Warm sunlight filtered through the window, soft and golden. The world was quiet — too quiet compared to the chaos Ren remembered.
He blinked, disoriented. His body felt heavy, his mind fogged. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was.
Then, a familiar voice — soft, kind, and far away — echoed in his memory.
---
Years ago...
A boy no older than seven lay across his grandmother's lap, staring up at the endless blue sky. Birds danced above the rooftops of their little village, and the smell of freshly baked bread drifted through the air.
"Grandma," young Ren said, his voice small but determined. "I want to be strong when I grow up! Strong enough to protect everyone here… and maybe even be a hero."
His grandmother chuckled, brushing her wrinkled fingers through his white hair.
"Strong, hmm? That's a fine dream, Ren."
She looked down at him with gentle eyes — the kind that carried both warmth and sadness.
"But tell me… what do you think makes a real hero?"
Ren tilted his head. "Someone who defeats bad people?"
She smiled. "No, my dear. Heroes aren't just strong — they're kind, The world has enough warriors already. What it truly needs…"
She paused, looking toward the fields as the sun dipped lower.
"…is people who care enough to heal what others break."
Her words lingered in the air, wrapping around Ren's heart like a quiet promise.
---
A cough snapped him back to the present.
Ren sat up abruptly, gasping. His surroundings were unfamiliar — a small wooden cottage, the scent of herbs and broth filling the room.
"You're awake," said a gentle voice.
An elderly woman stood near the, her gray hair tied back with a clip. She turned toward him with a warm smile and carried over a small wooden bowl.
"You were out cold for a whole day — Eat, you'll need your strength."
Ren blinked, still piecing everything together. "Where… am I?"
"In my home," she said simply, setting the bowl in his hands. "The knights left the area yesterday. The village's still standing — what's left of it, anyway."
Ren looked down at his hands, remembering the crimson glow, the shockwave, the cold voice that had cut through the air.
"The woman…" he whispered. "The one with the pink hair. Did anyone see her?"
The old woman frowned slightly. "Some say she went toward the capital after the fighting stopped. Others think she vanished with the smoke. Either way, she's gone."
Ren said nothing for a long moment. Then he exhaled softly and nodded.
"I see."
He ate quietly, the rhythm of the spoon against the bowl echoing softly in the room. His body still ached, but his mind was steady.
He looked out the window at the ruined village. People were rebuilding — carrying wood, patching roofs, tending to the wounded. Ren's expression softened
He stood slowly, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "There are people out there who still need help," he said.
The old woman gave a quiet smile. "Then you'd best not keep them waiting."
---
Outside, the wind carried the smell of ash and renewal.
Ren tightened the bandages around his arms and walked toward the fields, his steps slow but certain. The fires had taken much, but kindness still flickered among the ruins.
And far away, a woman in crimson walked the lonely road toward the capital — her thoughts, for the first time in years, not on vengeance…
but on a boy who had dared to reach out to her.
---