Humans Can Never Stop Themselves from Committing Their Own Destruction

The hard black hooves struck the road of gravel and soil with a crisp, rhythmic clatter.

The view swayed rhythmically with the horse’s gait, yet ultimately, the village emerged clearly in the distance.

Low fences, humble cottages of brick and timber, the bustling chatter of villagers, and the carefree laughter of children painted a familiar scene.

The pervasive scent of livestock, mingled with the faint tendrils of cooking smoke, drifted on the breeze, completing this quintessential medieval tableau.

A gentle breeze, circulating around the black cloak, dispersed the overwhelming scents that might have assailed the doll, leaving only a subtle hint of rose.

The steady clip-clop of hooves carried them deeper into the village.

Her silver-grey eyes swept past the traditional blessings for travelers carved above doorways, finally resting upon the village’s sole tavern.

The tavern, though small, was more than adequate for the village’s sparse inhabitants.

A slender hand, encased in a white glove, deftly secured the black horse’s reins to a post outside before pushing open the tavern door.

Instantly, a cacophony erupted, a buzzing clamor reminiscent of hundreds of bees taking flight, assailing Sally’s ears.

Amidst the shouts, the playful jests, and the occasional angry roar, patrons laughed heartily, clinking their mugs and spilling frothy ale.

Under the dim, yellowish light, they shamelessly shed the burdens of their arduous lives, and… their body odor?

Oh, right, it was indeed body odor.

Though the Church’s influence had waned significantly in recent years, the notion that ‘illness stemmed from bathing, which opened pores and allowed sickness to enter the body’ remained firmly entrenched.

This belief had gained particular traction during the recent Black Death epidemic, despite being nothing more than a convenient narrative for Church officials to accrue wealth by “treating” the sick.

With such widespread endorsement, adherence to this belief only grew.

This, combined with the cohabitation of humans and livestock, and the prevalent lack of dental hygiene, contributed to the raw, untamed reality where medieval folk often served as hosts for entire insect families.

Skirting around the patrons with their greasy hair and potent masculine odors, Sally, cloaked in black, made her way to the bar and settled into a spot that appeared relatively clean.

“Boss, a glass of… fine apple cider.”

After a brief hesitation, Sally opted for what seemed, at least in this establishment, to be the cleanest drink.

Her ethereal, magnetic voice caused the chatter of nearby patrons to subside, their gazes furtively darting towards the black-robed figure beside them.

Even the tavern owner, momentarily flustered, paused his accustomed swiftness before pouring a glass of amber liquid.

The slender hand, still encased in its white glove, gripped the handle of the wooden mug—a vessel far too crude compared to her delicate form—and gently raised it.

Though the rustic mug reached her lips, the expansive hood effectively shielded her from the fervent, prying eyes on either side, revealing only a few strands of shimmering silver and a fleeting glimpse of pristine white.

And that faint, yet enduringly fresh, scent of roses that clung to her…

The breathing of those nearby grew noticeably heavier.

A sigh escaped her.

With a soft exhale, the doll set her mug down on the solid wooden bar, nodding faintly in quiet relief.

‘Thankfully, it’s rich in fruit notes and lacks that peculiar vinegary tang,’ she mused. ‘To find such a decent drink in a place this small is quite a pleasant surprise.’

“Boss, this cider is quite good…”

“Of course, my beautiful lady! This cider of mine is transported all the way from the great city of Renos, via the Roaever River! It’s only available for a few scattered days each month!”

The owner, a muscular man with close-cropped brown-black hair, twirled his mustache with a proud chuckle.

“It seems my luck is good then… This cider must be quite expensive, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not at all, not at all. Just two copper coins, only one more than usual.”

“Heh, forget the price of the cider,” she said, pushing the coins forward. “These few copper pieces are all yours. What I truly wish to know is… are there any interesting occurrences in this vicinity?”

Clinking and clattering, nearly ten brand-new Proania copper coins tumbled from the doll’s open hand, landing on the stained bar.

Their reflected gleam caught the tavern owner’s brown eyes, and those of the patrons nearby.

The doll had constantly pondered the meaning of her journey.

For fame and fortune? Such inconsequential matters held no sway over the doll; she had long since discarded any interest in them.

For wealth? That, too, held no meaning for the doll, who embraced a philosophy of sufficiency and possessed mastery over supreme alchemy.

After much deliberation, only two objectives remained: to infuse her life with intrigue and to unearth magical artifacts capable of serving as spatiotemporal anchors for her true self’s descent.

And so, with ample leisure, the doll established a central theme for this particular journey.

Leisurely adventure, coupled with a casual search for intriguing relics that had, by some stroke of luck, endured the relentless grind of history’s wheels.

Consequently, wherever the doll traveled, she made it a point to inquire about any strange or peculiar occurrences in the area, a habit that persisted to this day.

However, others held a different interpretation.

“Hmm… little lass, you’re not some runaway noblewoman, are you?”

Upon seeing the pristine coins resting on his bar, the owner, rather than swiftly pocketing the sum—which was worth more than a month’s labor—set down the glass he was wiping.

He approached the black-robed figure, leaning in to whisper to the doll, whose exquisite face was only partially revealed.

“You mustn’t do that,” he cautioned softly. “These gleaming coins will attract some truly fearsome wolves! Stay here for a while; wait until your escorts find you before you go.”

“What are you staring at?” the owner boomed, puffing out his chest. “This lady is under my protection now! Does anyone here wish to test the might of ‘Iron Fist Schock’?”

Sally, peering from beneath her hood at the bearded man proudly flexing his robust muscles, felt a wave of both amusement and exasperation.

‘Ah, he’s clearly mistaken me for some thrill-seeking noblewoman who’s run away from home,’ she mused. ‘Still, he’s genuinely kind… I’ll bestow a blessing upon him when I depart.’

“Schock! They may fear you, but I certainly don’t!” a light, arrogant voice suddenly declared from outside. “This lady’s horse kicked my subordinate—shouldn’t there be some compensation?”

A frivolous, arrogant voice suddenly echoed from outside the tavern, followed by the resounding thud of the door being kicked open.

A young man with golden hair, clad in chainmail and with a sword at his hip, strode into the tavern, trailed by several fierce-looking subordinates.

“It’s the leader of the White Eagle Mercenary Group!”

“What? The notorious White Eagle, who’ll stop at nothing for coin?”

“That’s them! Oh no! They’re looking over here! Pay up and let’s go!”

Faint whispers rippled through the room, and within moments, roughly a third of the closer patrons swiftly settled their tabs and exited the tavern.

Only those further away, or restless individuals whose eyes gleamed with the eager desire for a spectacle, remained.

“Aibute! Don’t imagine you can do as you please!” Schock roared, stepping forward. “Though I, Iron Fist, may have retired, I can still easily deal with a few youngsters like you!”

“No, no, no, you’re quite mistaken, Iron Fist,” Aibute replied with a smirk. “I’m not here to cause trouble. It’s simply that… this lady’s horse kicked my subordinate, injuring him. Shouldn’t she offer some compensation?”

“Exactly, exactly!” one of Aibute’s men whined. “I’m injured! Look, my arm is all bruised!”

Behind Aibute, a short subordinate clutched his left arm with a pained expression, but his eyes were undeniably filled with a greedy, cunning smirk.

What was more, Sally distinctly remembered him drinking right beside her just moments ago!

“So, Miss, shouldn’t you offer a little compensation to my injured team member?”

‘Oh… this kind of third-rate, melodramatic plot,’ she thought, a hint of sarcasm in her musings. ‘Will the novel’s protagonist suddenly appear to save me? And then I’ll be so grateful that I become his newest conquest? The thought is too beautiful, I dare not dwell on it…’

Sally let out a deep sigh, then slowly removed her hood.

“Rao would never intentionally harm anyone. He’s very intelligent.”

Hiss…

A collective gasp rippled through the tavern.

‘Oh, this idiotic noblewoman…’ the tavern owner screamed inwardly, yet he still stepped forward, intending to shield the doll with his body from the burning, greedy gazes.

Beneath the hood lay a face of unearthly beauty.

Her long, silver-white hair cascaded like flowing mercury, shimmering with a dazzling luster.

Beneath slender, gentle brows, a pair of soft, silver-grey eyes held a serene depth.

Her slightly pale, yet exquisitely sculpted, face was so perfect it could make most beauties cover their own and sigh in self-pity.

Even more breathtaking was the elegant demeanor that remained utterly unperturbed, even under such avaricious and fervent scrutiny.

Huff!

A chorus of heated breaths filled the small tavern.

Aibute, who had moments ago been intent on demanding money, now found all thoughts of coin banished from his mind.

His head was filled with the same desire as most men in the tavern: to possess her! To possess her at all costs! To claim her! To ravage her! To conquer her! To pin her fiercely to a bed! To make her belong only to him from this moment forward!

Perhaps sensing the deep, burning malice emanating from those around her, the doll’s beautiful brows furrowed slightly.

“That’s why I didn’t want to take off my hood… You people, that is—excluding the tavern owner, of course.”

An inexplicable pressure began to emanate, yet the patrons, caught in a state of fervent obsession, barely noticed.

Only the tavern owner and a cloaked man in a corner of the tavern felt the oppressive force of her aura.

Dodging Aibute’s outstretched hand, Sally continued, speaking to herself, “And so, you… the White Eagle Mercenary Group? You’ve once again disrupted my plans for a peaceful rest… Ah, what can I say about you? If you don’t court death, you won’t die. Why don’t you understand that?”

“Who cares about your plans! Come with us quietly, Miss! I’ll cherish you fiercely! I’ll make you experience pleasures you’ve never known before, hehehe.”

Like a rutting dog, Aibute lunged at the doll, his mouth agape, his eyes wild with fervent desire.

“…Hopeless.”

A flicker of cold light finally appeared in her gentle, silver-grey eyes.

The next moment, pale flames ignited in her slender palm.

“Farewell, you death-courting leader.”

The white flames, invisible to ordinary mortals, suddenly erupted, instantly engulfing the entire tavern!

Clip-clop, the hooves of the dark steed sounded once more, though this time they carried it away from the small village, heading towards an unknown destination.

After a while, a figure clad in a linen robe followed in the black horse’s tracks.

“Strange? Why is there so much white ash in the tavern today?” Schock, the tavern owner, mumbled as he gazed at the scattered white dust on the floor.