As Henwell and Taitnt enter, the shopkeeper, a woman in her thirties, greets them warmly. "What can I get for you, sirs?" she asks, noting their distinguished attire and showing due respect.

  Taitnt gnces over the counter and casually selects a few cookies and pastries. After taking a bite, he gives Henwell a thumbs-up. "Not bad! For a small shop like this to make such tasty treats, it's quite rare!"

  Henwell also picks up a few pastries to taste. "Indeed, it's quite good. Let's buy more for the rest of the guys to try." With that, Henwell pulls out a gold coin.

  The shopkeeper looks a bit flustered. "That's too much, sir. We rarely deal using gold coins here..."

  Henwell waves a hand dismissively. "No need for change. Just pack enough pastries to match the value of the coin."

  "But sir, everything in our shop today isn't worth a whole gold coin!"

  Henwell smiles. "Consider the rest a reward for your craftsmanship."

  The woman expresses her gratitude repeatedly and calls over the man who has been busy working. "Dear, come help me pack these up and then take them to the sirs' horses!"

  The man responds in a gruff voice, keeping his head down as he works. Henwell occasionally picks up another pastry from the counter to taste.

  Taitnt turns to leave the shop. "Henwell, I'll wait for you outside!"

  Henwell acknowledges him with a casual nod, not saying much. The woman rushes to the back to fetch some freshly baked goods, leaving Henwell alone with the man. The shop falls into an eerie silence as neither of them speaks.

  After a while, Henwell casually asks, "Is this shop run by you and your wife?"

  The man, still with his head down, replies, "Yes, sir! This is a family craft, passed down through generations here in the town."

  Henwell gnces around, pacing the shop. "A century-old establishment, no wonder the taste is so good!" Then he turns to the man's back, "But you don't seem to be from around here. If I'm not mistaken, you married into this family."

  The man's shoulders tense slightly at this. "You've got a keen eye, sir. I came here more than a decade ago. After wandering for so long, I wanted a stable home."

  Henwell continues, "I noticed your leg seems to trouble you. Is it an old injury?"

  "...Yes, I broke it when I was younger and it never healed properly, leaving some issues."

  "Broke it? From a fall off a horse? You look like someone who's served in the military. Was it a war injury?"

  The man turns back with a cautious smile. "You're joking, sir. I don't have the courage for the battlefield."

  Henwell points to his arm, "You're left-handed? But your habits don't match. Did you injure your right wrist too? You're tall and strong, seems like you'd make a good soldier."

  The man puts down what he's holding and faces Henwell with a simple, honest expression. "You must be mistaken, sir. I'm the kind who wouldn't dare kill a chicken, let alone go to war."

  Henwell chuckles and shifts the topic, "What's your name?"

  "Sir, my name is Wona."

  "Wona, huh! You've invested quite a bit in this shop. Many parts look newly renovated."

  "It's a small pce, didn't cost too much."

  Henwell pulls up a chair and sits, smiling warmly at the man. "Wona, I think your shop shouldn't be called 'Fragrant Milk Biscuit Shop.'"

  "If you don't like it, sir, we'll change the name immediately!"

  "Hmm, it should be called 'Nailhead Biscuit Shop,' don't you think? Nailhead!"

  The man suddenly looks up at Henwell, his eyes shifting from confusion to shock, and finally turning cold, filled with murderous intent. "Sir, if I've offended you somehow, please forgive me. Just tell me what you want, and I'll compensate you."

  Henwell pops a dried fruit into his mouth. "Nailhead, do you think I'm someone you offended in your bandit days? Trust me, rename it to 'Nailhead Biscuit Shop.' It suits you! Renovate the pce, and I'll fund it—how does fifty gold coins sound?"

  The man hesitates, then frowns at Henwell. As he studies the tall, young man before him, something about him seems familiar. He knows his old nickname, knows he was once a bandit. They must have crossed paths before. Judging by his attire, Henwell seems to be from a noble family. Could it be during one of those odd jobs for the aristocrats?

  Fifty gold coins—wasn't that the price for a particur job?

  Suddenly, a realization hits him, the reason he had decided to leave his criminal life behind. As he scrutinizes Henwell, the young man's smiling face gradually overps with the bloodied, fierce grin of a boy from ten years ago.

  Nailhead staggers back, knocking over a shelf. "It's you!"

  He finally recognizes Henwell—the formidable youth who left a sting impression on him. Nailhead had sold Henwell to a sve trader for fifty gold coins. Now, ten years ter, the boy is alive and has found him. This is a vendetta, one that can't be undone with excuses or compensation. Henwell is here to kill him.

  Since the moment he sees the two outsiders dressed in casual knight attire, Nailhead remains cautious, keeping his back to them to avoid contact as much as possible. He carries the burden of being a deserter and has a history of crimes from his bandit days. He even colborates with some nobles, handling their dirty work and learning a few secrets along the way. All these factors make him live cautiously, even though he's traveled far to avoid any connection with those linked to nobility.

  But he never imagines he would encounter an old enemy. Nailhead calcutes the distance and notices the dagger hanging as an ornament at Henwell's waist, along with Henwell's towering figure. Plus, there's Taitnt waiting outside. Nailhead abandons any thought of a violent escape.

  After a brief pause, Henwell sees Nailhead hasn't made a move and stands up to approach. Nailhead suppresses his urge to act, waiting for the deyed judgment.

  Henwell reaches out his hand, and just then, two small figures come bounding in. "Father, we're back! We caught some fish and shrimp by the stream, come see!"

  Nailhead's eyes fly open as he turns toward the shop entrance. Two children, around seven or eight years old, proudly hold up their catch, strung together with grass.

  Nailhead doesn't speak; he just looks at Henwell with pleading eyes. Henwell pauses for a moment, then shifts his hand slightly to rest it on Nailhead's shoulder. He picks up the bag of cookies from the floor and walks out of the shop.

  As he passes by Nailhead, Henwell whispers, "You have until the end of the day. I'll come for you tonight. Wait for me at the town gate."