The village of Oakhaven lay nestled in a shallow fold of the rolling foothills that marked the Deepwood's edge, a small, peaceful island in a sea of ancient trees. Its cottages were humble, built of rough-hewn timber and fieldstone, their thatched roofs patched and weathered. Thin plumes of woodsmoke curled lazily into the bright morning sky from a dozen chimneys, carrying the comforting scents of baking bread and burning oak. A few chickens scratched in the dusty yards, and a solitary, sway-backed cow mooed mournfully from a small, fenced pasture. It was the picture of rustic tranquility, a world away from the horrors of the Labyrinth and the unnatural stillness of the unwarded valley.
For Gregor, Lyra, and Renn, the sight was almost overwhelming. They stood at the edge of the treeline, gazing down at the village with a mixture of disbelief, profound relief, and a lingering, bone-deep weariness. It was real. Civilization. Safety. Or at least, the promise of it.
"It's… beautiful," Lyra whispered, tears streaming freely now, no longer of fear or exhaustion, but of raw, unadulterated hope. She gripped Renn's hand tightly, and he squeezed back, a watery smile on his face.
Gregor let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension that had been coiled in his shoulders for days finally beginning to unwind, just a little. He looked at the peaceful scene, then back at the dark, brooding line of the Valgothian Deepwood behind them. They had made it. They had actually made it.
Saitama, however, was already halfway down the gentle slope leading towards the village, his pace quickening, his gaze fixed on the nearest cottage with an almost predatory intensity. "Pancakes!" he declared, his voice carrying clearly back to them. "I smell… something vaguely pancake-adjacent! Or maybe just… bread! Bread is good! With butter! And jam!"
"Saitama, wait!" Gregor called out, hurrying after him, Lyra and Renn stumbling to keep up. "We can't just… barge in! We look… well, we look like we've been dragged through seven hells backwards." He gestured to their tattered, filthy clothes, their grime-streaked faces, his own unkempt beard. "They'll think we're bandits. Or worse."
Saitama paused, looking down at his own dusty, slightly gore-stained yellow jumpsuit and tattered white cape. "Huh. Guess I could use a wash. And maybe a new cape. This one's got a hole in it." He pointed to a small rip near the hem. "Drafty."
As they reached the outskirts of Oakhaven, the first signs of life emerged. An old woman, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, peered at them suspiciously from the doorway of her cottage, a stout wooden ladle held defensively in her hand. A gaggle of small, dirt-streaked children, who had been playing a game with stones in the dusty road, stopped abruptly, their eyes wide, staring at the strange newcomers, especially the bald man in the bright yellow suit. A scruffy dog began to bark furiously from behind a low fence.
"See?" Gregor muttered under his breath. "Bandits. Or circus freaks."
Saitama, oblivious to the suspicion, beamed at the old woman. "Morning, ma'am! Say, any chance you know where a guy can get some breakfast around here? Pancakes, preferably? Or maybe some udon? I'm not picky. Just really, really hungry."
The old woman squinted at him, her gaze sharp. "Breakfast, is it? Dressed like that? And appearing out of the Deepwood like ghosts?" Her voice was raspy, suspicious. "What business have you folk in Oakhaven?"
Before Gregor could attempt a diplomatic explanation, a new voice cut in, firm but not unkind. "Hold, Mother Hemlock. Let them speak."
A man emerged from a slightly larger cottage near the center of the small village square – if the dusty patch of ground with a rickety well could be called such. He was tall, sturdily built, his face weathered by sun and wind, his grey-streaked brown hair tied back neatly. He wore simple, practical leather clothing, and a well-used longsword was belted at his hip. His eyes, a clear, intelligent blue, assessed the newcomers with a mixture of caution and curiosity. This was clearly a man of some authority in the village – perhaps the elder, or the local militia captain.
"Greetings, travelers," the man said, his gaze lingering on Gregor's salvaged sword, then on Saitama's unusual attire, and finally on the exhausted, frightened faces of Lyra and Renn. "You look like you've seen hard travel. What brings you to Oakhaven, emerging from the Deepwood at dawn?"
Gregor stepped forward, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible, though his appearance likely didn't help. "Forgive our intrusion, sir. We… we are escapees. From… from troubles deep within the forest." He chose his words carefully, unwilling to speak of the Labyrinth or the Maw to these simple villagers. "We've been lost for days, without food or proper shelter. We seek only a little water, perhaps some food, and directions to the nearest main road or town."
The village elder – for such Gregor assumed him to be – studied them intently. His gaze was shrewd, missing little. He noted their exhaustion, their fear, the haunted look in Lyra's and Renn's eyes. He also noted the strange, almost childlike obliviousness of the bald man in yellow, who was now trying to befriend the barking dog by offering it an imaginary biscuit.
"Escapees, you say?" the elder mused, stroking his short, neat beard. "The Deepwood is a dangerous place. Few who venture deep within return. What troubles did you flee?"
Before Gregor could answer, Lyra suddenly swayed, her face deathly pale. She would have fallen if Renn hadn't caught her. The days of terror and exertion, the brief adrenaline of escape, and now the sudden relaxation of finding a semblance of safety, had finally taken their toll.
"Lyra!" Renn cried, lowering her gently to the ground.
The elder's expression softened slightly with concern. He gestured to the old woman, Mother Hemlock. "Get her some water. And perhaps some broth, if there's any left from the morning meal." He then looked back at Gregor. "Your companion needs rest. And you all look half-starved. Come. We have little enough in Oakhaven, but we do not turn away those in genuine need, even those who appear out of the woods looking like… well, like you do." He offered a wry, almost friendly smile.
Relief washed over Gregor. He nodded gratefully. "Thank you, sir. We are in your debt."
Mother Hemlock, her suspicion somewhat abated by Lyra's collapse, grumbled but bustled off to fetch water. Other villagers, drawn by the commotion, began to emerge from their cottages, their expressions a mixture of fear, curiosity, and cautious pity. They kept a wide berth around Saitama, who was now trying to explain the rules of rock-paper-scissors to the still-barking dog.
The elder led them towards his own cottage, the largest in the village, which also seemed to serve as a sort of informal meeting hall. Inside, it was simple but clean, a single large room with a stone hearth, a rough-hewn table, and a few stools. Lyra was helped onto a straw pallet near the fire, and Mother Hemlock soon arrived with a cup of cool water, which Lyra drank greedily, and a small bowl of thin, but warm and savory, vegetable broth.
Gregor and Renn were also given water and a share of stale bread – the most delicious stale bread they had ever tasted. Saitama, after being assured that pancakes were not immediately available but that bread was a good start, devoured his share with gusto, declaring it "not bad, but could use more butter. And maybe some sprinkles."
As they ate, the village elder, who introduced himself as Eldrin, gently questioned them. Gregor recounted a heavily edited version of their ordeal – lost in the woods, attacked by beasts, stumbling through ancient ruins. He avoided mentioning the Labyrinth by name, the Shadow Walkers, the Maw, the Titan, or the true extent of Saitama's… abilities. He simply painted a picture of desperate travelers fleeing unknown horrors.
Eldrin listened patiently, his expression thoughtful. "The Deepwood has been… restless, of late," he commented when Gregor finished. "Strange sounds from its depths. Tremors. Even the beasts seem more agitated, more aggressive. And there are… rumors. Of dark-robed figures seen near the Labyrinth's old paths." He looked at Gregor sharply. "You were lucky to escape with your lives."
"We were," Gregor agreed, his gaze flicking towards Saitama, who was now trying to see if he could balance a spoon on his nose. "Very lucky."
Just as Gregor was about to ask about the nearest town, the door to the cottage burst open. A young man, breathless and wide-eyed, stumbled in. "Elder Eldrin! Riders! Coming fast from the southeast! Soldiers! Bearing the King's colors!"
Eldrin rose instantly, his calm demeanor replaced by a sudden urgency. "Soldiers? Here? So quickly?" He looked towards the window, then back at Gregor, Lyra, and Renn, a new, troubled expression on his face. "The King's men… what business would they have in Oakhaven?" He then looked at Saitama, then back at the escapees, a dawning realization in his eyes. "Unless… unless they are not here for Oakhaven at all."
His gaze fixed on Gregor. "Your 'troubles' in the forest… they were more than just beasts and ruins, weren't they, traveler?"
Before Gregor could answer, the sound of hoofbeats, many of them, grew louder outside, accompanied by the jingle of harness and the gruff commands of men. The village of Oakhaven, which had offered a brief illusion of peace, was suddenly at the center of a much larger, more dangerous stage. The ripples had reached them.
Saitama, meanwhile, finally managed to balance the spoon on his nose. "Ta-da!" he announced proudly to the room at large, oblivious to the sudden tension. The spoon promptly fell off. "Aw, man."