章節 23: "Theory Of A Kni- Hunter, I Meant Hunter. Yes, Nothing Else"(￣▽￣)" Part(I)

"Well then~!" Julian clapped his hands together, his tone carrying an exaggerated enthusiasm that didn't quite match his slumped shoulders. The act didn't last long—mere moments later, he flopped backward onto the soft cushion of his bed, groaning loudly as if the weight of the world had just been placed upon him.

"Why did she have to force me?" he muttered, his voice muffled against the fabric. "Auggghhh." His groan deepened as he rolled onto his side, staring blankly into space like a man contemplating life's cruel jokes. "I'm not even good at teaching…"

He sighed, muttering inaudible complaints under his breath as he dragged himself upright. El Ritch, standing awkwardly nearby, didn't dare say anything. His nerves felt taut, as though any word could shatter the fragile balance of Julian's mood.

"One does what one can do," Julian said finally, shaking his head in resignation as he stood. "Well, come along."

El Ritch nodded quickly and followed him out, the faint echo of Julian's earlier theatrics still ringing in his ears.

The village was alive in the afternoon sun, its pathways bustling with movement and noise. Hunters returned from the wilderness, their backs heavy with bundles of pelts and freshly caught game. Woodcutters hauled towering stacks of timber, their shoulders straining under the weight of trees destined for construction, weapon crafting, and firewood. The air was filled with the sound of voices—traders bartering, children laughing, and the rhythmic clatter of hooves against the thawing cobbled streets.

El Ritch noticed how the winter's icy grip seemed to be fading here, as if the village itself pushed back against the cold. The once-frozen mud paths, burnt orange beneath the patches of snow, were beginning to reemerge, revealing long-forgotten grooves and stones. Fires burned in iron braziers at every corner, their warmth spilling into the streets and mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread, charred meat, and pine resin.

Shops along the main paths were in full swing, their shelves being restocked. Crowds thickened near the market square, the din of voices rising as deals were struck and wares exchanged. The atmosphere was lively, almost celebratory, as the day edged toward its busiest hours.

El Ritch trailed behind Julian, his eyes wide as he took it all in. It was as though the village had a life of its own, a pulse that thrummed beneath its snowy veneer. But soon, they reached the outskirts where the crowds thinned, and the noise of commerce faded into the crackling of fires and the occasional chirp of birds.

The village had four gates, each aligned with the cardinal directions, leading out into the vast unknown. As they approached the northern gate, the guards posted there opened it without question, their stoic expressions betraying nothing.

Beyond the village walls, the frozen forest loomed. The temperature dropped sharply, the warmth of the village fires replaced by a biting chill that gnawed at El Ritch's skin. He tugged his coat closer, shivering as the icy wind cut through him, but Julian walked ahead unbothered. El Ritch glanced at him, surprised by how unaffected he seemed. Julian's thin, open clothing offered little protection, yet he neither flinched nor shivered, moving through the frost as if it were nothing more than a gentle breeze.

They walked in silence, the crunch of their boots on the frozen ground the only sound accompanying them. The forest opened up suddenly, revealing a clearing that took El Ritch's breath away.

Massive, ancient ruins stood before them, their monumental structures looming like the bones of a forgotten era. Broken watchtowers clawed at the sky, their jagged silhouettes casting long shadows over the snow-dusted ground. Buildings made of cobblestones and dark, weathered stones stretched across the clearing, their once-proud walls crumbled and overrun with frost and vines. El Ritch had never seen nor heard of a place like this; it felt otherworldly, haunted by the whispers of its past.

Julian stopped at the edge of the clearing, his gaze distant as if lost in thought. "This is a place where I open my heart," he said softly, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic weight.

El Ritch tilted his head, catching the faintest murmur under Julian's breath, but the words were too quiet to decipher.

Julian turned to him, his expression shifting to something more direct. "You might think this place is creepy," he said, his tone light but his eyes sharp, "but I've learned a few things about you in just our two meetings. You don't know how to express your feelings, do you?"

El Ritch's eyes widened. The observation struck closer to home than he expected. He thought about replying honestly—about admitting the truth—but hesitation won out. "You do sound creepy," he said instead, forcing a grin in an attempt to deflect the question.

Julian's gaze didn't waver. "Yes, good. You can try to hide the real answer by redirecting it, by attacking me personally," he said, his tone calm but pointed. "But will that help you?"

El Ritch opened his mouth to answer, but Julian didn't wait.

"No," Julian said simply, shaking his head. "It won't."

"Do not worry, I am not criticizing you," Julian said, his voice steady and calm. "Because everyone in this village, including the witch, cannot fully understand emotions. We act as if we do, yes, but that's all it is—an act."

"Then should I act like you too? Not understanding or even trying to understand where these emotions come from?"

"No, of course not." Julian sighed, rubbing his neck as he looked back at El Ritch. "It is one's personal choice to deal with such matters. Pretending isn't a solution; it's just one way to get by." He paused, his tone shifting slightly. "You remember Zana and Flower, yes?"

El Ritch nodded, though his confusion deepened. How did Julian know about them?

"When you fell from the sky," Julian continued, answering the unspoken question, "I was the one who saved you and placed a sigil on you to ensure you were safe. Through it, I came to know that Zana and Flower rescued you. Once I was sure you were in good hands, I burned the sigil, disconnecting our link." Julian turned his gaze back toward the ruins. "But that's not the point."

He reached down, picking up a stick and using it to trace shapes in the snow. "There are five unofficial Hunter groups in the whole world," he said, the stick scratching against the frost as he began to draw. El Ritch leaned closer, his curiosity piqued as Julian sketched a circular map of the known world.

"There are five unofficial Hunter groups in this entire world," he repeated again, marking the center of his rough map. "In the middle lies The Capital, 'Evandria,' home to The Stalking Murder(Of Crows)." He sketched a square with layered walls, adding small shapes within to represent the houses nestled between.

"To the east," Julian continued, moving the stick to another part of the snow, "is The Lake of Solomon. There, you'll find The Waking Church. They operate from the scattered isles of the lake." He poked small holes in the snow, describing the clustered isles with a few lines to represent waterways.

Julian shifted to the west side of the map, his stick carving out jagged peaks. "Here, in The Hills of Free Men, lies The Women of the Night." His tone was almost wry as he described the group. "They live among the cliffs, their homes built precariously along hanging trails and roads. Not exactly hospitable."

He moved to the south, drawing a large inverse triangle. "Our antithesis," Julian said, his voice heavy. "The Dripping Heart. From this fractured land, The Anvil operates. Their base is in the northernmost part of the territory, here," he said, marking a inverse triangle to represent the region and a small dot to signify the Anvil's stronghold. "This is where your adoptive father comes from. Aldric Parker—the strongest Hunter, the godfather, and creator of The Anvil itself. Though…" Julian smirked faintly, "he keeps that little detail to himself."

El Ritch blinked in surprise, the revelation sending a ripple of shock through him. He had always known Aldric was respected, but to hear Julian describe him in such terms made him realize just how much he didn't know. Perhaps this is only one layer peeled off.

Finally, Julian turned his attention to the north, scratching the snow to represent The Hornet. "And then there's us," he said, his tone lighter. "In the north, we have The Creeping Dolls(Of Annabeth)." Far from the Hornet's central base, Julian drew scattered shapes—houses and small structures—which he referred to as The Creeping Dolls' base.

"Just remember the basics of it, if you want to," Julian said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "The Academy will drill all this into you eventually. I only explained it to give you a different perspective—something beyond just names and places. The Hunters that mingle with our village are outcasts, like us. The Creeping Dolls are no different. They don't understand their feelings either—maybe they don't even have them. But again," he shrugged, "that's not the point."

El Ritch listened intently, though some of the meaning in Julian's words slipped past him like smoke.

"The world is many things, El Ritch," Julian continued, his tone turning reflective. "And it doesn't force you to be any of them. The universe is indifferent to one, and because of that, one is free." He pointed directly at El Ritch as if to emphasize his point.

"'Hope is something treacherous, placed on something transient,'" Julian recited. His voice carried a faint echo of the witch's, and El Ritch couldn't help but remember her words as they replayed in his mind.

"It's true," Julian admitted, his gaze distant. "What the witch says about hope is true. But… I think it's also wrong in its own way. Hope isn't treacherous—it's playful. It lingers, waiting. It's something you don't trust blindly, but it's not your enemy. You bargain with it. You learn how to make it work for you."

Julian paused, his attention drifting to the map he had drawn. His stick traced lazy lines in the snow as though he were lost in thought.

"I don't understand emotions," he said suddenly, his voice low but steady. "Not really. And to be brutally honest with you, El Ritch, I don't feel them at all." He glanced up briefly, gauging the boy's reaction before continuing. "The witch says it's a burden removed from our 'kind'. I'd agree with her—except for one thing."

He gestured broadly toward the world beyond the ruins. "Instinct drives us. It makes us desperate, selfish. We don't consider morality. It doesn't exist for us in the same way it does for others." Julian sighed, his shoulders lifting and falling in a gesture that felt both resigned and liberated. "All I'm saying is, among these groups—these patches of outcasts—you can be as weird as you want to be. After all, we don't have the morality to judge."

El Ritch's eyes drifted to the lines Julian was drawing in the snow. The shapes had begun to take the form of a map—not of the world, but of something larger, more detailed.

"What is this place?" El Ritch asked, curiosity pulling the question from his lips before he could stop himself.

Julian smiled faintly, his stick still moving across the snowy surface. "A story," he said, his tone almost wistful. "A story of when gods walked among men and beasts. But that," he added, standing and brushing snow from his hands, "is a story for later."