The waiting room greeted Namkhai with sterile silence.

  White walls. White ceiling. Couches lined one side of the room, a low table stood opposite them, cabinets in the corners, and a single lonely armchair near the wall.

  Phobos, Delilah, and 1991 were already seated on the couch.

  “Sit down,” Phobos said shortly. “They told us to wait.”

  Namkhai nodded and walked toward the armchair. Dropping heavily into it, he settled beside them.

  Silence fell.

  The four of them were still strangers to one another. The only thing binding them was the mission.

  1991 lazily raised his arms, let out a wide yawn, and stretched across the couch, making himself comfortable. Phobos, in contrast, sat upright, eyes fixed on the door. Delilah, bored, examined her gloves, slowly running her fingers along the fabric. Namkhai tapped his fingers quietly against the armrest.

  The minutes dragged on thick and slow.

  Finally, the door opened.

  “Proceed,” one of the employees said dryly.

  They stood at the same time.

  This was the final checkpoint. The end of formalities. Beyond it the entrance to the village.

  In front of a narrow passage stood a small booth blocked by a metal turnstile. Behind the glass sat a plump woman with three eyes. The third, slightly smaller than the others, rested directly above the bridge of her nose. All three stared coldly and without emotion, as if scanning not only faces but thoughts.

  Phobos stepped forward first.

  “Identification,” she said monotonously.

  He handed it over.

  Her fingers moved quickly across the keyboard. The bluish glow of the monitor illuminated her face, making her expression appear even colder.

  “Hm… You surrendered the sword?”

  “I did.”

  She nodded and pressed a button on the side panel of the booth.

  Outside, with a soft hum, a sensor mechanism activated beside the turnstile. A narrow plate lit up with pale light.

  “Place your palm. Scanning required.”

  Phobos frowned.

  “For what?”

  “For registration,” she replied flatly. “Every new citizen submits fingerprints and undergoes basic analysis.”

  Without another word, he placed his palm on the surface.

  The mechanism beeped softly. Light ran across his skin, as if an invisible beam were penetrating down to the bone. Data flickered across the screen inside the booth.

  “What kind of analysis?” Phobos asked, withdrawing his hand.

  The woman nodded toward another device nearby.

  A compact machine stood there with a metallic panel and a narrow slot for a finger. Inside, a needle glinted faintly.

  “Blood. Standard procedure.”

  Phobos approached without hesitation and inserted his finger into the slot. A light prick — and a crimson drop disappeared inside the machine.

  After a few seconds, it emitted a short signal. The woman glanced at the monitor, then pressed another button.

  The turnstile clicked.

  “Proceed.”

  Phobos stepped forward.

  Namkhai and Dalila completed the procedure without unnecessary words.

  The monk calmly placed his palm on the scanner and just as calmly gave his blood. Delilah was even quieter: she carefully pressed her hand to the plate, offered her finger to the needle, and never once lifted her gaze.

  Finally, it was 1991’s turn.

  He cheerfully handed over his documents, allowed his palm to be scanned, and didn’t even blink when the sensor light pulsed beneath his skin.

  But everything changed when the machine finished analyzing his blood.

  The woman behind the glass looked at the monitor… and one of her brows lifted ever so slightly. All three of her eyes focused on the screen.

  “Hm,” she drawled. “Planning to visit your relative?”

  1991 blinked.

  “Relative?” he repeated, genuinely confused. “Wait… I have family?”

  She shifted her gaze to him.

  “So you don’t know about him…” Her voice turned colder. “Then there’s no point continuing this conversation.”

  “Wait!” 1991 stepped forward abruptly and pressed his palm against the glass. “Who is it? Where can I find him?”

  “Do not touch the glass,” she cut him off sharply. “That is confidential information. If you are unaware of this person, I have no right to disclose anything.”

  “But I didn’t even know I had a family! Where did they come from?!” His hand remained against the surface.

  One of her three eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Then find out yourself,” she said dryly. “If that person wishes to speak with you.”

  She pressed a button. The turnstile clicked.

  “Proceed. Do not delay, or I will call security.”

  1991 opened his mouth to protest again, but he noticed movement at the side. The guards were already exchanging glances.

  “Move along,” the woman said harshly.

  Slowly, 1991 removed his hand from the glass. The usual carefree expression had vanished from his face. For the first time, confusion flickered in his eyes.

  He passed through the turnstile and walked toward the others.

  Namkhai immediately noticed the unusual expression, serious, almost heavy.

  “What were you pestering that old lady about?” he frowned.

  Phobos shot 1991 an irritated look.

  “We already discussed this. We don’t need problems. Stay calm and do what you’re told.”

  But 1991 stared straight ahead, barely hearing them.

  “My family is here…” he said quietly.

  The three exchanged glances.

  “Family? Like relatives?” Namkhai asked. “She told you that?”

  “Probably just found a blood match,” Phobos replied coldly, turning toward the exit. “Whatever. Let’s get out of this place.”

  Namkhai and Delilah followed.

  1991 stood still for a moment, trying to catch up with his own racing thoughts. Then, reluctantly, he went after them.

  _____

  All four stepped outside the building and finally onto the streets of the village.

  From the outside, everything looked almost ordinary: neat houses, stalls, small shops, bars with hanging signs, laundry swaying from balconies.

  If not for one thing.

  There were no humans here. Only outsiders.

  Some had extra limbs. Some had horns or scales. Others bore unnatural skin tones.

  “So what now? What’s the plan?” Namkhai asked, glancing around.

  “We find a place to sit,” Phobos answered. “And discuss the details.”

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  1991 walked last. He barely listened to their conversation. His thoughts were still circling around the woman’s words.

  Delilah walked third. Suddenly, she stopped.

  Phobos and Namkhai noticed and slowed down. 1991 kept walking by inertia until Namkhai grabbed his shoulder.

  “Stop.”

  They all looked at Delilah. She raised her hand and pointed forward.

  In front of them stood a bar. The sign above the entrance swayed slightly in the wind.

  “Kenshin.”

  “Looks like she already chose the spot,” Namkhai said with a faint grin.

  They entered the bar.

  Inside, there was a hum of voices, the clinking of mugs, and the smell of alcohol and fried meat. Almost every table was occupied. Groups laughed, argued, some were playing dice.

  Only one table was free, right in the center of the hall. Perfect for four, they took it immediately.

  Nearby sat a group of knights clad in steel armor. Their swords hung calmly at their waists, glinting under the lamplight.

  Namkhai nodded toward them and quietly chuckled.

  “Heh, look at that. They’re allowed to carry weapons. Not surprising… With your face,” he glanced at Phobos, “I wouldn’t trust you with a blade in the city either.”

  Phobos didn’t even turn his head.

  “Shut your mouth and focus on the mission. The sooner we finish it, the sooner we can stop pretending to be a team.”

  He swept his gaze across the three of them.

  And immediately noticed that 1991 was drifting off again, staring at the tabletop.

  Phobos tapped his knuckles against the wood.

  “Hey, terrorist. Listen too and stop spacing out.”

  1991 slowly raised his eyes. He looked at Phobos, then at Namkhai and Delilah. All three were watching him.

  “I found out I have a family,” he said. “And they’re literally here.”

  A pause settled over the table.

  “And?” Phobos replied coldly. “Right now, you should be thinking about the mission.”

  “So if you found out your relatives were here, you wouldn’t want to meet them?”

  “Don’t care,” Phobos answered without hesitation.

  “No,” Namkhai said shortly.

  Delilah quietly shook her head.

  1991 frowned.

  “What is wrong with you people? It’s family.”

  Namkhai leaned back in his chair.

  “Not family. Just shared blood. If you’ve never seen this person once in your life, there were reasons. To you, he’s as much a stranger as anyone else in this bar.”

  “Yeah,” Phobos added. “Including us.”

  Namkhai nodded in agreement.

  Around them, life went on as usual laughter, clinking mugs, overlapping conversations. But at their table, the air had grown heavy.

  1991 clenched his fingers.

  “Now listen,” Phobos said quietly but firmly. “Our objective is to capture the leader of this damn village. The problem is, no one knows who he is or what he looks like. That means we need any information we can get: rumors, contacts, routes, connections.”

  He pulled out a map and spread it across the table, pressing the corners down with his palm.

  “To avoid getting in each other’s way and each other’s nerves and to cover more ground, I suggest we divide the village into four sectors.”

  Namkhai leaned closer, studying the layout of the streets.

  “By cardinal directions?”

  “Yes,” Phobos nodded. “I’ll take the north. The rest of you can choose.”

  Namkhai narrowed his eyes.

  “And why exactly north? Got plans there already?”

  Delilah also shifted her gaze toward Phobos.

  He didn’t even look at them.

  “None of your business.”

  Namkhai smirked.

  “Suit yourself. Don’t have to tell me. I’ll figure it out anyway.”

  Phobos tapped the map.

  “We have one week. In seven days, the target must be in our hands. We meet here same place, same time. We exchange information every day.”

  “Got it,” Namkhai nodded.

  Delilah agreed with a small tilt of her head.

  At that moment, a waitress approached their table. Phobos quickly and discreetly folded the map and slipped it under his jacket.

  “Are you new here?” she asked warmly. “Haven’t seen you before. Just so you know, we’re self-service.”

  She pressed a button on a panel at the side of the table.

  With a soft hum, a holographic menu unfolded above the tabletop, lines of drinks and dishes glowing gently in the air.

  “You place your order here,” she explained. “Once you confirm, a server will bring it straight to your table.”

  “Whoa… that’s cool,” Namkhai said with genuine interest, staring at the floating images.

  The waitress smiled and moved on to another table.

  The menu shimmered above them.

  Namkhai rubbed his hands together eagerly.

  “So, what’s everyone getting?”

  “We don’t have time to sit around,” Phobos replied dryly. “Pick your sectors and let’s go.”

  “Yeah, yeah, hold on,” Namkhai snorted. “I’ve never even been to a bar before. Only the monastery cafeteria.”

  “Same,” 1991 unexpectedly chimed in. “Other than prison chow halls, I’ve never eaten anywhere else.”

  Both of them began scrolling through the holographic menu with sincere curiosity. Delilah silently joined in, carefully studying the options.

  Phobos exhaled irritably. In the end, he had to choose something too just not to stand out.

  _____

  A few minutes later, the orders were placed, and they waited.

  Namkhai and 1991 looked excited, like children. Delilah neatly wrote something in her small notebook. Phobos, meanwhile, mentally calculated routes, exits, and potential information hubs.

  Then his hearing caught fragments of conversation from the neighboring table where the knights were sitting.

  A blond man with a short haircut and mustache, already noticeably drunk was passionately arguing with his companions. Beside him sat a massive warrior with a deep slashing scar running across half his face, from his eye down to his chin. The third was shorter, with long red hair and a build similar to the blond’s.

  Phobos slightly turned his head, pretending to stretch his neck.

  Through the noise of the bar, he caught only scattered words:

  “…leader…”

  “…tree…”

  “…king…”

  “…gathering…”

  He tensed, trying to hear more. But at that moment, a server approached their table with a tray.

  “Your orders.”

  He began setting the dishes down.

  “Black coffee, no sugar, and fried veal with potatoes - for you, sir.”

  The plate was placed in front of Phobos.

  “Cheesecake and herbal mint tea - for the miss.”

  The dessert was set before Dalila.

  “Ultra-large pizza with all our ingredients and a protein shake - for the big guy.”

  The food was placed in front of Namkhai.

  “And rice cooked in coconut milk wrapped in banana leaf, plus sparkling water - for you, sir.”

  The dish was set in front of 1991.

  “Enjoy your meal.”

  The server left.

  Silence fell over the table.

  Phobos, Delilah, Namkhai, and 1991 exchanged glances without a word.

  Almost in sync, they began switching plates.

  The black coffee and veal had been ordered by Delilah.

  The cheesecake and mint tea - by Phobos.

  The pizza and protein shake - by 1991.

  And the rice in banana leaf - by Namkhai.

  When the exchange was complete, they started eating without another word.

  1991 immediately attacked the pizza - greedily, with genuine delight, as if afraid someone might take it away. Cheese stretched in long strings, sauce dripped onto his fingers, and he paid almost no attention to anything around him.

  Delilah, sitting across from him, froze for a brief moment. Her gaze slid over his manner of eating, then she quickly lowered her eyes to her own plate, pretending nothing unusual was happening. With small, careful movements, she cut a piece of veal.

  Phobos ate slowly and with restraint, delicately lifting bites of cheesecake with his fork and washing them down with mint tea, as though he were at a formal reception rather than in a noisy bar.

  Meanwhile, Namkhai unwrapped the banana leaf. Warm steam rose upward, carrying the scent of coconut. He calmly began eating the rice, unhurried.

  1991, washing down an enormous slice of pizza with his protein shake, suddenly turned to Namkhai.

  “W-why did you order so little… khm… you’re huge… khm… and it’s just rice with milk…”

  “Chew first,” Namkhai replied evenly. “Then talk.”

  1991 swallowed and inhaled loudly.

  “Well?”

  “I’m just used to eating like this,” Namkhai said calmly. “It’s enough.”

  1991 narrowed his eyes.

  “You’re weird. Don’t care about your family, eat bland food, and not even much of it.”

  Namkhai slowly raised his gaze to him.

  “Who said I don’t care about family? I said shared blood doesn’t make someone family. If you’ve never seen them, what’s the point?”

  1991 stopped chewing.

  “I don’t care whether I’ve seen him or not,” he said firmly. “I just want to see him. My family.”

  There was no usual carelessness in his eyes. Only certainty.

  Namkhai studied him carefully… and gave the faintest nod.

  At that moment, he felt someone watching him. Slowly, he shifted his gaze toward the knights’ table.

  The massive warrior with the scar wasn’t eating. He was staring directly at Namkhai. Long and intently. Then he leaned toward his long-haired companion and whispered something.

  Namkhai frowned.

  Was he imagining it?

  He looked away, deciding he was just too tense after the journey.

  After finishing his meal, Phobos wiped his lips with a napkin and spoke quietly:

  “That’s enough rest. Pick your sectors and move out.”

  “Sure,” Namkhai nodded. “I’ll just wash up.”

  He stood from the table and headed toward the restrooms.

  As he passed the knights’ table, he felt their eyes on him again. All three were watching him. Especially the large one with the scar.

  Namkhai tensed internally but didn’t slow his step.

  Suddenly, the brute rose sharply, blocking his path. The metal of his armor clanged dully. A long sword hung at his side, and his hand settled near the hilt.

  “Are you a monk?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Dorn, don’t,” the mustached knight tried to stop him.

  But Dorn made a short gesture, ordering him not to interfere, and tightened his grip on the hilt.

  “Yes. A monk,” Namkhai answered calmly. “Why? Looking for trouble?”

  Inside, he was already prepared.

  His shoulders lowered slightly, his center of gravity shifted forward. His fists tightened almost imperceptibly. If the man reached for his sword, he would have to strike first.

  The bar grew quieter. Someone turned to look.

  And then....

  Dorn suddenly dropped to one knee.

  The metal of his armor struck the floor and he bowed his head.

  Namkhai froze.

  “W-what are you doing?”

  “We honor monks,” Dorn said heavily, without raising his gaze. “And we have not forgotten what you did for us.”

  Namkhai was still staring at Dorn kneeling before him, clear confusion written across his face.

  “Honor us?” he frowned. “What exactly did we ever do for you? Monks usually stay locked up in their monasteries and don’t stick their noses outside. How could you have even met any of them?”

  Dorn lifted his head, but didn’t get the chance to answer.

  “True,” came a calm voice. The mustached knight rose from his seat. “Monks rarely leave the walls of their orders.”

  He stepped forward and looked at Namkhai intently.

  “Then why are you here?” The question carried no mockery only interest.

  Namkhai didn’t dodge it.

  “I want to see the world… and get rich.”

  A faint smirk touched the mustached knight’s lips.

  “An honest answer.”

  He gave a slight bow.

  “Then please, join us. My name is Finn. You’ve already met Dorn.”

  Dorn rose from his knee and gave Namkhai a short nod, the earlier tension gone.

  “And this,” Finn gestured toward the third man - the red-haired one with the amused gaze - “is Ga?tan.”

  Ga?tan leaned back in his chair and lazily gave a two-fingered salute.

  “Pleasure to meet you, traveling monk.”

  Now it was Namkhai’s turn to decide whether to sit at their table.

  “Alright,” he said at last, curiosity winning over caution, and took a seat with them.

  “Order whatever you like,” Finn offered.

  “No thanks. I’ve already eaten. So what, you’re actual knights?”

  Finn’s smile widened.

  “Yes, we are. Our ancestors ended up in this world just like all the other outsiders.”

  “And you seriously walk around the streets in full armor?” Namkhai raised a skeptical brow. “What’s wrong with normal clothes?”

  Dorn snorted, but Finn answered:

  “Our code forbids us from wearing common clothing outside the castle.”

  “You have a castle?” Namkhai glanced around. “Here? In this village?”

  “Not just a castle,” Finn said calmly. “An entire quarter. Only we are permitted to enter.”

  “No way…”

  “And by the way,” Finn leaned slightly closer, “we invite you to our castle.”

  “What?” Namkhai frowned. “On what grounds?”

  He couldn’t understand the source of such hospitality.

  “You’ll find out when we arrive. It’s not something to discuss among strangers.”

  Ga?tan lazily rotated his mug in his hand, watching the monk’s reaction.

  Namkhai thought it over. There was something in their behavior, something too serious to be a joke.

  “I need to consult with my team,” he finally said.

  “Of course,” Finn nodded.

  Namkhai returned to his table.

  Phobos listened without interrupting. His face remained calm, but his eyes carefully studied the knights.

  “So, west,” he said at last. “If the castle is really there, it’s on the way.”

  He shifted his gaze to the others.

  “Delilah, you take east.”

  She nodded silently.

  “1991, south.”

  He confirmed without a word.

  “We meet here. Same time,” Phobos concluded.

  From that moment, they split up.

  Namkhai glanced once more at the knights’ table.

  Curiosity, in the end, outweighed caution.