After Rejection, she crawled to my feet for forgiveness

Arriving at the borderline

Meanwhile, at a mountainous landscape. A helicopter landed gracefully, Norman, Bethany and two other escorts stepped out. The Mountains were a little farther, crossing the territory of both nations. So technically they were still in Valkoria, about 20 ft away from Eldrida.

Norman sighed deeply, staring at the mountains. About to climb up before a noise caught his attention. He heard angry voices echoing down the dirt path. He turned to see a group of seven men surrounding an elderly villager. The old man was holding onto a small wooden crate, his knuckles white from gripping it so tightly.

“Come on, old man,” one of them sneered, his tone dripping with menace. “Hand it over. Don’t make this difficult.”

“These are my supplies!” the old man protested, his voice trembling. “Materials for my clothing shop. I’ve been waiting weeks for this delivery. My name’s even written on the box! You’ve got the wrong person.”

The apparent leader of the group chuckled darkly, taking a step closer. “Wrong? Do we look like we care about some labels? Hand it over, or you’ll regret it.”

The old man hesitated, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t belong here, do you? You’re not from this village. Who are you?”

The leader’s grin faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked it. “We’re locals, just like you. What, you don’t recognize your neighbors?”

The elderly man’s suspicion deepened. “Neighbors? I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’ve never seen your faces. What’s going on here?”

Annoyed by his persistence, another man grabbed the old man by the collar and yanked him forward. “You’re asking too many questions. Maybe you need a lesson in minding your own business!”

The man yelped as he was thrown to the ground, his crate spilling open. Fabric and sewing tools scattered across the dirt. He scrambled to collect his belongings, but one of the men kicked the crate, scattering its contents further.

“Stop it!” the old man cried. “Please, don’t do this!”

The leader crouched down, grabbing the man by the chin. “Listen closely, old man. You’re lucky we’re in a hurry. Otherwise, we’d teach you a real lesson. Now keep quiet, or you’ll regret it.”

As the group began to loot the scattered goods, another villager approached cautiously. “Hey! Leave him alone!”

The spies turned toward the new arrival, their eyes narrowing. “And who’s this hero?” one of them taunted.

The villager balled his fists. “You don’t belong here. You’re not locals, are you?”

The leader’s grin faded entirely. “You’re pretty bold for someone unarmed. Maybe you need to learn what happens to meddlers.”

Two of the men moved toward the new villager, who tried to back away, but they were faster. They knocked him down with a hard punch to the gut, and he crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain.

The old man watched in horror. “Stop this! Do you think you'll get away with this? The Executioner will punish you!”

At the mention of the Executioner, the group hesitated briefly, their leader glancing toward the mountain range. Then he smirked. “The Executioner? In this remote village? Don’t make me laugh. He’s not some all-seeing god. Now, shut up and stay down.”

But before the group could continue, a cold voice cut through the air like a blade.

“What was that about omnipresent gods?”

The men froze, the leader spinning around to face the source of the voice. His face paled as his eyes landed on the figure standing in the shadow of the mountains.

Norman stepped into the light, his piercing gaze locked on the group. His presence was imposing, his reputation far preceding him.

“The Executioner!” the leader stammered, his bravado crumbling.