Chapter 5

  The decision to return to Carmona was born of necessity, not desire. Homer had the tech to survive a nuclear winter, but he lacked the basic supplies to look like a functional member of this primitive society. A man walking into the wilderness with nothing but a sword and a cloak was suspicious. A man walking into the wilderness with a bedroll, a cooking pot, and a sack of dried venison was an adventurer.

  ?Homer needed to be the latter.

  ?The walk back to the town gate was uneventful, though the guards gave him a cursory glance as he flashed his new Guild Card. The wood was still fresh, the ink of his rank—Copper—stark against the grain.

  ?"Back so soon, 'Homer of Cupang'?" the Orc guard grunted, leaning on his halberd. "Gave up on the dragon slaying already?"

  ?"Forgot my toothbrush," Homer deadpanned.

  ?The Orc snorted, waving him through. "Don't die, little man."

  ?Homer stepped into the bustling streets of Carmona. The midday sun was high, baking the cobblestones and drawing out the pungent aromas of the market district—spices, unwashed pack animals, and the metallic tang of the smithies.

  ?"Alert!" Castor’s voice chimed, projecting a localized radar map onto Homer’s retina. "Proximity warning. We have a tail."

  ?Homer didn't break his stride. He stopped at a fruit stall, picking up a strange, blue-skinned apple that smelled like cinnamon. "Who is it?"

  ?"Target identified," Castor replied, "highlighting a heat signature lingering near the gate archway he had just passed. Subject is Female. Elf. Bio-metric match confirms she is a member of Nero’s personal retinue. Specifically, the scout who questioned your presence in the forest."

  ?"The female elf," Homer muttered, tossing a copper coin to the fruit vendor. He took a bite of the blue apple. It was sour. "She’s persistent."

  ?She is a High Guard, Castor noted. Their training emphasizes tracking and surveillance. She is currently using a low-level 'Veil' spell to blend into the crowd. To the naked eye, she is just a shimmer in the air. To my thermal optics, she is a neon sign.

  ?"Let her follow," Homer said, moving deeper into the market. "If I run, I look guilty. If I fight, I look dangerous. If I go shopping for camping gear, I look boring."

  ?A sound strategy, Architect. Boring is our best defense.

  ?Homer moved through the market with deliberate slowness. He visited a dry goods store, purchasing a heavy canvas backpack that smelled of treated leather. He bought rations—hard tack biscuits that could break teeth, strips of dried meat that looked like shoe leather, and a water skin made from the bladder of some unfortunate beast.

  ?He made a show of haggling, though he was terrible at it. He wanted to project the image of a frugal, inexperienced traveler.

  ?"Subject is still following," Castor updated. "She is maintaining a distance of twenty meters. She is good. She uses the flow of the crowd to break line of sight."

  ?"Let's see how she handles a change of venue," Homer said.

  ?He turned down a side street, the air growing hotter and louder. The ringing of hammers on anvils filled the air. This was the Smith’s Quarter, dominated by the Dwarves.

  ?Homer ducked into a shop with a sign depicting a hammer smashing a dragon’s skull. The shop was aptly named "The Shattered Scale."

  ?Inside, the heat was oppressive. A massive blast furnace roared in the back, and the walls were lined with weapons of every shape and size—axes that looked too heavy to lift, swords with serrated edges, and armor that gleamed with enchantments.

  ?Behind the counter stood a Dwarf. He was wide as he was tall, with a beard braided into two thick forks and skin the color of tanned leather. He was wiping a massive warhammer with an oily rag.

  ?"We don't sell toys, human," the Dwarf grunted, not looking up. "If you want a toothpick, try the carpenter next door."

  ?"I need a buckler," Homer said, ignoring the insult. "And knives. Small ones. Utility."

  ?The Dwarf looked up, eyeing Homer’s scrawny frame (relative to a Dwarf). He scoffed. "A buckler? What, afraid to get hit? A real warrior uses a two-hander."

  ?"A dead warrior uses a two-hander," Homer replied. "A live one knows when to block."

  ?The Dwarf paused, then let out a bark of laughter. "Fair point. Wall to your left. Utility knives are in the barrel."

  ?Homer walked to the wall, pretending to inspect a round steel shield. It was crude compared to his energy barriers, but it felt solid. He picked it up, strapping it to his left arm. It was heavy, but his enhanced muscles compensated effortlessly.

  ?He moved to the barrel of knives. He picked up a few paring blades—balanced enough to throw, but unassuming enough to be used for peeling potatoes.

  ?"Target is outside," Castor warned. "She is peering through the window. Angle of incidence suggests she is trying to verify your purchases."

  ?Homer glanced at the dirty glass pane of the shop window. Through the grime, he saw the faint distortion of light that marked the Elf’s position. She was leaning in, trying to see past the display rack.

  ?The Dwarf saw her too.

  ?The shopkeeper frowned, his eyes narrowing as he looked past Homer’s shoulder. Dwarves had excellent eyesight, adapted for low-light tunnels, and the shimmering veil didn't fool him.

  ?"Oi!" The Dwarf opened his mouth, raising a thick finger to point at the window. "What in the stone’s name is—"

  ?Homer moved.

  ?He didn't attack. He simply stepped sideways, placing his body directly between the Dwarf and the window. He held up the buckler, ostensibly to show it to the Dwarf, but effectively blocking the line of sight completely.

  ?"This shield," Homer said loudly, cutting the Dwarf off. "It has a crack in the rim. I'll need a discount."

  ?The Dwarf blinked, confused. He craned his neck to look around Homer. "What? Move, lad. There’s a spook peeping in my—"

  ?Homer leaned in, his face inches from the Dwarf’s. He gave a sharp, micro-shake of his head, his eyes intense. He held a finger to his lips for a fraction of a second, then pointed casually at the knives.

  ?"The knives," Homer said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And the shield. Full price. Just... don't shout."

  ?The Dwarf froze. He looked at Homer, then at the blocked window, then back at Homer. A slow realization dawned on his face. He didn't know what was happening, but he knew the human was hiding something—or someone. And Dwarves, by nature, respected secrets almost as much as they respected gold.

  ?"Aye," the Dwarf grunted, lowering his voice. "Right. The crack. A trick of the light, I'm sure. But since you're buying the knives too..."

  ?"Five gold for the lot," Homer offered, overpaying significantly.

  ?The Dwarf’s eyebrows shot up. "Sold."

  ?Homer paid quickly. He strapped the shield to his pack and tucked the knives into his belt.

  "?Crisis averted," Castor noted. "The Elf has retreated to the alleyway. She believes she remained undetected."

  ?"We need to shake her," Homer thought. "But I can't just run. If I vanish here, she'll know I have magic. I need her to be the one who messes up."

  ?"Pleasure doing business," Homer nodded to the Dwarf.

  ?"Watch your back, lad," the Dwarf muttered, polishing a coin. "The shadows in this town have ears. And pointy ones at that."

  ?Homer left the shop and headed straight for the one place where secrets went to die: The Broken Tusk.

  ?The tavern was quieter in the afternoon, but not by much. Rhard, the Lion-Beastkin, was behind the bar, polishing a glass that looked suspiciously clean this time.

  ?Homer walked in, taking a seat at a table near the center of the room. He placed his new pack on the floor and signaled for a drink.

  ?Target entering, Castor reported. She is sticking to the shadows near the entrance. Her camouflage spell is still active, but it wavers in the ambient mana of the tavern.

  ?Homer didn't look. He trusted Castor’s radar. He took out one of the books he had bought—The Economic Flow of the Saharan Continent—and pretended to read.

  ?In reality, he was waiting for Mincy.

  ?The Cat-Beastkin maid was weaving through the tables, carrying a tray of mugs. Her ears were twitching, swiveling like radar dishes. Beastkin had senses that rivaled some of Castor’s sensors, particularly when it came to smell and sound.

  ?The Elf was standing in the corner, trying to be a part of the wall. She was trying to observe Homer.

  ?Mincy walked past the corner. She stopped. She sniffed the air. Her tail fluffed up.

  ?She turned, looking directly at the "empty" air where the Elf stood.

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  ?"OH!" Mincy’s voice was like a foghorn, cutting through the low murmur of the tavern. She bowed dramatically, her voice filled with aggressive hospitality. "LADY ELARA! OF THE HIGH GUARD! WELCOME BACK!"

  ?The entire tavern went silent. Every head turned toward the corner.

  ?The air shimmered and collapsed. The Elf, Elara, materialized, her face flushing a deep shade of violet. Her cover wasn't just blown; it was detonated.

  ?"I..." Elara stammered, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her sword before dropping it. She looked around, realizing fifty people were staring at her. "I... yes. Hello, Mincy."

  ?"THE USUAL?" Mincy shouted, beaming. "WARM MILK WITH A DROP OF HONEY AND A PLATE OF RAW FISH?"

  ?Elara looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. High Guards were supposed to be the shadows of the Emperor, silent and unseen. Being announced like a circus act was a professional disaster.

  ?"Yes," Elara hissed through gritted teeth. "Just... quickly."

  ?She risked a glance at Homer.

  ?Homer was ready.

  ?He looked up from his book, his face a mask of mild surprise. He locked eyes with her.

  ?For a second, time seemed to stretch. Elara’s eyes were wide, panic warring with suspicion. She was waiting for him to run, to cast a spell, to do something that proved he was the anomaly they suspected.

  ?Homer blinked. He looked at her pointed ears, her fine armor, and then he looked back at Rhard at the bar, shrugging slightly as if to say, 'Weirdos, right?'

  ?He went back to his book.

  "?Deception successful," Castor said. "Her heart rate just spiked to 140 beats per minute. She is mortified. She believes she has compromised the mission by being incompetent, not by being detected by you."

  ?Elara slumped into a chair in the corner, trying to make herself small as Mincy bustled away to get the milk.

  ?"Now," Homer thought.

  ?He waited exactly ten seconds, until Mincy returned and blocked Elara’s view with her body while serving the milk.

  ?Homer stood up. He grabbed his pack. He walked out of the tavern, moving briskly but not running.

  ?As soon as the heavy door swung shut behind him, he turned left, ducking into a narrow alleyway filled with refuse bins.

  ?"Active Camouflage," Homer commanded. "Full spectrum."

  ?"Engaging," Castor replied.

  ?The nanites on the surface of his skin and clothes reconfigured. They bent light, absorbed heat, and dampened sound. In less than a heartbeat, Homer vanished.

  ?He didn't move far. He pressed his back against the rough brick wall of the tavern, holding his breath, waiting.

  ?Three seconds later, the tavern door burst open.

  ?Elara stumbled out, her sword half-drawn, her eyes wild. She scanned the street. Left. Right. She looked at the rooftops. She closed her eyes, extending her hand, pulse of blue mana rippling from her palm.

  ?Mana scan detected, Castor noted. She is searching for a biological signature. The bio-dampeners are holding. To her, you are a stone wall.

  ?"Dammit!" Elara cursed, kicking a crate. She paced in a tight circle, running a hand through her silver hair. "Stupid cat. Stupid, loud cat."

  ?She pulled a small crystal from her pouch, bringing it to her lips. She hesitated, then lowered it.

  ?"I can't call it in," she whispered, her voice trembling. "If I tell Nero I lost him again... if I tell him I let a potential Demon slip through my fingers because I ordered milk..."

  ?Homer stood three feet away from her, invisible. He listened intently.

  ?"He has to be a Demon," Elara muttered to herself, holstering the crystal. "No human moves like that. No human vanishes without a trace of mana. The Invisibility Spell... only the Iron Remnant possess it."

  ?She looked around the empty street one last time, her expression hardening.

  ?"I can't go back to Muntinlupa," she said, her voice steeling. "Not until I have his head or his true name. Nero will strip my rank. I have to find him."

  ?She turned and ran down the main street, guessing—wrongly—that he had fled toward the southern gate.

  ?Homer watched her go. He waited until she was a speck in the distance before exhaling.

  ?"Demon," Homer murmured. "That's why they're so afraid."

  ?"It fits the data," Castor analyzed. "According to the text from Griphook, the 'Invisibility Spell' is a racial trait unique to the Demon race—the Iron Remnant. However, the text also specifies a biological limitation. A Demon can only maintain the light-bending field for approximately two minutes per solar cycle before their mana cores overheat."

  ?"And I can hold it as long as my battery lasts," Homer said.

  ?Precisely. To them, an entity that can remain invisible indefinitely is not just a Demon; it is a High Demon. A General. Or a God.

  ?"And the disguise?"

  ?The 'Transformation Spell'. Another Demon trait. They believe you are a Demon wearing a human skin. That is why Nero hesitated. He wasn't sure if you were his old friend, or a monster mocking him.

  ?Homer deactivated the camouflage. The air shimmered, and he reappeared in the alley.

  ?"Great," he sighed. "So I'm not just a suspicious traveler. I'm a suspected war criminal from a race of boogeymen."

  ?On the bright side, Castor added, it explains why they haven't attacked you openly. They fear provoking a high-level threat in a populated area.

  ?"We need to leave," Homer said. "Carmona is burned."

  ?He adjusted his pack and headed for the northern gate, taking the back alleys to avoid any more run-ins with the Guild or the guards.

  ?The transition from the bustling trade city to the silence of the wilderness was abrupt. The road north of Carmona was paved with ancient, cracked asphalt—remnants of the old world that the elves had repurposed as a trade route.

  ?Homer walked for hours. The sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the Whispering Woods that loomed ahead. The trees here were different from the jungle around his bunker. They were taller, their bark pale and smooth, and the leaves shimmered with a faint, metallic sheen.

  ?"We stop here," Homer decided, spotting a clearing off the main road, near a bubbling stream.

  ?It was about five kilometers from the city. Far enough to be safe from casual patrols, but close enough that the dangerous wildlife of the deep woods shouldn't be hunting yet.

  ?Homer set about making camp. He didn't use his nanites to grow a shelter this time. He used the canvas tent he had bought. He drove the stakes into the ground with a rock, struggling intentionally with the knots. He gathered firewood by hand, ignoring the impulse to just shoot a laser at a log to ignite it.

  ?He struck flint against steel, nursing a small flame into life.

  ?"This is tedious," Homer grumbled, blowing on the tinder.

  ?It is authentic, Castor corrected. You are building a pattern of behavior. If anyone investigates this campsite later, they will find ash, footprints, and tent holes consistent with a human traveler.

  ?Homer sat back, watching the fire crackle. He heated a strip of the dried meat on a stick. It tasted like salt and old leather, but he chewed it stoically.

  ?The sun set. The moons rose—two of them now, one shattered and one whole, hanging in the sky like eyes watching the world.

  ?Homer leaned back against a log, closing his eyes. He reached out with his mind, not to cast a spell, but to feel the world around him. The wind rustling the leaves. The flow of water. The hum of the nanites in the soil.

  ?"Alert," Castor’s voice was a whisper in his mind. "Contact."

  ?Homer didn't move. He didn't open his eyes. "Where?"

  ?North-East. Range: 150 meters. Closing slowly. It is her.

  ?"Elara," Homer breathed. "How did she find us?"

  ?"She is a tracker," Castor reminded him. "You dropped your invisibility when you left the city. She likely picked up your trail at the gate and followed the physical signs. Boot prints. Broken twigs. The scent of that terrible dried meat."

  ?"She's good," Homer admitted.

  ?She is currently approaching in a flanking maneuver. She is trying to get eyes on the camp without being seen. She is assuming you are a Demon, so she expects traps.

  ?Homer opened his eyes and looked at the fire. He had a choice.

  ?He could vanish. He could slip into the woods, activate his stealth, and leave her chasing ghosts. But she would just keep following. She would report back to Nero. The suspicion would grow.

  ?Or...

  ?"Castor," Homer said softly. "Is she alone?"

  ?"Scan confirms. No backup. Just the Elf."

  ?"Then I'm tired of running," Homer said. He picked up another stick and tossed it onto the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the night air. The sparks drifted up, illuminating the trees where she was hiding.

  ?He spoke, his voice calm and carrying clearly into the darkness.

  ?"You know," Homer said to the empty woods, "if you're going to join me for dinner, you should bring something better than this jerky. It tastes like a boot."

  ?Silence.

  ?The woods held their breath.

  ?Heart rate of target spiking, Castor reported. She knows she is compromised.

  ?"Come out, Elara," Homer said, using her name for the first time. He didn't look at where she was hiding. He kept his eyes on the fire. "I'm not going to eat you. And I'm not a Demon."

  ?A twig snapped.

  ?From the shadows, a figure emerged. Elara held her sword low, but ready. Her armor glinted in the firelight. Her face was tight with tension, sweat beading on her forehead. She looked terrified, but she stood her ground.

  ?"How?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly. "How did you know my name?"

  ?Homer pointed a thumb back toward the city. "The cat. She shouted it loud enough for the gods to hear."

  ?Elara blinked. The logic held. She lowered her sword a fraction of an inch.

  ?"And how did you know I was there?" she demanded. "I had a Veil up. I made no sound."

  ?Homer tapped his ear. "I have good hearing. And you stepped on a dry branch three minutes ago."

  ?It was a lie—Castor had done the work—but it was a believable one.

  ?"Sit," Homer gestured to the log opposite him. "Or stand. But stop pointing that sharp piece of metal at me. It makes me nervous."

  ?Elara hesitated. She looked at the fire, then at Homer, then at the surrounding woods. She was weighing her options. Fight a suspected High Demon alone? Or talk?

  ?She sheathed her sword. It was a calculated risk. If he was a Demon, the sword wouldn't help anyway.

  ?She walked into the light and sat on the log, keeping her distance. Her violet eyes bored into him.

  ?"You are not normal, Homer of Cupang," she whispered. "You vanish in broad daylight. You have no mana signature, yet you see through illusions. You carry gold pure enough to buy a kingdom, yet you dress like a beggar."

  ?"I'm complicated," Homer shrugged.

  ?"Are you..." she paused, the word heavy on her tongue. "Are you of the Iron Remnant?"

  ?Homer looked at her. He saw the fear. He saw the hatred that had been bred into her for thousands of years. But he also saw curiosity.

  ?"No," Homer said firmly. "I am human. Just... from a very long way away."

  ?"A human cannot do what you do," she countered.

  ?"Maybe you just haven't met the right humans," Homer smiled. It was a sad smile.

  ?He reached into his pack and pulled out the blue apple he had bought. He tossed it to her.

  ?She caught it reflexively.

  ?"Dinner," Homer said. "Peace offering."

  ?Elara looked at the apple, then at him. She took a slow, deliberate bite, never taking her eyes off him.

  ?"Talk," she commanded. "And if I catch you in a lie, Nero will know."

  ?"Fair enough," Homer said. "Let's talk."

  ?Diplomacy protocols engaged, Castor said in his mind. This is a pivotal moment, Architect. Do not blow it.

  ?Homer leaned forward, the firelight dancing in his silver eye. The game of cat and mouse was over. Now, the game of truth began.