The silver moon had risen high, casting its pale, shimmering glow like drifting dust over the vast grassy plains. Shadows danced gently in rhythm with the cold night breeze, painting the land with a serene, almost romantic stillness.

Echo Shadow stood as if summoned from the depths of night itself—a figure woven from shadow and silence. Though his years stretched beyond a century, time had not touched his youthful frame, save for the quiet gravity in his stance, as if every step had been carved by storm and sorrow.

His features were honed with the care of a sculptor's final breath, and at his hip hung a dim, time-worn dagger—less a weapon than a companion forged by solitude.

Midnight hair spilled in unruly waves across his shoulders, veiling part of his pale, expressionless face. His eyes, vast and black as obsidian wells, were fixed on something unseen—yet they did not wander. They sank, deeper and deeper, like the still heart of a forest that remembers every silence.

At the western gate of Marozel Village stood the Echo Shadow, eyes fixed on a solitary figure. Marozel, in truth, bore little distinction from the village of Stone—save for the absence of a grand merchant's shop and the utility post that loomed like a totem in the latter. The same worn homes, the same layout in spirit, only rearranged and fewer in number.

A rustic man stood at the gate, bundled in thick, coarse wool garments of poor quality, nervously eyeing the late arrival. Thoughts of shouting or swearing flickered through his mind—yet the moment his gaze met the Echo Shadow's, those abyssal black eyes, he choked on his frustration. His fury collapsed into silence, replaced by suspicion and a quiet dread that made him shift uneasily.

The Echo Shadow remained still, composed, a faint smile playing at the edge of his lips. His black leather armor, embroidered with thin crimson thread, shimmered under the moonlight like flames licking across his shoulders. A silver sword glinted on his back, its hilt adorned with the engraving of a strange flower—one that seemed to hide a secret yet to be spoken.

The rustic man stepped forward, voice unsteady as he muttered,
"You... you're late. Aren't you afraid of angering the merchant?"

The Echo Shadow lifted a brow, his expression unbothered, as if the question were a child's jest. His reply came soft and cold, like a breeze slipping down a mountain pass:
"And what if he is angry?"

The villager faltered, caught off-guard by the indifference. He turned his face away, unable to withstand the weight of those unfeeling eyes, and murmured:
"Don't you fear for your life?"

A chuckle escaped the Echo Shadow, laced with mockery. His voice carried a sharp, amused disdain:
"Rats fear cats. But tell me—do lions fear cats too?"

The rustic man's face darkened. Anger flashed in his eyes, but he lowered his head and swallowed both pride and fury. The world was wide, and humanity its most adaptable creature. The weak learned to bow, and servants learned to survive by feeding on the power of their masters. He was but a servant—he had never raised his head before his own lord, and now sought to impose the merchant's authority on someone beyond such chains.

But the Echo Shadow was not like the rest.

He didn't move within the ladders of command, nor did he stoop before fabricated hierarchies. His words to the villager were not insults, but precise reflections of what was given. Compassion met compassion. Provocation was returned with silence. Disrespect, with deliberate diminishment.

It was but one of many principles that guided the Echo Shadow's path—rules forged in silence, sharpened by experience. Whether merchant or servant, noble or vagabond, the same rule applied: He would observe through those eyes, black as a bottomless sea, until your true self emerged—and only then would he respond in kind.

The servant bowed his head, as he had been trained to do, and gave a small nod.
"This is the cargo. Beware the beasts in the woods. The delivery must arrive on time. There is no room for failure."

The Echo Shadow cast a dispassionate glance toward the box, then replied with calm detachment:
"Keep it with you. I'll find a place to rest for the night. At dawn, we meet again—right here."