Game Era – Lost Odyssey

Ji Xuanxuan stood by, biting her lip, her face clouded with gloom. After a long pause, she dropped the fawning smile she’d worn for Axel, pouting defiantly. “I’m not selling! No matter the price, I’m not selling!”

Axel blinked, puzzled. “Why not?”

“No reason—I just won’t sell! Give me back the contract!” She thrust out her hand, resolute. Axel frowned. “Are you worried I won’t pay?”

“If it’s for you, I’d give him away free,” Ji Xuanxuan said, her eyes reddening, tears welling up. “But I know you’re buying him to please her!”

Axel froze, his stern face softening into a mix of helplessness and veiled pain. “She’s leaving this place forever—do you still hate her so much?” he murmured.

Ji Xuanxuan’s resentful, aggrieved glare wavered, though she kept her lips clamped shut.

The two stood locked in a silent standoff, the square falling quiet.

Xia Feng, after his initial fury, frustration, and despair, calmed down, his usual nonchalant nature resurfacing. He grinned, teasing, “Hey, you two—I’ll butt in. Since you’re both fighting over me, how about hearing my opinion? Let me pick my own master?”

“No room for you to talk!” Ji Xuanxuan’s whip lashed out, but just before it struck his face, Axel snatched the tip, glaring at her. “Xuanxuan, he’s my slave now—you’ve no right to whip him! Eastern Market rules: once bidding starts, the owner can’t retract!”

“You haven’t paid yet!” she retorted, grasping at straws. Axel hesitated, then unhooked his sword from his waist and handed it over. “This Cicada Wing Blade’s worth at least seven hundred gold—call it collateral for the two hundred!”

“For her, you’d even give away your prized sword?” Her eyes brimmed, tears threatening to spill.

Suddenly, distant gongs and drums sounded, followed by panicked shouts: “Winged Folk! The Winged Folk are here! Hide!”

Axel and Ji Xuanxuan spun toward the noise, faces paling with dread. Almost in unison, they asked, “Where’s the city guard’s Artillery Corps?”

Curious, Xia Feng followed their gaze. In the eastern sky, a flock of white birds appeared, diving toward Eastern Market like giant swans. As they neared, he gaped—they weren’t birds, but people with white wings!

Nearly naked save for beast-skin loincloths, they wielded bows and carried quivers at their waists. A quarter smaller than humans, their bat-like wings—bare of feathers, just fleshy membranes—stretched longer than their bodies.

Pale as snow, their long hair shimmered gold in the sunset.

On the ground, people fled in terror while the Winged Folk glided leisurely overhead, their sea-blue eyes glinting with the calm of a cat toying with mice.

At Western Market, far from Eastern Market’s screams, haggling continued over petty profits.

Unlike the slave trade there, this market dealt in livestock—mules, horses, cows, sheep.

The air reeked of animal stench and coarse sweat. Buyers were mostly filthy livestock traders, servants of wealthy households, and a few farmers.

Amid these rough folk, a gaunt figure in a black robe stood out, his cloak shrouding him entirely, even his head capped with a dark hood. His exposed face was so pale it seemed translucent, bones and veins faintly visible beneath.

That pallor made his dark eyes—deep, light-devouring wells—stand out, lending an eerie edge to his otherwise handsome features.

He roamed the crowded market aimlessly, neither picking livestock nor seeking anyone, until he stopped at a remote horse stall. In a voice cold as ice, he told the vendor, “I want your Mao horse.”

The vendor gawked, glancing back at his securely shut stall—nothing visible from outside. Scratching his head, he asked, “How’d you know I’ve got a Mao horse?”

The black-robed man didn’t answer. About to refuse, the vendor caught his gaze and flinched, forcing a smile. “Truth is, I’ve got one, but it’s for Lord Abelard—not for sale. Plus, it’s untamed, unfit to ride. Look, there’s plenty of good horses outside—pick one, I’ll cut you a deal.”

“I want only that Mao horse!” The man’s eyes flickered faintly. The vendor’s heart raced, principles crumbling. “Fine, fine—but it’s got no bridle or saddle. You can’t manage it alone.” He opened the stall door.

Inside, a cage of thick logs held a striking horse—tall, snow-white, with long manes on its back, neck, and hooves, and a tail sweeping the ground. Nothing else stood out.

At their entry, the horse glanced indifferently through the bars, then resumed grazing, docile and tame.

“Open the cage,” the black-robed man ordered coldly. The vendor waved his hands frantically. “No way! It looks calm now, but Mao horses are smart—they play tame when trapped. Given a chance, it’ll bolt like mad. Once it runs, no horse alive can catch it!”

“Open it!” His tone sharpened. The vendor shuddered, fumbling with the lock, hesitating but ultimately yielding to some unseen force.

The cage swung open, and the Mao horse leapt out without pause—only to freeze mid-escape, blocked by an invisible wall.

“Beast! Down!” The man’s left hand splayed, fingers locking onto the horse’s head from afar. It thrashed and whinnied, unable to break free. Sweat beaded on the man’s brow as the horse kicked and leapt in place.

Abruptly, he dropped his hand. Freed, the horse charged him. He sidestepped its head, grabbed its mane with his left hand, and vaulted onto its back amid a flutter of robes.

The horse bucked wildly, swinging side to side. Clamping his legs around its belly, he clutched the mane with one hand while the other formed a strange gesture—middle finger bent—striking the air above its head. Each blow made the horse tremble in agony.

Soon, it stilled, pawing the ground unwillingly but no longer resisting.

The vendor stared, jaw dropped, muttering, “Mother of—first time I’ve seen someone tame a Mao horse barehanded! What’s your name, sir?”

The man grinned, a chilling smirk that startled the vendor. “Might as well tell you—you’re dead soon anyway. I’m Yin Han.”

Just then, chaos erupted from the east—frantic cries echoed. Turning, he saw white Winged Folk swooping toward them under a blood-red sunset. He smirked. “Perfect timing—saves me some hassle.”

The Winged Folk dove into Western Market Square like giant birds, snatching up stragglers with agile, ape-like feet. Despite their small frames, they easily hoisted people aloft, looting valuables midair before dropping them like sacks.

Resistance met swift arrows.

From above, they dominated; the unarmed crowd below could only flee.

The vendor, petrified, scrambled toward his stall—only to be yanked back by a sudden force.

Glancing back in horror, he saw the black-robed rider, fingers spread, gripping him from afar. Struggling futilely, he silently begged: Why?

As if reading his mind, Yin Han smiled faintly. “First, I can’t afford this horse. Second, you shouldn’t have asked my name.”

Before the words settled, the vendor flew upward, caught by a Winged Folk who stripped him clean. Released, he plummeted, screaming and flailing, smashing into the ground with a bang, a bloody mess.

A Winged Folk swooped at Yin Han like an eagle after a rabbit. Nearing his back, a blue flash blinded it, followed by a chill piercing from head to toe.

Sensing doom, it flapped desperately upward—only to split in half midair at a few dozen feet, raining blood and guts below.

“Kill him!” Several Winged Folk shrieked, loosing arrows. But the shafts slid aside near their target, deflected by an invisible spherical barrier, harmless.

One Winged Folk paled, shouting, “Trouble! He’s a dark mage! Don’t mess with him!”