CHAPTER 432: SILENT PARITY

Silent Parity

Leon’s gaze rested on the hand held out before him, weighing, measuring, for the space of one heartbeat. There was no hesitation in the offering, no affected modesty—only a firm, unspoken assurance. The red-haired man’s fingers stayed open, waiting yet assertive, as if the mere act of extending them held within it the promise of his power. Leon closed the space between them, letting his own hand meet the others in a firm, unyielding clasp, a silent acknowledgment of parity. Strength pressed against strength, calm but deliberate, in a quiet exchange that said more than words could.

"Leon," he said, voice low but certain, carrying a subtle weight that hinted at experience. "Nice to meet you, Zetch."

Crimson eyes moved under the mottled light coming through the cart’s low windows, sparkling with a faint, elusive shine. Zetch’s lips relaxed into a gentle, almost mocking smile, easy and disarming, but the manner in which he stood hinted at depth of control, of power contained and not emphasized.

"A pleasure, Leon," he answered low and smooth, the tone pouring like liquid heat, slow, yet not to be avoided.

The cart lurched, a creak of rusty wood and metal as the wheels touched the bumpy road, and the cramped space of thirty-or-so passengers rippled with motion. Bodies shifted as one, some grasping for straps, others against each other in the cramped environment. The scents—smoky leather, hoof-held dust, a lingering whiff of hay on the air—mingled in a visible cloud before them. Every jolt and creak of the vehicle had made something between the two men—a handshake lingers longer than formality and then fades way—that felt quietly electric and intimate against the mundane chaos of the cart’s motion.

Leon let his hand fall lazily to his knee, the hood over his head casting his face in shadow. Beside him, fourteen of his companions sat in a long, unbroken line, their cloaks heavy and nondescript, blending seamlessly with the other travelers. The cart was built for trade routes, long and sturdy, with benches stretching along either side. Fifteen people crowded into each row, their shoulders brushing, robes tangling, and the faint scent of leather, smoke, and dust mixing in the warm, close air.

He leaned back against the wooden frame, muscles relaxing just a fraction, but his eyes remained alert. Once again, they drifted toward the man sitting next to him. Crimson hair that fell to shoulder length and was wild fell against him; it caught the sunlight that slipped in through the narrow slits in the cart walls, glinting with a life of its own. The man’s eyes, the same deep, burning crimson, held Leon’s gaze steadily—watchful, unreadable, but not hostile.

A pang hit Leon’s chest, sudden and keen. That hair, that sheen in those eyes—it was too familiar. Too close. His mind flashed to a sight he had long struggled to erase: Rias. His daughter. His first wife. The resemblance gnawed at him, unwanted, cutting through the peace he’d worked to sustain. He pushed the thought aside, but it lingered, a shadow at the periphery of his consciousness.

"Mister Leon," a voice broke the silence, light and teasing. Zetch’s words cut through the hum of the cart and the creak of its wheels. "Why do you and your companions keep your faces hidden? Shy folk, perhaps? Or..." He let the question hang, lips curling into a faint smirk. "...could it be you’re wanted men? Hiding from something?"

A ripple of laughter spread from a few nearby passengers, carried by the rattle and sway of the cart. Leon blinked, dragged back into the present. Surprise flickered briefly in his eyes, sharp and uncontrolled, before he masked it with a practiced ease. A faint, dry chuckle escaped him. "It’s not like that, Mister Zetch," he replied smoothly, voice calm, measured. "We’re not criminals. Just... a little shy. Nothing more serious than that."

His tone was relaxed, yet his pulse gave him away, calming only when he concentrated on the beat of the wheels on the road. The cart creaked along, the sun beating at unusual angles across passengers’ faces. Life occurred around them—whispers, laughter, the quiet scuffle of cloaks—but Leon’s thoughts were half someplace else, between the man sitting next to him and the specter of memories that would not disappear.

Zetch tilted his head, his crimson eyes narrowing as if trying to weigh the truth behind Leon’s calm exterior. "Ah," he murmured, the corner of his mouth tugging into a faint smile. "Shy travelers in cloaks. Quite the sight." His tone was light, teasing, yet there was an undercurrent of something sharper, something observant that Leon couldn’t quite place.

Leon gave a polite nod, his expression carefully neutral, betraying nothing.

But Zetch wasn’t finished yet. He leaned in just a little closer, his voice smooth but edged with insistence. "By the way, Mister Leon," he said, his friendliness in his tone almost disarming, "why are you headed to Vellore? Any particular reason?

Leon’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly. What the hell is this man so curious about? So many questions, so casually prying into a man’s life. He set his face to severe calm, letting only the faintest shrug show how he felt.

"Nothing so grand," he said evenly, letting his words fall like measured stones. "You’ve heard about the fighting on the borders. Our kingdom’s been tangled with its neighbors for years now. In smaller towns, families like mine don’t get steady work. I thought... perhaps moving to the capital might bring better chances. A new life."

He maintained his level gaze, but deep within, a small flinch of wariness was ignited. Zetch’s smile never faltered, but the fierceness in his stare implied he was committing everything to memory for future reference. Leon didn’t believe that smile was as soft as it appeared. Not completely.

Zetch’s crimson eyes lingered on Leon’s face, piercing yet unreadable, holding him in silence for what felt like an eternity. Leon met the gaze without flinching, calm on the surface, but inside, every instinct screamed caution. The system’s sudden inability to scan this man gnawed at the edges of his mind, a small but persistent warning that refused to be ignored.

After a long pause, Zetch finally let out a soft hum, his lips curling into a faint, approving nod. "I see. That’s reasonable."