CHAPTER 4 — “The Girl Who Stayed” #3
The sun is high now, the village bustling with midday activity. More people are out than this morning—word of the dungeon clear has spread further, and I catch looks that are more curious than afraid. A few people even nod at me as I pass.
It’s strange, being seen as something other than a threat or a stranger. I’m not sure I like it.
You’re uncomfortable with positive attention, Johnson observes. Interesting. Most humans crave validation.
“I had enough validation in my past life to last several lifetimes. It didn’t end well.”
Fair point.
We’re heading back to the farm—I need to check on the dungeon, plan my next dive, figure out what’s living in my barn—when I see her.
She’s sitting on a fence at the edge of the village, where the last houses give way to overgrown fields.
Young, maybe early twenties, with dark hair pulled back in a practical braid and clothes that are well-made but worn.
She’s staring at the horizon like she’s looking for something that isn’t there.
There’s a bag at her feet. A traveler’s bag, the kind you pack when you’re not planning to come back.
Interesting, Johnson says.
I should keep walking. I have things to do. Plans to make. A revenge to plot.
But something about the way she’s sitting—the set of her shoulders, the careful stillness, the way her hands are gripping the fence like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded—makes me stop.
I know that posture. I’ve worn it myself.
That’s the posture of someone who’s running from something.
My [Herb Sense] pings—not because she’s a plant, obviously, but because the passive detection skill has been glitching since the class synergies started kicking in.
It’s picking up trace elements on her clothes.
Road dust. Pine resin. The faint chemical signature of someone who’s been sleeping outdoors more than indoors.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ PASSIVE SCAN ---\[Herb Sense\] Lv.
1 │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │ Subject: UnknownFemale │ │ Traces Detected: │ │ --- Road dust (multiple soil types) │ │--- Pine resin (northern forests) │ │ --- Healing salve residue(professional grade) │ │ --- Leather conditioner (militaryspecification)│ │ │ │ Assessment: Subject has traveled extensively.
│ │Clothing suggests practical background.
│ │ Leather conditioning methodmatches Imperial │ │ standard --- possibly military or noble origin.
│ ││ │ "Your herb skill just profiled a stranger.
│ │ That's... not whatit's designed for.
But │ │ sure. Go with it." │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Interesting. Military-grade leather conditioning on a woman who claims to be “just passing through.” File that under “things I’m not going to mention right now but am definitely going to think about later.”
“You lost?”
She turns. Green eyes, sharp and wary, assessing me in a single glance. Whatever she sees makes her relax slightly—not all the way, but enough.
“Just passing through,” she says. Her voice is steady, controlled. “Needed to rest before the next leg.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Away.”
Not an answer. Also not a lie. Just… deflection. Practiced deflection, the kind you develop when people ask questions you don’t want to answer.
She’s hiding something, Johnson says. Obvious. But what?
“Away is a big direction,” I say. “Lots of places to get lost in.”
“That’s the idea.”
I should leave it alone. Should mind my own business, focus on my own problems, stop collecting strays like some kind of disaster magnet.
“The village is looking for workers,” I hear myself say. “If you need coin before you move on. There’s a farm on the north edge that needs rebuilding, and the owner is desperate enough to hire anyone.”
She raises an eyebrow. “The owner?”
“Me. As of yesterday.”
Smooth, Johnson deadpans. Very subtle. ‘I have a farm, want to come see it?’ Never heard that one before.
I ignore him.
The woman—girl? she’s young, but there’s something old in her eyes—studies me for a long moment. Taking my measure. Deciding if I’m a threat or an opportunity or something else entirely.
“Why?” she asks finally. “You don’t know me.”
“No. But I know what running looks like.” I shrug. “I also know that running is easier when you have somewhere to catch your breath.”
Silence.
She looks at her bag. At the horizon. At me.
“I’m Mariella,” she says.
“Velthar.”
“The one who cleared the dungeon floor? I heard about that at the inn.”
“Word travels fast.”
“Word’s the only entertainment in a place like this.” She hops down from the fence, shouldering her bag with practiced ease. “Show me this farm. If the work is honest, I’ll consider it.”
She’s lying about something, Johnson says as we start walking. Not the name—that’s real. But something else. Something underneath.
I know. I can feel it too—a wrongness, a gap, a piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit.
But I’m a reborn Archmage wearing a dead man’s body, accompanied by a telepathic murder rabbit, plotting revenge against the most powerful people in the empire.
I’m not exactly in a position to judge.
The farm looks worse in daylight than it did yesterday.
The cottage is listing to one side, held up by optimism and possibly magic. The fields are more weeds than crops. The barn—the one with something living in it—has a hole in the roof big enough to see clouds through.
And there’s a little girl sitting on my porch.
“Mr. Flower Man!” She jumps up when she sees us approach—tiny, maybe eight years old, with a crown of wildflowers in her hair and dirt on her dress. “You came back!”
Mr. Flower Man? Johnson’s mental voice is dangerously close to laughter. Oh, this is precious.
“I live here,” I say. “Of course I came back.”
“Mama said you might not. Mama said dungeon people don’t always come back.” The girl’s face clouds for a moment, then clears. “But you did! So I picked you flowers. To say thank you.”
She holds out a handful of wildflowers, slightly crushed from being held too tightly. They’re mostly weeds, technically, but she’s arranged them with obvious care.
“Thank you for what?” I ask, taking the flowers because what else am I going to do.
“For killing the monsters.” Her voice goes quiet. “The monsters killed my papa. Last month. And my friend Tomas. And—” She stops, swallows hard. “Granny Thorn said you made the monsters go away. So thank you.”
Ah, Johnson says. This is the orphan.
The orphan. The one Granny Thorn mentioned yesterday—a family killed by dungeon spawns, leaving a child behind.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Mira.” She looks at Johnson, eyes going wide. “Is that your bunny?”
Bunny, Johnson says flatly. She called me a bunny.
“That’s Johnson. He’s my… partner.”
Don’t say pet. I will bite you.
“Can I pet him?”
Johnson and I both freeze.
No, he says firmly. Absolutely not. I am an ancient being of cosmic significance, not some child’s—
“Sure,” I say, because I’m an asshole and this is hilarious. “Just be gentle.”
Mira approaches with the exaggerated care of a child who’s been taught to be cautious around animals. Her small hand reaches out, hovers over Johnson’s head, then comes down in a soft pat.
Johnson doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His ears lie flat against his skull, and his mental voice is pure ice.
I will end you.
“He’s so soft!” Mira whispers reverently. “And his ears are floppy!”
Floppy. She said floppy. I am going to murder you in your sleep, Velthar.
“He likes you,” I say, because I’ve chosen my path and I’m committing to it. “He doesn’t let just anyone pet him.”
Lies. Slander. I’ll remember this.
Mariella is watching this exchange with an expression I can’t quite read. Amusement, maybe. Or something softer.
“You have a fan,” she says.
“Apparently.”
“And a rabbit.”
“Apparently.”
“And a farm that looks like it’s one strong wind away from collapsing.”
“Definitely.”
She laughs. It’s a nice sound—surprised, genuine, like she didn’t expect to make it.
I like her, Johnson says grudgingly, still suffering under Mira’s gentle petting. Even though she’s clearly lying about who she is. People who laugh like that have good instincts.
“So,” Mariella says, looking around at the decrepit property. “Where do we start?”
We start with the barn.
Partly because it needs the most work, partly because I need to figure out what’s living in it, and partly because Mariella takes one look at the collapsed section of roof and says “I can fix that” with the confidence of someone who’s done it before.
“You know construction?” I ask.
“I know enough.” She’s already examining the damage, running her hands along the remaining beams. “Dovetail joints here. Rope tension patterns for the supports. This was well-built originally—someone who knew siege fortifications.”
Siege fortifications, Johnson echoes. Interesting choice of reference.
“The previous owner was… thorough,” I say.
“Previous owner? Didn’t you say you just got here yesterday?”
“I inherited it. From someone named Edrin.”
“Inherited.” She doesn’t push further, but I can see the questions in her eyes. The same questions I’m not asking about her.
We work in silence for a while—me clearing debris, her assessing structural damage, Mira “helping” by collecting interesting rocks and presenting them to Johnson like offerings.
She’s building a shrine, Johnson observes as Mira carefully arranges her latest find next to him. A shrine of rocks. For me. I don’t know how to feel about this.
“Feel honored,” I suggest.
I feel annoyed. But also… slightly less annoyed than usual. He watches Mira skip off to find more rocks. Children are strange. But not entirely awful.
High praise, coming from him.
Around midday, Mariella calls for a break. We sit in the shade of the barn—what’s left of the shade, anyway—and share the bread and cheese I bought at the village market this morning.
“You’re not from around here,” I say. Not a question.
“Neither are you,” she counters. “Your accent’s wrong. Too formal. Like you learned to speak from books instead of people.”