The relaxing atmosphere at the dining room—the fire crackling from the hearth, dishes were all emptied and ices melting in glass cups—betrayed the question sprouted out by Arlene. “Who are you, really?”

  Wattyson choked on his water, “What do you mean ‘Who am I, really?”

  Arlene leaned to rest on the table. Her legs wiggled below. “Like… you have a lot of weird things around the house, and the storage—it had so many weapons.” Her voice hiked. “An-And you use magic without chanting. That shouldn’t be possible!”

  She pointed to his minimalistic style robe, saved for the gold trimmed. “Why do you have so many robes—all of them are identical! “She calmed her voice. “My mentor told me to seek you out. There has to be something… something about you.”

  Her hands pinched softly. “If you could, please… tell me about yourself? Tell me about you.” Her eyes fixed on him. She was eagerly waiting for him, pleading to him.

  Wattyson could see her hands, her skins coiled to the pinch harder and tighter. Her eyes softened with warmth, even though the desperation at hands. She was trying to be real, to be genuine.

  “I’m…,” his voice dragged trying to return her curiosity, “Wattyson.” He said lowly. He tilted and covered his mouth, somewhat awkwardly. “Sorry, I’ve never been studied this intensively before.”

  “Then,” she turned her gaze to the stacks of paper behind the hearth, “why do you have so many papers around? Are they your study on the ‘supernatural’? Are you a scholar on them?”

  Taking in deep breath, he scoffed at the label ‘Scholar’. “Yes, they are. All of them are about the supernatural, and are accumulated data I gathered.” He shook his head after. “And no, I’m not a scholar. I’m a… hunter of the supernatural?”

  “Why the question?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Arlene frowned, but was also bemused. She didn’t expect him to be open like that. Still, it didn’t really answer much. Perhaps her own question wasn’t specific enough.

  “Were you a part of an organization or institution or anything like that?” She turned back to him. “I-I’ll be honest; I’ve never heard of anything about the supernatural like ‘vampire’ during the Dark Lord’s quest.”

  Wattyson’s face changed into more solemn, and Arlene could feel the fleeting expression of someone who had seen too much or forced to grow up far too early.

  His voice hung low, so soft and fragile. “I was… I did something they didn’t approve of. I acted out purely for something in my own idea of justice. They didn’t agree with me and… they banished me.” He let out a small but forced chuckle. “For being too extreme they said.”

  Arlene retracted her hands, resting them on her lap instead. “I’m sorry.” She turned down to the table—those empty dishes and drinks. “Is that why you live in isolation? Because of the banishment?”

  “I…,” Wattyson shook his head, “No, there was something else. The can of mayonnaise tuna wasn’t made anymore. It was my favourite.”

  “What?”

  “I had it every evening when I went home after work. I always stopped by the general store for one. I’ve… searched tirelessly for them, but nowhere in west of Avalevd stock them anymore. I-I couln—“

  A loud bang rattled all the empty plates and cups on the table, came from Arlene slamming her hands onto the table.

  “Please do not speak of mayonnaise tuna like some HALCYON DREAM!!”

  Realising what she just did, she flustered and sat back down. Faking a few cough to compose herself. She spoke in a calmly manner. “So… where did you live before here?”

  Choosing to ignore the earlier outburst, he continued in a raised but monotone voice. “Bad’ur of Equilarum.”

  The name jolted in her like a whiplash. Equilarum didn’t exist. “That’s impossible,” she called him out, “That kingdom fell two hundred years ago. You looked to be in your mid-twenties.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  People who had lived long did exist. She had met them before, but they were usually older—in their late thirties. The only exception to those who lived far longer than a human lifespan were different races like the elves or dwarves. Wattyson looked to be human.

  He is human, right? She eyed him further. He was human.

  Wattyson stared at her like he was paused in time before shrugging. “I’m just a big fan of history. Probably got it mixed up.”

  She squinted at him. That kind of excuse wouldn’t hold up. Who would mix a kingdom that ended two centuries ago? She sighed, giving up the thought. It was already a miracle he was answering her. Best not to push it too hard.

  “Then… why the robe and staff? If you’re a scholar? Why those attires? Are you a wizard?”

  A loud thud came across her, startled her out of this relaxed room. She reached out to her sword nearby. Her eyes sharpened to him.

  Wattyson raised a foot on his chair, and arm raised higher than his head. In an exaggerated deep voice, he announced out: “I’m a wizard!”

  The display froze her before she could grab the sword. Her shoulders stiff, then relaxed. Her fight or flight instinct simmered down. Those who practiced magic were rare. Those with profession as a sorcerer, mage, wizard or scholar were even rarer. It meant they were trained in the art of magic, and could use it effortlessly. It lined up.

  However, her mentor, the greatest magic practitioner she knew, couldn’t use it without chanting. Wattyson could.

  “A-Are you really?” She straightened back in her chair.

  He whipped out his other hand and puffed his chest out, wearing a smug grin before defaulting to his usual monotone. “No. I lied.” He sat back down. “I just like the aesthetic.”

  “Then how could you use magic?!”

  The questioned bewildered him.

  She continued, “You could do it without chanting even! If it was me,” she stood and muttered to herself a chant in an ancient language. Wattyson could pick up a few words—they were one usually found in religious text.

  The chant went for a full three seconds then manifested a small orb of light itself behind her, it shined brighter than the light bulbs. She pointed to it, “I have to chant to create something like this! She recited the chant again, dismissing the light.

  Watching him glanced down to his palm, his eyes weren’t focused on it. There was something deep in his eyes and whatever their sight was, it wasn’t in this room.

  After a while, Wattyson finally let out somewhat confused. “I don’t know. I was taught to chant, yes, but after a while… I’ve just have been able to do without it.”

  He pointed to a cup and flicked upward. The cup lifted in response to the quick flick of his wrist. Lowering his hand and the cup settled back onto the table.

  The concept of magic turned upside down for her. The pinnacle of magic she once thought was possible to reach—her goal post—shifted further away. “Is there anything else you can cast?” She asked trying to find any semblance to relate to.

  Wattyson nodded. He twirled his fingers and flicked, rotating from fires to ice, ice to lightning, lightning to wind.

  Arlene awed at the sight. She could rapidly cast spells like that, but not with this speed—not without chanting. He wasn’t the Chosen One. She was. If that was the case…

  “Who are you really?”

  Lowering his finger, he relaxed his whole posture and looked to her softly and a hint of absent. “I don’t know…. But I am what I am.”

  The answer felt like a joke, but it wasn’t. He wasn’t doing it for any flair. Massaging her own forehead, processing the enigma before her. She muttered to herself, “Good heavens you’re serious.” She let out a sigh of surrender. “That’s all I want to ask. Thank you.” She didn’t get much. She got her worldview flipped instead.

  The two sat in silence at the dinner table. Wattyson was scratching his cheek lazily with a finger. He wanted to ask something of his own. Though seeing how troubled she looked, how the gears were turning in her eyes. He waited.

  Soon noticing how she just leaned and gazed to the ceiling. He finally spoke, “Aralynn.”

  “Arlene.”

  “Arlene. About the journey tomorrow, can we go where I want first?”

  She lowered her head to him. Her eyes glittered like stars. The idea of him asking that meant he was really on board travelling with her. “Of course! I already asked too much of you to join me. Where would it be?”

  “Tamare Village. You probably passed it on the way here. There’s someone I want to pay a visit to. She’s the village elder there, and she’s ill so…” He didn’t finish.

  Tamare Village… she didn’t pass through it. Her journey to the Red Grove today was through the wilderness and plains, not on road. Still, noticing the tension in his voice, he did have other emotions after all, even connections too.

  “Of course, we’ll make a stop there.” She affirmed. Her journey, though aimlessly at the moment, would take them far away from the Red Grove after all. There should be times to say goodbyes.

  A faint smile built on Wattyson. “Thank you.” He stood and stretched out his back, reaching for his staff to walk. “For now, get some sleep. You’ll sleep on the bed as we’ve agreed earlier.”

  He gestured, beckoned her to the bedroom. Arlene followed him.

  The two moved quietly and then readied themselves for the night. Showers were taken and clothes changed.

  Wattyson stepped to the living room’s sofa and dropped his staff, letting it tumble to the ground. He himself fell and slumped onto the cushy sofa.

  Just as he was readying himself for slumber, Arlene stood in his vision—she was wearing a light tan tunic. She did a small wave, “Goodnight, Wattyson.”

  A small silence stood, but Arlene expected it. Someone that gruff wouldn’t say it back to her. She turned and headed to the stairway to make for the bedroom.

  “Goodnight.”

  The reply stopped her amidst the stair as she looked back to the sofa. He was still slumped face first. A small smile crept as she resumed her flight. Maybe tomorrow onward, she wouldn’t be alone again in her quest.