Chapter 430: The Stranger with Crimson Hair
The Stranger with Crimson Hair
The cart jolted forward with a loud creak of iron and wood, the wheels sinking deep into the soft earth road as morning stretched slowly awake. Light poured over the horizon in streams of molten gold, spreading warmth across the earth and bathing every surface in amber and pale orange hues. Dust was kicked up from the pounding hooves of the horses, sparkling like tiny sparks held in the early light, and made the road seem to shine as if it were alive.
Surrounding them, the world breathed soft peace. Birds painted slow, sweeping arcs in the sky, the leaves of their wings sketching a momentary shadow that danced across the infinite fields to either side. The soft, happy cries of farmers rode from far away, voices caught and muted by the breeze, warm and human, flitting about the travelers’ ears like a soft memory of life off the road.
The cart was itself a testament to stamina. Wide and sturdy, it appeared to become stronger mile after mile, designed to bear heavy loads silently. The interior boasted long benches from side to side, each wide enough to accommodate fifteen, fifteen more if the passengers pressed together. The weight of the riders shifted smoothly with each dip and bump, swaying in harmony with the wheels, a soft harmony of motion and flesh.
Leon rode with his friends in a single, long row, hooded and cloaked, their presence dissolved into the subdued cadence of the wagon. Fourteen of them occupied almost the entire side, shoulders touching here and there, but each maintained their own inner, personal space. The air was sweet with the smell of hay and dust, combined with the scent of horses’ sweat and the subtle hint of roasted food from the market stalls they had walked past several hours previous. There was a silence around them, dense but not oppressive, blending into the muffled murmur of passersby and subdued conversation. Each weight shift caused the wooden planks creak under them, a dull, ever-present background to the relentless beat of hooves and wheels. Other travelers nodded against grain sacks around them, eyes half-closed, already snared in shallow sleep, their heads nodding against harsh burlap. The others murmured in hushed voices, exchanging words regarding harvests, market prices, and rumors drifting down from the capital, their sounds weaving through the wagon like faint echoes.
Leon leaned back, allowing his head to rest against the frame, his cloak loose and relaxed. His eyes dropped, half-closed, unfocused. The wagon’s movement was hypnotic, nearly sensuous in its cadence—the gentle roll, the consistent bounce with each wheel landing in a rut. Leather reins cracked sporadically, horses puffed, and wheels ground on dirt, all creating a slow, meditative rhythm. He listened to it, but not exactly, allowing it to envelop him like a lullaby reserved for the sleepless. His hands lay still in his lap, fingers touching the material of his cloak, sensing its weight, the warm softness against his skin.
A flicker of motion at the edge of his eye cut through the blur, sharp enough to cause him to raise his head. Color, intentional and impossible to look away from. His eyes trailed after it automatically, drawn without volition, until they rested on the man sitting just beside him. The one who had been standing there all along, hooded, silent, nearly a part of the wagon itself. The minute rise of his shoulder, the movement of his hand against the cuff of his cloak, small, private gestures that somehow brought the world closer, heavier. Leon’s heart skipped—not with fear, but a peculiar, intimate interest, a tension wound just under the skin.
At first glance, he seemed like any other weary traveler—clothes frayed at the edges, dust clinging to the fabric, the kind of person you’d pass without a second thought. But Leon’s eyes didn’t pass. They lingered, caught by something that refused to settle into ordinary. The hood shadowing the man’s face shifted slightly, and a single lock of hair escaped, brushing lazily against his shoulder. Crimson. Not the colorless red of rust, nor the dead streaks of dye—this was fire. Bright, burning, alive, catching stray sunbeams that broke through the wooden slats of the wagon. It wasn’t hair; it was an inferno contained, strands like molten flame dancing against the dull world.
Leon felt an odd weight settle in his chest, a tug he couldn’t define. His eyes followed the path of that fiery strand as though it was leading him somewhere he wasn’t quite ready to be. The man shifted, and the hood edged just so, allowing shadows to recede and show more. Eyes—crimson too, keen and unyielding. The ferocity in them wasn’t done on a whim; it commanded attention. The eyes and hair weren’t distinct details—they were hammered from the same material, flame given shape in flesh.
Even aside from the fire in his face, there was a distinguishable refinement. The white robe that fell across his form flowed with subdued elegance, its lines sharp and calculated. No dust of the traveler defiled it, no sloppy stitching gave proof of haste. The fabric flowed with him as if it knew his movements in advance. Broad shoulders, straight back, the carefully measured poise of a man who carried power in every step. And his face... striking, nearly disturbingly so. Perfect symmetry, angles chiseled with precision, yet not cruel—beauty that felt alive, too purposeful to be happenstance.
Leon’s heart beat faster, although he assured himself it was mere interest. There was something about the man that was drawn, a sense in which heat emanated not only from his eyes and hair but even from the air itself. He didn’t step back. He couldn’t.
Leon stood immobile, his body torn between recognition and incredulity, as if time itself had slowed to agonizing crawl. His breath caught, chest constricting with a jolting, choking heaviness, memories surging in like tidal waves he had never invited. Rias. His daughter. That impossible hair, that blazing red, the same burning scarlet in her eyes that had once been all the innocence and rebellion of youth. And before her—not before her, alongside her—the vision of his first wife danced in his mind, the woman he had loved with every shard of himself, whose loss had empty-nested him for years. Both bore that same impossible radiance, and now it stood before him again, mirrored in the face of someone he hardly knew.
His chest tightened further, each beat pulsating like a warning drum. What are the chances...? he muttered, a low, embittered question which his mind was unable to answer. The highway beyond receded and blurred, familiar landscape dissolving as his mind leapt backward, pulling him into the recesses of his own past he had long sought to keep sealed. Throughout all his years of roving, passing in and out of the lives of innumerable strangers, he had never so much as glimpsed hair this bright, this alive. Never—until today.