Leaving the Elven Kingdom felt strangely quiet.
There were no dramatic farewells this time, no battles waiting at the gates, no ships disappearing into distant horizons. Only a long road ahead and the weight of thoughts Henry could no longer avoid.
He crossed the elven border alone.
Beyond it stretched the familiar path that would lead him toward the place he had been avoiding for longer than he wished to admit.
Home.
To reach Verna, he followed the banks of the Knole River.
The River Knole was one of the great veins of the land. It flowed from the dangerous southern regions near the Demonic Territories, passed through the great gap in the mountains, and ran northward through several baronies before eventually reaching Verna and beyond.
For travelers, merchants, and soldiers alike, following the river was the simplest road.
For Henry, it was a road toward memories he did not have.
As the sun lowered and the sky darkened, he found a small clearing beside the river and decided to rest for the night. His mechacat curled nearby, its metal body faintly reflecting the moonlight.
But sleep did not come easily.
His mind was crowded.
What would happen when he reached home?
Would they recognize him?
Would they be angry?
Would they blame him for disappearing, for leaving them to struggle alone?
Or worse—
Would they look at him like a stranger?
Henry stared at the stars above the trees.
He had faced pirates, monsters, and death without hesitation.
But the thought of facing his own parents made his chest tighten.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
And he slept.
—
Morning came with cold air and pale sunlight.
Henry continued south.
He passed through two prosperous baronies along the way. Their cities were alive—clean streets, stable markets, and fields made fertile by the blessings of the Knole River. Children ran through roads untouched by fear, and merchants shouted prices beneath bright banners.
It looked like the world was healing.
But the farther south he moved—
The more that illusion broke.
The land began to change.
Green fields became dry.
The trees thinned.
The air itself felt heavier.
Then he saw it.
A massive structure stretched across part of the river like a giant scar.
A dam.
But not one built for prosperity.
Its waters were dark—tainted with the lingering corruption of demonic energy. A faint black mist rose from the surface, poisoning the lands around it.
The farther south the river flowed, the more it carried that corruption.
And finally—
He arrived.
Verna.
His barony.
His home.
It was worse than he had imagined.
There were no beautiful towers.
No thriving markets.
No gardens.
Only worn buildings, cracked roads, and land that looked tired of surviving.
Even the plants that grew here seemed to do so reluctantly.
The city carried the feeling of people who had learned to live with loss.
Henry slowed his steps.
This was where he had come from.
This was what he had left behind.
As he reached what should have been the center of the city, he noticed a crowd gathered around a raised stone platform.
It was not a festival.
It was distribution.
A thin man stood atop the stairs, handing out small cloth bags filled with seeds.
His clothes were old and worn, barely enough to protect him from the weather. His hair was rough and uncombed, and his body looked far too frail for the strength in his voice.
Henry stopped.
The man was speaking.
"These seeds are resistant to demonic miasma," he said. "They can survive where normal crops fail. Use them carefully. Don't waste them."
The people—few in number, but desperate—formed a quiet line.
Beside the stairs stood a woman, distributing rations and helping hand out the seeds. She worked silently, measuring grain with practiced care.
Something in Henry froze.
There was something about her.
Something familiar.
A feeling without memory.
He stood at a distance, unable to move.
Then—
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
Everything stopped.
The scoop slipped slightly in her hand.
She stared.
Henry stared back.
And suddenly—
Her eyes filled with tears.
Without another thought, she handed the scoop to the person beside her and began walking toward him.
Fast.
Faster.
Henry's heart pounded.
Some part of him wanted to run.
Some part of him wanted to stay.
Then he heard it.
A voice trembling with disbelief.
"Is that you…?"
She stopped only a step away.
"…Henry?"
His name.
Spoken like it had been carried in her heart for years.
Henry's vision blurred.
His eyes stung before he even understood why.
He tried to speak.
Nothing came.
And then—
She pulled him into her arms.
Tightly.
As if letting go would make him disappear again.
She cried openly.
"I knew you were alive," she whispered. "I knew it… I believed…"
Henry stood frozen for a moment.
Then slowly—
He held her back.
And for the first time since waking in a world he barely remembered—
Something felt right.
The commotion drew attention.
The frail man from the stairs came closer, confused at first.
Then he saw.
And his expression broke.
His son.
Back from hell.
Henry's father stood there, unable to speak for several long moments.
Then he laughed once—a broken, tearful laugh—and placed a shaking hand on Henry's shoulder.
"You took your time."
That was all.
But it was enough.
—
Later, they returned to their home.
It was a small building, worn by time and barely standing with dignity. The walls were old, the roof patched too many times to count.
But it was home.
They quickly cleared the small table and prepared what little they had for dinner.
There were no grand dishes.
No feast.
Just warm food made with care.
Yet Henry felt fuller than he had in years.
His stomach was satisfied.
His heart even more.
Through the night, questions filled the room.
Where had he been?
How had he survived?
What happened after he disappeared?
Henry answered everything he could.
About waking without memories.
About the kingdoms.
About the pirates.
About melarium.
About war.
About becoming a baron.
His parents listened to it all with expressions that shifted between disbelief, pride, and worry.
Finally, his father leaned back heavily.
"So," he said slowly, "you became a baron…"
He looked directly at Henry.
"And not just any baron. A baron of Verna."
There was no joy in his voice.
Only concern.
"You could have asked for any land," he said. "Better land. Richer land. Safer land."
A long pause followed.
"Why here?"
Henry looked around the small house.
At the worn walls.
At the tired hands of his parents.
At the city outside, struggling simply to survive.
Then he answered simply.
"Because this is my home."
Silence followed.
His mother smiled through tears.
His father looked away, pretending not to.
Henry continued.
"If I can help anywhere… it should be here first."
His father nodded slowly.
No more words were needed.
Then—
A knock came at the door.
Three sharp sounds.
The room fell quiet.
At this hour, no one visited without reason.
Henry's father stood slowly and moved toward the entrance.
When he opened it—
Someone stood there.