"They left..." Temorsth muttered, his voice sounding hollow as it bounced off the high, wooden ceiling of the empty living room.
'Because they had to,' a fierce, sharp voice echoed in his mind.
It didn't carry malice, but a cold, warrior-like intensity that he hadn't heard in four long years. 'They are going to a slaughter, and you are too weak to stand beside them.'
A second voice whimpered, 'They aren't coming back...' It was small, fragile, and completely drowned in muffled sobs. 'They left us behind. Just like the last time. Why does everyone leave us in the dark?'
'Calm down, both of you,' a third voice sighed. This one was entirely flat, analytical, and chilled with absolute logic, sitting perfectly between the two extremes. 'Your emotional spikes are destabilizing the seals. Keep your composure.'
"What do you lot want? Everything was fine," Temorsth whispered aloud, forcing his features into a calm, emotionless mask.
'Is it?' the fierce voice pressed, cutting straight through his denial. 'You act so nonchalant, pretending to be a normal four-year-old child. You play house, you smile, you let them tuck you into bed. But you are lying, Persona. You are lying again!'
'If you are out,' Temorsth thought coldly, mapping his internal world as he walked up the stairs toward his room, 'where are the others? Is everyone awake?'
'They're sleeping,' the sorrowful voice wept. 'They can't bear the silence in this house.'
"Young master, is there a problem?" Temorsth snapped out of his head.
A wooden golem carved in the likeness of a young maid looks up at him.
Her joints clicked softly, and her glass eyes tilted with an imitation of genuine concern.
"No," Temorsth said, his expression instantly smoothing over into a flawless mask. "It's nothing. I'm going to my room."
He walked upstairs, entering his bedroom and locking the heavy oak door securely behind him.
The moment the latch clicked, he dropped the act, his shoulders slumping.
'Why are you here then?' Temorsth demanded internally. 'Why now?'
'To wake you up!' the fierce one answered, his tone urgent. 'You are slacking. You think you have two years left before your body breaks down, but the world outside won't wait for your deadline.'
'No, I came to say... Order saw it...' the sorrowful one sniffled, trying to explain, but his pathetic crying made it difficult.
The analytical, calm voice stepped in to translate.
'Order analyzed their departure and wished to convey a warning,' the calm voice stated. 'The elven woman's presence was fluctuating violently. And Xalier...'
'Xalier was hiding—no, preserving his aura,' the fierce voice interrupted, a note of genuine respect bleeding into his tone. 'He is a true king. The strongest warrior I have seen since our reincarnation... no, even before. But even a king can fall.'
'He was scared...' the sorrowful voice whimpered. 'I felt his hand shaking when he touched our shoulder. He didn't think he would see us again.'
"What?" Temorsth asked aloud, the blood draining from his face as his heart turned icy cold.
'Order confirms the probability,' the calm voice explained softly. 'Xalier was saying goodbye. We are in danger, and we will have to find a different way to solve our...'
"Shut up... just shut up!" Temorsth slammed his small fist against his desk, his mature composure completely fracturing. "I don't need your calculations! I'm the face, the one living this life! Go back to the dark. Please. Just leave me alone!"
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over Temorsth's mind. The fierce voice left him with one final, sobering thought before retreating.
'We will go for now, but stop pretending, Persona. If you want to protect this family, this life, you need to stop acting like a child and become stronger. You are still so damn weak.'
'Persona...' A faint, sorrowful sigh echoed, and all the voices receded into the deepest recesses of his soul.
The shadows in his mind retreated, leaving the four-year-old boy sitting entirely alone in the heavy silence of his room.
...
The next day was no different from the others.
He woke up.
He trained.
He studied.
He ate.
He slept.
Then he repeated it.
Again.
And again.
And again.
At first, the isolation wasn't difficult to endure. His parents had left the sanctuary before, and they had always returned. So, he buried his anxiety beneath an unyielding regime of self-improvement.
His father expected a Beginner Sword Mastery. Every morning, Temorsth swung his wooden blade until his calloused hands bled and his muscles screamed.
His mother had left behind a library of books that filled entire shelves. Temorsth buried his mind within the parchment, consuming texts on Common script, Elven syntax, ancient history, and advanced Mana Theory.
Eventually, he even began studying Deep Speech—the language of the dead, his fathers tangue.
Ironically, he found comfort in it.
The dead never promised tomorrow.
The living did, and the living broke those promises.
...
"Aidana."
[Yes?]
"How far is the nearest kingdom?"
[Hmh, the system can answer that, but... Three hundred and forty-two kilometers from your current coordinates.]
"Oh."
A long silence followed.
"Aidana."
[What?]
"How many intelligent races exist in Ananterra?"
[Currently, the list is over six thousand recognized independent races.]
"Oh."
More silence filled the empty room.
Aidana answered not because she had nothing better to do... Temorsth had a System and even maids ready to answer these questions... but she knew the questions weren't important.
The boy simply wanted to hear another voice answer him.
'His mind is fragile,' Aidana's distant voice...
Far away, a shadowed space.
A figure observing through a deep purple system panel.
The child below continued practicing his sword forms in the courtyard, his movements mechanical.
'His reason sways.'
'Like a blade in the wind.'
'A pity.'
'Such a strong soul...'
'Such a fragile heart.'
...
Weeks blurred into months, and the leaves began changing color. The once vibrant green forest slowly bled into shades of gold and deep crimson.
Temorsth sat beneath the roots of the massive sycamore tree, waiting.
The shimmering barrier remained untouched.
The dirt path beyond remained entirely silent.
Every morning, he glanced toward the horizon. Every evening, he glanced toward it again, just in case.
'They should have returned by now.'
Temorsth froze. The voice was calm, cold, and entirely separate from his own conscious thoughts.
'Reason...?'
'Approximately forty-two days have passed since the projected return window,' Reason stated objectively.
Temorsth lowered his gaze, staring at the dirt. 'I know.'
'Then why are you still staring at the path?' He didn't answer.
Reason didn't press him further, and the voice simply vanished back into the dark.
Another month passed, and the silence became a physical weight. The house felt larger, the hallways longer, and even the food prepared by the golems began to lose its taste.
"Young Master, dinner is prepared." Temorsth looked up from his book.
The wooden maid golem stood exactly where it always stood. Patient. Motionless. Never tired. Never lonely. Never sad.
"Do you ever miss anyone?" Temorsth asked softly.
The golem tilted its head, its gears whirring faintly. "I do not understand the question."
"...Right."
Of course it didn't. It wasn't alive; its entire existence was built around rigid parameters and coded instructions.
The realization should have comforted him, but instead, it made a cold shudder run down his spine.
Because he wasn't sure how different he was from the machine.
Wake up. Train. Study. Eat. Sleep.
Follow instructions.
Repeat.
The thought passed, and so did time.
Winter arrived with a brutal vengeance.
Heavy snow blanketed the forest, and the training yard disappeared beneath a thick coat of white frost.
Every morning, Temorsth practiced his forms alone, his breath pluming in the freezing air.
Every afternoon, he visited the edge of the barrier.
Every evening, he stared toward the path beyond it.
The routine morphed into a desperate obsession.
"Can I leave?" he asked the head golem at the boundary.
"We cannot allow the Young Master to leave," the golem replied instantly.
"Can I leave?
"We cannot allow the Young Master to leave."
"Can I leave?"
"We cannot allow the Young Master to leave."
The answer never changed, but he kept asking anyway, hoping a glitch might free him.
'Something happened.' The voice was small, weak, and trembling.
Temorsth closed his eyes against the biting winter wind. 'Phobia.'
'Something happened to them,' the voice whispered.
'You don't know that.'
'Then why aren't they back? Why are we alone again?'
Temorsth clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth ground together. 'I don't know.'
'Maybe they're hurt...' Silence.
'Maybe they need help. Maybe they're trying to come home...' The voice cracked, dissolving into a heartbreaking whimper. 'Maybe they can't.'
Temorsth stood motionless before the shimmering barrier, his frozen hands clenching into tight fists.
'Stop.'
'Maybe—'
'Stop!'
The voice grew quiet, but the lingering terror never truly disappeared.
The seasons turned on a relentless wheel. Reason appeared more often, and Phobia appeared even more.
One analyzed his reality; one worried over his fears.
Neither left him alone.
And then, a third voice forced its way to the surface.
'Pathetic, you can't even let me sleep!'
Temorsth's training sword stopped mid-swing. '...Feral.'
'You spend more time staring at that wall than training.
No wonder we're still trapped.' The voice dripped with pure, unadulterated contempt.
'It's not a wall.'
'Looks like one.'
'It's a protective barrier.'
'Same difference.'
Temorsth ignored him and resumed his practice, driving his wooden blade through the air. Feral let out a harsh, mocking laugh.
'Weak.' Temorsth ignored him.
'Weak,' the voice repeated, sharpening.
"Would you shut up?" Temorsth snapped aloud.
'Make me!'
"..."
'If you were stronger, you could just make me after
that just crush that barrier and go find them!'
"..."
'But no... You are covering in lies!'
"Fuck off!"
From that day onward, the internal arguments became daily.
Phobia feared, Reason analyzed, Feral criticized.
Spring eventually arrived. The snow melted, vibrant flowers bloomed from the thawed earth, and the birds returned to fill the woods with song.
Life moved forward.
Everything changed—except the house.
The house remained dead.
More than a year had passed since his parents had walked out the door.
Temorsth stopped counting the days. Instead, he counted the absences.
The wooden sword cut through the spring air. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
His movements were flawless, precise, and practiced thousands upon thousands of times. Yet his mind was locked in a brutal civil war.
'They're dead,' Phobia whispered.
'Unknown,' Reason countered.
'It's been over a year!'
'Time is an unstable metric in the outer realms. That changes nothing.'
'Something happened to them! I know it did!'
''Interference is present, but the data remains insufficient.'
'They're dead!'
'No evidence to support or deny.'
'Will both of you shut the hell up?!' Feral snapped, his raw force silencing the other two.
A brief, heavy quiet followed before Feral directed his focus entirely onto Temorsth. 'If they're dead, get stronger and avenge them. If they're alive, then whatever is happening now doesn't matter. You still have to get stronger, Persona!'
Phobia froze. Even Reason went quiet.
Temorsth's hands tightened around the hilt of his training sword until his knuckles turned white. 'What?'
'You heard me,' Feral growled, sounding thoroughly annoyed. 'If they're dead, get stronger. If they're alive, get stronger. If they're trapped, get stronger. If they're hurt, get stronger. The answer doesn't change, Persona.'
Temorsth's jaw clenched. 'Strength won't solve everything.'
Feral snorted in deep amusement. 'Name one thing infinite power doesn't solve.'
Temorsth opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
'Exactly.'
Driven by a surge of raw, frustrated emotion, Temorsth brought the sword down in a devastating, unassisted overhead strike.
*CRACK* The sharp, splitting sound froze him in his tracks. A thin, jagged fracture ran right along the center of the wooden blade.
A profound silence descended over the courtyard.
Temorsth stared at the damage, his breath hitching. It was the sword his father had hand-carved for him. The sword he treasured above all else.
Temorsth fist clanched so hard his bones gave sound.
'Persona, calm down...' The one reaching to him was not the cold and calm Reason but the fierce and intense Feral.
'Persona,' Temorsth breathing continued to worsen.
How could it not, the sword he had meticulously maintained without a single scratch for three years now.
A single crack. Nothing more. Yet it hurt far more than any physical wound ever could.
'Persona, it's just a wooden junk, if it breaks, it breaks.'
Temorsth gasped; he was choking on pain.
'We will make a better one. I will make a stronger one.' Feral's voice didn't lose its intensity, but he was not shouting like usual.
Temorsth fist realeased as he brought the sword in front of him...
"Young Master."
The head golem approached across the stone courtyard. "It is time to eat."
Temorsth lowered the fractured sword slowly, wearily. "Understood."
He began the long walk back toward the house. It was the same path, the same steps, and the same mechanical routine.
This was just another day. Another meal. Another empty tomorrow.
Nothing changed.
No—nothing ever changed...
He reached the front porch of the massive hollowed sycamore, grabbed the brass handle of the front door, and pushed it open. He took a single step inside the quiet threshold—
"Son." Temorsth froze.
His muscles locked, and his body completely refused to move. No. His mind instantly revolted. No, not again.
He had imagined that voice before. He had heard it in cruel dreams, in fleeting memories, and in desperate, late-night hopes.
If he turned around right now and the path was empty... if this was just another malicious trick played by his own fracturing mind... he wasn't sure he would survive the despair.
"Son..." The deep voice cracked.
"Son, I..." The voice was laced with a deep, agonizing pain, heavy regret, and an unmistakable, overwhelming love.
Temorsth's entire body began to tremble violently. Still, he couldn't force himself to turn around. A single, hot tear rolled down his pale cheek, followed immediately by another.
"I... we..."
"We're so sorry, baby..." His mother's voice shattered into a sob. And with it, the emotional dam he had built over the last year completely collapsed.
'They... they are back,' Phobia whispered.
It was real, it had to be.
Temorsth spun around on his heel, his vision blurring instantly through a thick veil of tears.
There they stood, just beyond the threshold. His mother and his father. Their clothes were tattered, their presence exhausted, but they were standing. They were alive. They were home.
For a moment, he couldn't move.
He had imagined this too many times.
In dreams.
In hopes.
In nightmares.
Every time he reached them, they vanished.
Every time he woke up alone.
For that one agonizing second, nobody moved.
Then, Temorsth ran.
He didn't make a conscious decision to move. He didn't think about his forms, his training, or his pride. His four-year-old body simply reacted, sprinting across the courtyard.
His parents dropped to their knees, their arms throwing wide, and the agonizing distance of a year vanished in a heartbeat.
Strong, familiar arms wrapped around his frame.
They were warm.
They were real.
They were alive.
"Never..." Temorsth's voice broke, the word completely drowning beneath a torrent of violent sobs.
"Never leave me alone again...!" He clung to them with a terrifying, desperate strength, burying his face into his mother's shoulder and gripping his father's cloak as though they might dissolve into mist if he loosened his fingers.
His parents held him even tighter, burying their faces into his pitch-black hair.
"We won't," Xalier's voice rumbled, thick with tears.
The promise came instantly, without hesitation, and without doubt. And for the first time in more than a year, Temorsth finally allowed his fractured mind to let go of the control and believe them.
And for a little while, the voices were silent.