Reincarnated with the Country System
Chapter 275 - 275: "Where are they going?"

Elmwatch was the kind of village where nothing much happened—and most folks liked it that way.

Tucked between two green hills and nestled close to the bend of a bright river, it was a place of early mornings, quiet afternoons, and still, starlit nights. The houses were simple—whitewashed walls, wooden shutters, sloped roofs of thatch or red tile. Chickens scratched the dirt without fences to hold them, and every home had a small garden out back with onions, beans, or carrots pushing through the soil.

In Elmwatch, the days followed a rhythm as steady as the seasons.

On this morning, the sky was soft and gold, the air smelling faintly of dew and wild mint. A light mist still clung to the grass and the tops of the trees, but the sun was already warming the rooftops. Birds called to one another from the hedgerows, and a pair of rabbits darted across the road, stopping briefly before vanishing into the fields.

At the well in the middle of the village square, Breya the weaver bent to fill her wooden pails. Her gray hair was tied back in a long braid, and her hands moved with the ease of someone who had done the same task a thousand times. Jerrin, the hay-cutter, sat nearby on a stump with his whetstone, slowly sharpening his scythe.

"You hear the crows last night?" Breya asked as she poured water into one of the pails.

Jerrin nodded, his eyes still on the curved blade. "Too many. And they weren't flying right. East to west, not north."

"That's not normal," she said, glancing toward the hills. "Crows always know when trouble's coming."

Jerrin frowned and spat. "Don't say that. Not before harvest. It's bad luck to speak such things out loud."

Breya didn't argue, but she didn't take her eyes off the hills either.

Nearby, the blacksmith's hammer rang out from his forge. Every clang echoed across the square in a slow, steady rhythm. His apprentice, a broad-shouldered girl of maybe sixteen, pumped the bellows as sparks flew. The forge smelled of hot iron and soot, but the window boxes on the smithy still held red geraniums, lovingly watered by the smith's wife each morning.

Across from the forge, the baker's shutters were open, and warm bread smells drifted out like a welcome. Inside, a pair of boys were kneading dough while their mother shaped loaves and checked pies cooling on the shelf. One of the boys—Arlen, the younger—kept glancing outside, clearly more interested in chasing dogs than making rolls.

Down the lane, a shepherd led a small flock of sheep past the mill. The youngest lamb kept wandering off and had to be nudged back by a patient dog. At the same time, three village children were hard at work building a "fort" from sticks and stones just beyond the barley field. They had already stolen two blankets and a bucket from home and argued about whether to use the bucket as a well or a dungeon.

"Lila!" one of the boys shouted. "That stick's too short for the wall!"

Lila, who was the tallest and bossiest, rolled her eyes. "Then find a better one."

But a moment later, she stopped building and stood very still. Her sharp eyes were fixed on the horizon. "Someone's coming," she said, pointing toward the hills.

The other children dropped their sticks and followed her gaze.

Dust.

At first, that's all it was—a faint smudge of dust on the ridge, rising like smoke into the morning sky.

Then came the sound.

It started low and far away, like distant thunder, the kind you feel in your chest more than hear with your ears. The ground trembled under their feet. Not much. Just enough to notice.

In the square, Jerrin stood up straight. The blacksmith paused, holding his hammer mid-swing. The baker's sons ran outside, hands still dusted with flour.

Breya shaded her eyes with one hand.

The mist was burning away now, and with it, the hills came into clearer view.

And over the ridge, they came.

Lines of figures. Moving slowly, but steadily. Thousands of them.

"It's riders," someone said. A young man from the tannery.

"No," said the innkeeper, stepping forward. He squinted hard. "That's not riders. That's an army."

The word hit the village like a dropped stone in still water. An army.

The people of Elmwatch stood in silence, scattered around the square, outside their homes, along the fences. Some whispered. Some just stared.

The army moved like a tide—rows and rows of soldiers marching as one, their iron-black armor catching the light but not gleaming. These weren't parade soldiers. These weren't the kind who came home after two months of border patrol. Their faces were hidden beneath dark helmets, their cloaks rippled like crow feathers behind them, and none of them spoke. Not even once.

They didn't look at the village.

They didn't wave or smile.

They didn't stop.

They passed through Elmwatch like it wasn't there. Like the people, the houses, the animals—none of it mattered. It was a cold thing to witness. Even the children fell silent.

Behind the marching soldiers came wagons. Dozens of them. Most carried supplies—barrels, crates, weapons. But some were different. Heavier. Covered. One was completely sealed with bands of iron, and on its sides were markings none of the villagers had ever seen. Strange symbols. Runes that seemed to glow faintly, even in the light.

Overhead, a shriek cut through the air.

The villagers looked up in fear.

Heads turned skyward.

They saw them. Dark shapes circling above—winged beasts with long, narrow wings and riders on their backs. Not dragons. Smaller. Meaner. Like bats, or lizards with feathers. Their shadows passed over the fields, over the people, over the river.

"The sky-riders..." someone gasped.

They circled once, twice, then followed the army south.

The people of Elmwatch stayed where they were long after the last soldier vanished beyond the bend in the road. The dust hung in the air. The sound of boots and wheels slowly faded.

When the army had gone, the village was quiet again—but not peaceful.

The silence felt heavy, like the air before a storm. The villagers gathered in the square. Some argued. Some prayed. Others packed bags quietly.

Arlen, the young boy, sat on the fence and asked, "Where are they going?"

"To the port," said the old innkeeper.

"Why?"

No one answered.

Finally, Jerrin said, "If they are going to the sea, they are going to stop something... or to start something."