Pain. All he felt was pain.
Thinking back, he wondered why the Hunter had chosen the cannon, of all weapons. While he did feel some satisfaction in knowing that the Hunter believed himself so outmatched that a point-blank shot from the Powderkeg wonder-weapon was the best course of action, it still hurt terribly. He barely noticed that the pain from the cannonball—and the subsequent disembowelment, courtesy of the Hunter's right hand—was slowly fading away.
Of course, it was.
Ever since the Eldritch cuttlefish thing (he still struggled with the thought that it was a Great One) had intervened in his first death, wounds and pain had all but lost their meaning.
He had been grateful the first time around. Even if his body had been left in a questionable state and Aunt Annalise was never the same after the incident, he had still been thankful that his oh-so-short but eventful life had been extended—even if he was no longer the same. Now, he simply wished he had never caught the attention of the incomprehensible ones and had just died a normal death.
Slowly, he felt his body finish reassembling itself. As he sat there, he let his Insight wander. Unreliable though it was, Insight was undeniably useful, allowing the Knights of Cainhurst to completely isolate themselves from the unbearable—yet delectable—stench of blood.
Just as he concluded that he had landed in some kind of forest, his Insight picked up an unfamiliar presence. Further investigation revealed a man, seemingly in his late thirties… walking straight toward him!
With little time to react, he decided to play dead and prepare for an ambush. A quick check confirmed that he was still holding his Evelyn in his left hand and his Flamberge in his right—a perfect setup, in his mind.
Now, the man was close enough that he could hear his footsteps—until they came to an abrupt stop. Employing both his Insight and his hearing, he deduced that the stranger was slowly approaching him. A few steps away, the man halted, and the young noble felt a scrutinizing gaze wander across his person.
Then, he felt an outstretched hand reaching for his Evelyn.
Without wasting a second, he seized the intruding limb and pressed the barrel of the Evelyn under the man's chin.
"Has nobody taught you to leave corpses alone? Matters not. I would like to ask a few questions, if you wouldn't mind."
For a moment, there was only stunned silence—then the man sarcastically remarked, "Of course, it isn't as if I had any choice."
The young Vileblood felt irritation rise. Do these people joke about death, or do they simply not care at all?
Fighting the urge to shake his head, he said, "Very well. First question: where are we?"
"Well, at the moment? Somewhere in the Grimmlands, about seven miles north of the closest inhabited village."
Grimmlands? Most of the land surrounding Yharnam could be described as grim; however, if they were anywhere near it, he would have likely mentioned the city. The only conclusion is that I am far away from that hellhole.
He thought for a few seconds before asking the next question:
"Good. Second question: what exactly did you plan to do with me?"
"Nothing much. Just wanted to check if you were a Huntsman, and if I had time, I would have probably buried you."
Huntsman? What an odd name for a Hunter—that is, if he even meant Hunters at all. I doubt anyone could mistake me for a simple tracker of animals, given the Cainhurstian armor I am wearing. Something just doesn't add up.
Suddenly, he was rudely pulled from his thoughts by the man he still held at gunpoint.
"Well, if you're done, could I ask a question of my own?"
While running through potential lies he might have to tell, he answered:
"As long as it's not something outrageous, I shall answer truthfully."
"Wonderful. So, would you mind putting the gun away? It makes me a bit nervous."
His demeanor is unlike that of a servant of the Healing Church, nor does he seem to believe he is in any real danger. That means one of two things: either he has no intention of harming me, or—more frighteningly—he believes I am completely outmatched.
Nevertheless, it is probably best to show him this tiny bit of trust.
"Phew, thanks for that. So, I believe introductions are in order." With that, the stranger held out his arm and said, "Name's Qrow Branwen. And how may I call you?"
Seems like my best bet is that Branwen fellow. Using a pseudonym may be a bad idea in case we meet again, so I should probably use my real name.
"Vilhelm of the V—Cainhurst."
"Nice to meet ya, Vilhelm. So, I guess you're lost?"
"Indeed, I would be most thankful if you would lead me to the aforementioned village. But first, may I remove my helmet?"
"Sure thing. I've got no idea how you can see anyth—"
Whatever he had planned to say was quickly replaced by a surprised expression.
"Something the matter?" Vilhelm asked.
"No, nothing. It's just… I didn't expect such a face on my would-be killer. You really have to give me your skincare routine afterward. Anyway, if you follow me, we should reach the village before nightfall."
He clearly meant something else. While most people were surprised when they saw his face, Qrow had looked as if he had just seen a ghost. He had hidden it well, but not well enough. If only I knew what elicited such a reaction.
Once again, Qrow broke the silence: "Anyway, you're quite young for a Huntsman. Where did you graduate?"
"That is because I am no 'Huntsman,' as you call them. I am simply traveling the land and, unfortunately, strayed from my intended path."
"Really? Say, how old are you?"
"I turned eighteen last July. Is it important?"
"Yeah, somewhat. What do you think about becoming a Huntsman?"
The young noble watched as Qrow helped himself to his eighth glass of some alcoholic beverage. As soon as they arrived at the village, he had almost dragged Vilhelm into a building that, in hindsight, was clearly some kind of inn.
Disliking the idea of his only source of guidance getting too drunk to coherently talk, Vilhelm decided to break the silence:
"So, you mentioned that I should become a Huntsman? What exactly would I gain by following your advice?"
A sigh escaped Qrow's lips.
"Listen, kid, I'm not as stupid as I look. Normally, teenagers don't wander around in the most dangerous part of Remnant on their own. If I had to bet, I'd say you ran away from your rich parents for a reason that's none of my business. If you became a Huntsman, you could leave your past fully behind you and essentially become one of mankind's saviors. And besides, judging by your equipment and how you almost killed me, you've got all the necessary skills to thrive at the academy."
Running away from home? Do I really look so hopeless?
"You were wrong on almost all accounts. I have permission—if you can even call it that—from my parents to go off and die in a ditch somewhere. Currently, I am simply looking for a way back to Yharnam."
For a moment, Qrow seemed taken aback, but he quickly recovered.
"Well, if that's the case, you should still check out the academy. The headmaster has traveled all across the world. If anyone can help you get to that place, it's him. And it just so happens that I know the headmaster quite well. Tomorrow, I'll take you to him. Ah, but before I forget—do you want a change of clothes? I don't think that armor you're wearing is all that comfortable."
"I appreciate the sentiment, but you needn't worry—I have some spare clothes with me."
"Well, in that case, you should head to your room. We'll leave as early as possible, so you'd best get some sleep. Don't worry, I already paid for your room."
"You have my thanks, Mister Branwen. I wish you a good night's rest."
Qrow patiently waited until Vilhelm ascended the stairs to the rooms before quietly pulling out his scroll. After tapping a few buttons, a voice called out from it.
"Ah, Qrow, it's been a while. So, what did you find?"
"Listen, Oz, forget about the mission—I found another silver-eyed warrior."
With a sigh, Vilhelm removed the ornate decorations from his knightly coat. He had caught a glimpse of the clothes everyone seemed to wear, and while he lamented the fact that nearly everyone dressed in simple, undecorated garments, he would rather not draw any unwanted attention. Without the ornaments, the coat retained only its expensive stitching—a small consolation.
Trying to distract himself from the depressing sight, he wondered when the last time was that he had been allowed to sleep.
As he stripped off his armor, he handed the pieces to his messengers, who happily accepted them before vanishing into the ground. Dressing himself in his simplified knight's garb, he sat in a chair and, while lost in thought about his situation, waited for morning to come.