It was nearing evening when Frieren and Fern finally reached the outskirts of Alt Woods Village. The sun hung low in the sky, its light filtered through layers of clouds and tall trees, casting long shadows across the dirt road. The air carried the scent of damp earth and wood smoke, the kind that clung quietly to the senses without demanding attention. It was peaceful in a way that felt almost inappropriate after what they had been through.
They did not have to carry Stark themselves.
Graf Garant, perhaps out of guilt or gratitude or both, had lent them two knights. The men walked ahead and behind with practiced steadiness, each supporting Stark’s weight with care. Even so, the boy’s condition was obvious. His face was pale, lips drawn tight, breath shallow and uneven. Every step sent a faint tremor through his body, and occasionally a sharp sound escaped him before he could stop it.
Frieren walked beside him, eyes fixed forward, expression calm in a way that felt almost wrong. Internally, her thoughts were anything but.
A demon.
Young, far too young by her standards. A hundred years or less, perhaps. That alone would not have mattered if her mana had been overwhelming, if it had pressed down on the world the way powerful demons often did. But it had not. Her presence had been ordinary. Almost dull.
And yet Stark lay like this.
Frieren replayed the words of Stark again and again. The mana. The strange wounds. The way it cut through flesh as if the rules had briefly loosened their grip. It did not feel like raw power. It felt precise. Focused. Crafted.
It had to be the weapon.
That realization unsettled her more than she liked to admit. Tools that could bridge gaps were rare. Tools in the hands of someone so young were worse. The world had not grown safer with time. It had only grown quieter.
Fern followed close behind, hands clasped at her chest, steps careful and measured. Her eyes kept drifting to Stark despite her efforts to look composed. This was her first time facing something like this. Not a simple injury. Not exhaustion. Not poison she recognized. This was damage caused by something she did not fully understand, and the uncertainty showed in the tension of her shoulders.
She trusted Frieren completely, but even trust had limits when confronted with the unknown.
The village came into view slowly. Wooden houses clustered together near the treeline, roofs sloped and worn, smoke rising gently from chimneys. A narrow road led inward, lined with fences and small lanterns that had just begun to glow. It was not a large place. Modest, quiet, and unassuming.
Alt Woods.
The knights slowed as they crossed into the village proper. A few villagers glanced up from their work. Some paused. Others stared openly at the sight of an injured warrior being carried through their streets. Whispers spread, soft and cautious, but no one interfered.
“We were told about a priest,” Fern said quietly, breaking the silence. “Someone skilled.”
“Yes,” Frieren replied. “A man named Sein.”
Her voice was steady, but her eyes scanned the surroundings carefully. Villages like this could be kind. They could also be wary. Outsiders brought trouble as often as they brought coin.
They stopped near the center of the village, where the road widened slightly and several paths branched off. The knights shifted Stark gently, adjusting their grip as he winced.
Frieren approached the nearest villager, an older woman carrying a basket of herbs. “Excuse me,” she said. “We are looking for a priest. Sein.”
The woman studied them for a moment, gaze lingering on Stark’s injuries. Her expression softened. “The church,” she said, pointing with her chin. “North end. You will find him or his brother there.”
“Thank you,” Frieren said.
They moved on, asking once more to be certain. The answer was the same each time. The church stood a little apart from the rest of the village, modest in size, its wooden walls darkened by age and weather. A simple symbol was carved above the entrance, worn smooth by time.
As they approached, Fern felt a strange tightness in her chest. Churches had always carried weight for her. Not fear, exactly, but expectation. Places where people came when they had nowhere else to turn.
The doors were closed.
Frieren reached out and pushed them open without hesitation. The hinges creaked softly, the sound echoing into the quiet interior. The air inside was warm, carrying the faint scent of incense and old wood. Lanterns hung along the walls, their light steady and calm.
“Anyone around?” Frieren called, her voice echoing gently.
For a few seconds, there was no response.
The knights stepped inside carefully and lowered Stark onto a long wooden bench near the wall. He gasped softly as his body settled, fingers curling weakly into the fabric of his clothes. Fern knelt beside him at once, murmuring reassurances even though she knew he might not fully hear her.
Then came footsteps.
They were unhurried, measured, approaching from deeper within the church. A moment later, a man emerged from a side passage. He was middle aged, with tired eyes and hair beginning to gray at the temples. His priestly attire was simple, practical rather than ceremonial.
His gaze went first to Stark.
The change in his expression was immediate.
“We are looking for Sein,” Frieren said, stepping forward. “Our companion is critically injured and needs medical attention.”
The man seemed to feel the urgency and did not hesitate. “Sein is my brother,” he said quickly. “Give me a moment and I shall summon him. Meanwhile, please lay him down.”
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