They circled the market stalls for a while longer. Adam paused at a weaponsmith’s cart, his crimson eyes scanning the rows of blades displayed on rough wool cloth. Swords, daggers, a few axes—all well-made, but nothing exceptional.

He picked up a longsword, testing its balance. His fingers wrapped around the hilt with none of the instinctive confidence they had when empty.

’Hmm... I’m not really skilled with swords,’ he thought, turning the blade to catch the light. ’Or any other weapon, really. I prefer using my hands...’

He set the sword back down with a soft clink. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

’Maybe I’ll learn some sword techniques another time.’

Isolde watched from beneath her hood, her pale eyes tracking his movements with quiet curiosity.

Adam moved to another stall—this one cluttered with strange artifacts, old scrolls, and items that glowed with faint, residual magic. He picked up a ring, then a amulet, then a small crystalline shard, holding each one briefly as his system analyzed them.

[Minor Ring of Protection - Common]

[Amulet of Weak Mana Regeneration - Common]

[Shard of Reflective Glass - Common (Broken)]

’Nothing interesting,’ he concluded, placing the last item back on the cluttered table. ’I thought I’d find some abandoned legendary cheat item, but...’

He let out a soft sigh.

Isolde’s voice drifted from behind him, dry and edged with observation.

"You seem to have quite a lot of money, buying thing after thing."

Adam glanced back at her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"Heh. Of course I’m rich." He turned, gesturing vaguely at the market around them. "In this world, you need money to survive. No gold, no supplies. No supplies, no life." He shrugged. "Simple math."

Isolde watched him with a strange expression, her pale eyes narrowing slightly beneath the hood.

"That’s true," she said slowly, "but money can’t solve everything. There are times when the strong prevail, no matter how much gold you have." Her voice dropped, carrying the weight of personal experience. "I’ve experienced that myself."

Adam glanced at her, his expression thoughtful. "Hmm. That’s also true. But there’s no harm in having plenty of money, is there?"

Isolde said nothing. She simply turned and followed him as he walked out of the stall.

Adam glanced at the sky, judging the position of the sun. "It’s time to head back. Ignis is probably bored out of her mind waiting alone."

They started walking toward the edge of the village, weaving between the sparse crowd of shoppers and merchants. The afternoon light cast long shadows across the dirt path.

Then Adam stopped.

His crimson eyes locked onto a group of figures near the village square—men and women in familiar uniforms. Solarian soldiers. Their armor was scuffed, their faces tired, but their posture was alert. One of them was questioning a local merchant, gesturing with a piece of parchment.

Adam’s hand shot out, gripping Isolde’s shoulder firmly. She stiffened, her eyes widening in surprise.

"O-Oi—!" she started.

"Detour," Adam said flatly, already steering her toward a narrow side alley. "We’re taking the long way."

Isolde’s voice dropped to a sharp whisper. "What’s going on?"

Adam’s gaze flicked back toward the soldiers. "Solarian soldiers. Right there."

Isolde risked a glance around the corner of a building. Her pale blue eyes narrowed as she took in the uniforms, the way the soldiers methodically questioned the locals, the scrolls and notes they carried.

"They’re investigating the massacre," Adam murmured, his voice barely audible. His internal thoughts churned. ’if they recognize either of us—this will turn into a disaster.’

He tugged Isolde deeper into the alley, moving quickly but quietly.

"We need to leave. Before the situation gets even more chaotic."

Isolde didn’t argue. She fell into step beside him, her cloak pulled tighter, her face hidden in the shadows of her hood.

Adam’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes darted toward the soldier approaching them—a young man, perhaps twenty, with a scar slicing through his left eyebrow and the tired eyes of someone who had seen too much already.

"Damn it," Adam muttered under his breath. "We’ve been spotted."

Isolde’s composure cracked. Her pale face, already flushed from the heat, went paler. Her hands trembled slightly beneath the cloak. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper—tinged with a childlike panic that seemed utterly at odds with the creature who had slaughtered an entire garrison.

"W-What do we do? What do we do?!"

Adam kept his expression neutral, though his mind was racing. "Act normal," he said through gritted teeth. "Follow my lead."

They turned.

The soldier stopped a few paces away, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His eyes swept over them with the practiced efficiency of someone who had learned to assess threats quickly.

"You there," he called. "A moment."

Adam inclined his head, his posture relaxed, his crimson eyes meeting the soldier’s gaze without flinching.

"Can we help you, sir?"

The soldier pulled a rolled parchment from his belt, snapping it open. A sketch was drawn there—crude but recognizable. Pale skin. White hair. Crimson eyes. A woman’s face, sharp and beautiful and utterly inhuman.

"We’re looking for a fugitive," the soldier said. "A demon. White hair, pale skin, red eyes. She was seen in this area recently." His gaze flicked to Isolde’s cloaked form, lingering on the hem of her gown visible beneath the fabric. "Have you seen anyone matching that description?"

Adam shook his head slowly. "No. We haven’t seen anyone like that."

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. His gaze shifted to Isolde, who stood very still, her face hidden in the shadows of her hood.

"I’ll need you to remove your hood," he said. "Standard procedure."

Adam’s voice sharpened, carrying a note of offended propriety. "That’s rather rude, demanding to see my wife’s face."

Isolde’s head snapped toward him. Her pale eyes went wide behind the shadow of her hood. ’W-Wife?!’ A flush crept up her cheeks, warming skin that had been cold for decades.

"My apologies, sir. But with the recent attack, we have to be thorough." He paused, then added more politely, "If your wife could simply show her face for a moment, we’ll be on our way."

Adam’s jaw tightened. His mind raced. ’Think. Think.’

"She has a condition," he said finally, his voice cool. "Her skin is sensitive to sunlight. She can’t be exposed for long."

The soldier nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on Isolde’s hood. "I understand. Perhaps we could step into that building over there?" He gestured toward a small, shaded alcove beneath a shop’s awning. "Out of the sun. Just for a moment."

Adam’s expression went still.

’Damn it. That’s... actually reasonable.’

He couldn’t argue without seeming suspicious. He glanced at Isolde, his gaze asking a silent question.

Isolde’s blush had faded, replaced by a tense, resigned calm. Her voice, when it came, was soft—almost demure.

"It’s alright... husband." The word came out halting, as if she were tasting something unfamiliar. "I can show my face. Just for a moment."

Adam’s eyebrows rose slightly. ’Husband...?’

The soldier nodded, stepping back to give them space.

Isolde’s slender fingers rose to the edge of her hood. She pushed it back slowly, revealing—

Red hair.

Vibrant, deep crimson, like fresh blood spilling across snow. It cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves, catching the afternoon light.

Adam’s eyes widened. His mind blanked for a fraction of a second. ’Her hair... it’s red?! What the—’

The soldier studied her face—pale skin, sharp features, crimson hair then nodded, stepping back.

"My apologies for the inconvenience, ma’am. Sir." He glanced at Adam. "You have a lovely wife. May your day be peaceful."

He turned and walked away, his shoulders slightly hunched, as if embarrassed by his own suspicion.

Adam stood frozen for a moment, his heart pounding.

Then Isolde’s voice drifted to him, soft and amused.

"Husband?"

Adam’s face flushed. He turned sharply, grabbing her arm and pulling her down the alley.

"Shut up and walk."

Isolde let herself be pulled, a faint smile still playing on her lips.

Adam let out a long, heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair as they slipped deeper into the winding back alleys. The sounds of the village market faded behind them.

"That was too close," Adam muttered, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Lucky they didn’t recognize me."

Isolde pulled her hood back up, shadowing her pale features once more. Her voice was dry, edged with disbelief.

"Are you really that famous?"

Adam glanced at her, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Of course I am. I’m so famous that every time they see me, they want to kill me." He shrugged, the motion casual, almost arrogant. "Those soldiers must be idiots, not seeing through my disguise."

Isolde’s eye twitched beneath her hood. Her voice came out flat.

"They may be idiots, but they nearly got us caught."

Adam waved a hand dismissively. "That was thanks to you, anyway." He looked at her, curiosity flickering in his crimson eyes. "How did you change your hair color to red?"

Isolde’s expression shifted—a flicker of pride beneath her usual guarded mask. "It’s my blood. I coated every strand of my hair with it. That’s why it turned red."

Adam studied her for a moment, his gaze thoughtful.

"Hmm. So your skill is truly remarkable..."

Isolde lifted her chin slightly, a hint of her old arrogance surfacing. "Of course it is. Who do you think I am?"

Adam held up his hands in mock surrender, a genuine smile breaking through.

"Yeah, yeah. You’re amazing." He paused, his eyes lingering on her hair—the vibrant crimson that had replaced the pale white. His voice softened, almost reluctant. "And your red hair... it’s beautiful. It suits you."

Isolde’s cheeks flushed. Her composure cracked, just slightly.

"A-Are you stupid?" she stammered, looking away sharply. "Praising me like that... I won’t be happy, you know."

Adam laughed—a short, warm sound.

"Sure you won’t."