Westmere Woods.

That was the name of the vast forest where countless magical monsters roamed and many forest tribes made their home. To outsiders, it was a place of danger and mystery. To those who lived within it, it was a living sanctuary.

Throughout history, there had always been foolish kings—men drunk on ambition—who believed they could claim Westmere Woods for themselves. They sent armies marching beneath the trees, banners raised high, convinced steel and numbers would prevail.

None of them succeeded.

Some never returned.

Others returned broken, muttering about voices in the wind and trees that moved on their own.

According to legend, the will of the Forest God still lingered within Westmere Woods, silently protecting it. Whether through beasts, spirits, or the forest itself, intruders were repelled again and again.

The tribes who lived within the forest might differ in name, appearance, and customs—Fruit Tribe, Wood Tribe, River Tribe, and many more—but they all worshiped the same Forest God. It was the one thing that bound them together.

At the edge of the forest stood massive stone walls and scattered outposts, built to protect the nearby human settlements from whatever might emerge from the woods.

Beyond those walls lay Leafrest Town.

On this quiet morning, guards in worn armor stood atop the western gate, struggling to stay awake. The forest was calm, and nothing had happened for weeks.

One guard yawned and rubbed his eyes before glancing toward the tree line.

"...Looks like I drank too much last night," he muttered. "I’m seeing someone walking out of Westmere Woods."

The second guard squinted.

Then stiffened.

"...You’re not wrong," he said slowly. "That’s a person."

They leaned forward, watching carefully as the figure approached.

"Probably an adventurer," the second guard said. "If so, just tell him to take the north gate. That’s the proper entrance."

But as the person drew closer, both guards fell silent.

The clothes were wrong.

They were simple, practical, and carried a distinct style—woven materials, natural colors, and patterns only worn by Forest Tribe people.

"...Oi," the first guard whispered. "That’s a Forest Tribe outfit."

The second guard removed his helmet nervously, revealing a canine-like face with upright dog ears twitching in alarm.

"A tribe person?" he hissed. "Did he get lost? Should we send him back?"

His voice lowered.

"I heard they never leave the forest. And if we hurt one of them, their entire tribe might show up later."

Panic began to creep in.

The figure stopped before the gate.

"Good morning, guards," the man said politely, smiling. "May I enter the city?"

The guards froze.

"...."

Silence stretched painfully.

Finally, one guard cleared his throat and tightened his grip on his spear—but made sure not to point it.

"W–What is the purpose of your visit?" he asked carefully.

The man tilted his head.

"Shopping," he replied simply.

"...Huh?"

Both guards blinked and exchanged confused looks.

The man seemed to think for a moment, then nodded as if realizing something.

"Ah. Right."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out two glowing blue mana stones, holding them up casually.

The guards’ eyes widened instantly.

Mana stones—real ones.

Before either of them could speak, the man pressed the stones into the guard’s hands.

"A small gate fee," he said with a friendly smile.

A few seconds later, the western gate creaked open.

The man waved lightly at the stunned guards and walked into Leafrest Town as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The guards stared after him.

"...Did we just let a Forest Tribe person into the city after getting bribe?" one whispered.

The other looked down at the mana stones in his palm.

"...What do you mean?," he said slowly, "We didn’t see anything."

He pocketed the mana stone.

And inside the town, Tyler White smiled faintly.

Leafrest Town was... acceptable.

That was the first thought that crossed Tyler’s mind as he walked through the western gate and into the streets. The town wasn’t grand, nor was it particularly poor. It existed in that middle space— functional, practical, and slightly worn.

The roads were paved with uneven stone slabs, polished smooth by countless footsteps and cart wheels over the years. A thin, dull mist clung to the streets, rolling lazily between buildings like a sleepy ghost. The morning cold hadn’t fully retreated yet, and people moved with hands tucked into sleeves or breath puffing faintly into the air.

Shops were opening one by one.

Wooden shutters creaked upward. Merchants swept dust from their doorsteps. Bakers pulled trays of steaming bread from ovens, filling the air with warmth and yeast.

Carts rumbled down the main road, pulled by beasts that looked like a cross between bulls and horses— broad shoulders, thick legs, and curved horns paired with long tails. Their hooves clopped heavily against the stone.

Tyler walked calmly among them, hands relaxed at his sides. There is a copper pot tied to his side.

As he passed through the street, voices drifted toward him.

"Did you hear the hero party suffered another defeat?"

"Yeah. I heard the princess had to interfere again. Used a magic cannon this time."

"A hero party that needs the princess to save them... aren’t they the weakest hero party ever?"

A few people laughed quietly. Others shook their heads.

Tyler kept walking.

He didn’t care much about the hero party anymore, but hearing their reputation crumble was oddly... satisfying. He doesn’t even understand why.

As he moved deeper into town, he noticed something else.

People were looking at him.

Not openly —just quick glances. A pause in movement. Fingers nudging companions. Whispered words behind hands.

Tyler understood immediately why.

His clothes.

He was still wearing garments made by the Fruit Tribe villagers — clearly giving foreign forest tribe vibe. The fabrics were sturdy but unfamiliar, the patterns too organic for town fashion. To city folk, it screamed forest dweller.

And forest dwellers were... complicated. Some feared them. Some outright despised them.

Tyler sighed inwardly, ’I should change.’

He scanned the street and spotted a clothing shop ahead. The sign was modest but well-kept, with elven lettering carved neatly into the wood. Without hesitation, he stepped toward the entrance.

A hand shot out and blocked him.

"Please stop."

Tyler paused.

An elf girl stood in the doorway. She had pale skin, sharp green eyes, and long pointed ears adorned with small silver piercings. Her clothes were neat and elegant— clearly the shop owner or at least someone important.

"We’re not selling anything today," she said flatly.

Tyler looked at her for a moment.

He understood.

It wasn’t about the shop being closed. It was about him. People wearing strange clothes. People from the forest. People who didn’t belong.

Tyler didn’t argue.

He simply nodded and stepped away.

As he turned, he caught a glimpse of the elf girl exhaling quietly, relief evident on her face. A faint smug grin curved her lips as she folded her arms.

Tyler walked a little farther down the street and entered another shop— smaller, noisier, and far less refined.

No one stopped him this time.

Inside, the air smelled of alcohol and old leather. Racks of clothes hung haphazardly, some folded neatly, others tossed carelessly over benches.

Behind the counter stood a dwarf.

He was short and wide, with a thick beard braided unevenly and eyes glazed with alcohol. A half-empty bottle rested beside the register.

The dwarf looked at Tyler once.

Then waved lazily. "Eh... take whatever ya want."

Tyler blinked.

"...Alright."

He browsed briefly, then selected an outfit.

A rugged red shirt with dark woven lines, sturdy enough for travel. Over it, he wore a sleeveless green vest that added warmth and presence without restricting movement. A wide leather belt secured the outfit at his waist, giving it a practical, battle-ready look.

He changed quickly, folded his old clothes, and returned to the counter.

Tyler placed a single mana stone on the counter.

The dwarf’s eyes sharpened instantly.

"..."

Tyler nodded politely and turned to leave.

Outside, the elf girl from the previous shop noticed him.

She froze.

He bought clothes? He has money?

Her smug expression wavered.

Then—

"STOP, SIR!"

The shout echoed down the street.

People turned.

The drunken dwarf came charging out of the shop, bottle forgotten, beard flapping wildly as he ran after Tyler.

The elf girl’s lips curled again.

’I knew it,’ she thought smugly. ’ He probably tried to steal. Probably didn’t pay.’

She folded her arms and watched, ready to enjoy the show.

The dwarf finally caught up, panting heavily.

"What happened?" Tyler asked calmly, genuinely confused.

"T-The money!" the dwarf gasped.

"Oh." Tyler reached into his pocket. "Was it not enough?"

He pulled out another mana stone and was about to hand it over.

The dwarf’s face turned pale.

"No! No, no, no!" he shouted, waving his hands frantically. "That’s too much! Way too much!"

The street fell silent.

"The clothes are only one silver!" the dwarf said, nearly shouting. "One silver! Not a mana stone!"

The elf girl’s jaw nearly hit the ground.

Tyler blinked.

"Oh." He tilted his head slightly. "I don’t have silver."

He gently pushed the mana stone back toward the dwarf.

"You can keep it," Tyler said with a smile. "Thank you for being honest."

Then he turned and walked away.

The street slowly resumed its noise, but the mood had changed.

The elf girl stood frozen.

Her fingers clenched so tightly that her nails bit into her palms. Regret surged through her chest, sharp and bitter. She bit her lip hard enough that a thin line of blood appeared.

She watched the dwarf return to his shop, clutching the mana stone as if it were treasure beyond imagining.

Her smug grin shattered into envy.