

  Only the sound of heavy steps fading away,

  and then… never returning.

  Benjamin stood for a long time after it was over.

  The wind returned.

  Birds crossed the sky once more.

  He glanced at Syin, now standing beside him, the great body lowering slightly so the saddle aligned with Benjamin’s shoulder—a wordless invitation.

  Benjamin shook his head faintly.

  “Not yet.”

  Syin understood.

  Before them, the twin girls wept—not from trauma, but because they were alive.

  And in that silent savanna, for the first time since Pandora’s fall,

  Benjamin Yin did not walk alone as a wounded man—

  ---

  Benjamin escorted them until dusk.

  The nearest town was no welcoming place—just a cluster of wooden and stone buildings behind a low fence, a stopover before people vanished back into their separate roads. But for the girls, it was safe enough for the night.

  At the town gate, Benjamin stopped.

  He took down a small pouch from Syin’s saddle. From it, he pulled out several items—simple gold rings, small uncut diamonds. To the world, they were treasure. To Benjamin, they were merely weight filling Syin’s saddle, remnants of a desert he never called home.

  “For food. And the road back,” he said briefly.

  The girls froze. They weren’t used to receiving without owing something.

  “Why…?” one finally asked, her voice trembling.

  “Why did you help us?”

  Benjamin had already turned to leave when the second question followed.

  “Who are you?”

  He stopped. Did not fully turn.

  “I’m nobody,” he answered softly.

  “Just someone who doesn’t want the world to repeat the same mistakes.”

  They looked at Syin—the great creature standing silently, bowed, like a mountain shadow loyal to one human.

  “And him?” the other asked.

  Benjamin looked ahead.

  “He’s my friend.”

  That was all.

  Benjamin left. His steps faded alongside Syin, swallowed by the savanna’s quiet.

  But that night, word caught up to him.

  From whispered guards, from faces pretending ignorance:

  the bandit camp still existed.

  Not six.

  Dozens.

  And there—

  were other girls.

  Benjamin stopped walking.

  He stood beneath the night sky, stars like eyes awaiting his choice. He exhaled—long, heavy. Not angry. Not uncertain.

  Just tired.

  “I didn’t seek this,” he murmured.

  Syin stood beside him. Not urging. Not sighing.

  Just there.

  Benjamin turned toward the dark savanna, toward the distant flicker of campfires.

  “They don’t want to step into the light,” Benjamin continued.

  “Not because they don’t know… but because they choose to close their eyes.”

  He touched the sheriff’s star on his chest—the dented metal cold beneath his incomplete fingers.

  “My father believed the law could save people,” he said.

  “I believe… people must sometimes be saved from themselves.”

  Syin released a low sound—not agreement, not refusal. Only acknowledgment that the road ahead would be heavy.

  They did not charge.

  Did not shout.

  Did not carry rage.

  Benjamin approached like the night itself—slow, certain, inevitable.

  What happened at that camp was not a story meant for pride.

  There were no victory songs.

  No legends inflated.

  Only one thing remained by morning:

  Doors left open.

  Chains broken.

  And those who chose darkness… no longer blocking anyone’s path.

  Benjamin did not stay.

  He made sure the women could leave.

  He made sure none were left in the shadows.

  Then he returned to the savanna.

  When the sun rose, only the great tracks of Syin and Benjamin’s boots led east—toward a land that had yet to know his name.

  AnveDure was still far away.

  But behind him, the road was a little brighter—

  not because of some great light,

  but because one man chose not to turn away.

  Journey Toward AnveDure

  AnveDure was never close.

  Not because of distance—but because of everything that had to be endured to reach it.

  Benjamin Yin and Syin moved east, leaving behind a savanna slowly returning to life. The grass grew taller, the ground harder, and the sky shifted into a pale blue that never truly felt clean. This world was different. Benjamin had known that since the moment he awakened here—far from the desert he once knew, far from law, far from the name he once carried.

  In this world, maps never told the truth.

  The first days were about food.

  Benjamin’s supplies dwindled quickly. Dried meat ran out first, water was rationed strictly. Syin did not demand much—the creature could survive on tough vegetation and anything too slow to escape. But Benjamin was still human. His body was large, his wounds old, and this world did not care about anyone who was tired.

  He hunted with the Rover rifle only when necessary.

  Every bullet was counted.

  Every shot was a decision.

  They crossed rocky plains where monsters shaped like colossal buffalo grazed—skin as thick as crude steel, horns curved like scythes. Benjamin did not seek battle. He learned quickly that this world punished arrogance.

  When one creature attacked, Syin moved.

  Not with rage.

  Not with savagery.

  But with efficiency.

  A bite.

  A crushing blow.

  Finished.

  Benjamin did not take pleasure in it.

  Nor did he regret it.

  This world was not about right or wrong—only survive or vanish.

  Night brought different temptations.

  Benjamin’s small campfire was often visible from afar. Sometimes people approached—traders, hunters, or those whose eyes were too sharp to be merely passing by. Some offered food. Some offered prayers. Some offered lies wrapped in smiles.

  Some offered women.

  Some offered power.

  Some offered shortcuts to AnveDure—at a price they never spoke aloud.

  Benjamin always refused.

  Not because he was pure.

  But because he knew: every shortcut in this world demanded something that could never be returned.

  Then came the weather.

  Black rain fell in the highlands—acidic, burning skin if one lingered too long beneath it. Syin shielded Benjamin with its massive body, its broad back becoming a living barrier. His father’s sheriff coat suffered further damage, yet Benjamin continued to wear it. He mended it again and again with coarse thread and a needle carved from bone.

  “As long as it still covers me,” he murmured one night,

  “that’s enough.”

  They passed through a forest that did not welcome humans.

  Trees shifted slowly, roots crawling when night fell. Small creatures whispered from behind the leaves—offering safety, knowledge, dreams. Benjamin covered his damaged left ear. He knew those voices were not real—or perhaps they were far too real.

  Syin growled low whenever Benjamin lingered too long.

  Benjamin’s faith was tested not by gods—

  but by exhaustion.

  There were days he sat for long hours on stone, staring east, asking silently:

  What is all this for?

  There was no answer.

  There never was.

  Yet every time he stood again, Syin was always there.

  No questions.

  No urging.

  No leaving.

  Humans became the most difficult trial.

  At a border village, Benjamin was asked to slay a monster in exchange for food. He did. The monster fell. The village was saved. But that night, the villagers tried to poison his drink—afraid of Syin, afraid of strength they could not understand.

  Benjamin did not retaliate.

  He left before dawn.

  “I’m not here to be loved,” he said to Syin.

  “Just to pass through.”

  As they drew closer to AnveDure, the monsters grew stranger.

  Scaled beasts that exhaled freezing mist.

  Giant insects that lived in colonies like cities.

  Shadow-creatures that only appeared when the light weakened.

  Each battle left marks.

  Not only on the body—

  but on the soul.

  Still, Benjamin did not become cruel.

  He covered the dead.

  Shared food when he could.

  Paused when children cried in fear at the sight of Syin.

  And the world—slowly—responded.

  Not with miracles.

  But with paths opening, little by little.

  Eventually, AnveDure began to feel real.

  Not as a city—but as a pull.

  A place where all broken roads and heavy choices seemed to converge.

  One morning, from the crest of a rocky hill, Benjamin saw towers on the horizon—structures neither fully human nor wholly monstrous. Something in between.

  He stood there for a long time.

  Syin stood beside him.

  “There it is,” Benjamin said quietly.

  “Whatever awaits us.”

  Syin released a deep breath—like a storm held in check.

  But before they descended, Benjamin stopped.

  They needed rest.

  Their clothes were torn, boots worn thin. Benjamin scavenged fabric from abandoned carts, stitching crude but sturdy replacements. He traded monster hides for food and proper garments in a roadside outpost—thick cloaks, reinforced trousers, bandages that would last. Not comfort, but durability.

  Syin, too, was weary.

  They rested for two full days in a shallow valley sheltered from wind. Syin lay down at last, massive body still, breathing slow and deep. Benjamin cleaned old wounds from its hide, adjusted the saddle, and slept leaning against Syin’s flank—the safest place he knew.

  On the third day, they moved again.

  Benjamin mounted the saddle.

  Not for battle—

  but because the journey was nearing its end.

  By dusk, the walls of AnveDure rose before them.

  Not a simple city, but a convergence—stone fused with bone-like structures, banners bearing symbols of humans, hunters, and things older still. The air itself felt heavy with history and watchful eyes.

  Guards stared as they approached.

  People fell silent.

  Some stepped back.

  Some bowed their heads without knowing why.

  Benjamin Yin entered AnveDure without fanfare.

  No proclamation.

  No destiny declared.

  Just a wounded man, a colossal companion, and a long road finally reaching a threshold.

  AnveDure was no longer ahead of them.

  They were inside it.

  And whatever this world intended to test next—

  it would do so face to face.

  Benjamin was silent that night. After the sun had set and the first stars descended upon the dark earth, he performed his prayer as a makmum—a follower not yet ready to lead himself. Benjamin was still uncertain about what had happened. He was only confused, not knowing what to do.

  Should he hurry, walk, run, or stay still? Benjamin did not know. His prayers were offered to God, and in the stillness, he returned from the narrow alley—the place where he had just performed his devotion.

  Syin stirred beside him, letting out a low growl, reminding him that they had arrived at their destination. What should they do now? Benjamin was honest with himself—he did not know. All he knew was that they had reached their destination, and they needed rest.

  Benjamin walked toward the city’s main gate. The guards thrust the tips of their swords and spears forward, attempting to prevent Benjamin and the creature—Syin—from leaving at night. But Benjamin insisted. He needed guidance, he needed rest. He still did not feel worthy of sleeping on the stone streets of AnveDure. He still was not.

  Benjamin and Syin stopped near a large stone in the desert. The city gates remained visible in the distance. In silence, Benjamin closed his eyes, using Syin’s body as a support. They rested as they always did—in the wilderness, under the dark night sky.

  As he slept, Benjamin entered a dream. He recited prayers, then fell silent afterward. His father appeared—twenty years old, the same as Mustang’s story. At first, Benjamin readied himself to pray again, thinking his father might be a demon in disguise. But Mustang shook his head. Benjamin only nodded, both relieved and bewildered.

  “Good, my son. You already understand what I have entrusted to you as a devotion,” Mustang said.

  Benjamin smiled. He knew it was truly his father. He bowed before him, releasing the longing he had held tightly for so long.

  “It’s alright, my son. Stand… I only want to speak with you. Though this room is white, there is nothing here but us. This is the essence of your mind. You are too pure for an ordinary human… unfortunately, not everyone is,” Mustang continued.

  Benjamin sat beside his father, who now appeared the same age as him. He remembered the old stories—that humans, upon death, would enter heaven at the age of twenty, frozen in time. Otherwise, they would descend into hell, powerless to resist their punishment.

  “Father, why are you here? Why not go above?”

  Mustang exhaled and smiled at his son—Benjamin, whose cheek bore a brand, right ear melted like wax, right eye blinded by a deep slash. Young Mustang was fearless. He smiled, removed Benjamin’s sheriff hat, then held his neck gently between his arms, stroking Benjamin’s hair with his free hand.

  “Do not call me Father. I am no one now… just someone who pleaded with angels to meet my adopted son in the mortal world. I am here to tell you that you only need time to find yourself—who you are, what you must do in the city of AnveDure.”

  Benjamin smiled faintly, feeling a strange warmth—the first time in five years he had laughed at someone else’s presence.

  “What is it, Father? To this extent…”

  Mustang remained silent. Benjamin stepped back, then chuckled softly. They stared at the white sky—the white room, all white.

  “You are no ordinary human, Benjamin. You are the seventh Convey… because I raised you in Pandora, with magic and prophecy. The title of the seventh Convey is real—‘The Lost Convey’ exists because of me.”

  Benjamin was speechless. A thousand words stuck in his throat. He did not know what to say.

  “You do not yet know about the Convey? Let me explain, son. Long ago, our religion—Astreal—clashed with our brother’s faith, Chrisy. Because of that event, human faith fractured, straying far from the righteous path. Hell began to rise. You do not know because I could not yet let you go. Forgive me.”

  Mustang’s body began to fade. Benjamin knew this meant his father had accepted it. He was tested again—for the second time. Benjamin remained silent.

  “The Convey are chosen ones, blessed by heaven to aid humanity. The city that remains is called AnveDure, because it has survived. Your fellow Convey siblings will meet you as you walk the right or wrong path. You are a normal human with slight advantages, and according to angels, there are 21 other siblings. Some have already fallen into hell when the storm destroyed Pandora. You are the seventh Convey, the one forgotten. Understand, son?”

  Benjamin nodded. Mustang placed the sheriff hat back on his head with a smile, even as his body continued to fade.

  “Father, do not worry. Yamin can protect himself… remember self-control, as you once asked. I beg you, return to your realm, wait for Yamin there. I implore you.”

  Benjamin pressed his forehead to Mustang’s hand, which was slowly disappearing.

  “I understand, son. Do not worry. And do not forget, if you return and meet me, bring at least one grandchild… and do not forget your wife. I want to be called grandfather in heaven,” Mustang said, patting Benjamin’s shoulder.

  Silence. Mustang’s body vanished.

  Benjamin awoke. Syin was still lazily asleep. He stood, alert and refreshed. He knew what he had to do. He was the Convey. He was only the son of a sheriff from a ruined city. He was no one. He would not allow the same mistakes to happen again.

  Thunderstorms raged, and heavy rain fell over AnveDure. Benjamin gazed at the world. Syin awoke. They would not return to the city; they would guard outside for now.

  The storm would bear witness. A man from a ruined city, from a dark world, now had reason to remain righteous. His choice. His own. And it was real.