I gently lifted Sylvie from the chair, careful not to wake her. She was so light in my arms, her green hair tickling my chin as I carried her to the bed and tucked the blanket around her small frame. The pendant I'd just given her rested against her chest, rising and falling with every soft breath.
I tried to crawl into my own bed right after. I really did.
But sleep wouldn't come. My thoughts were a storm — loud, spinning, vicious. Every time I closed my eyes I saw blood on cobblestone, heard the echo of that final right hand, felt the weight of everything I couldn't fix.
I had to move.
I slipped out of the room, closed the door with a soft click, and locked it behind me. The tavern downstairs was loud with midday noise — laughter, clinking mugs, the smell of stew — but I walked straight through it like a ghost, ignoring everything. The sun was high now, noon beating down on the streets as I stepped outside.
I just kept walking.
And the memories came anyway.
I could still feel that little girl's hand in mine right before the explosion — tiny fingers squeezing mine like I was supposed to be the one who kept her safe. I remembered the woman who sold everything she had, even herself, just to give me a chance to help. I promised her. I promised both of them. Her and her sister. All those kids…
I broke every single one of those promises.
My hands felt so small. Everything I tried to hold onto just slipped through my fingers like sand, leaving nothing behind but more bodies and more guilt.
I kept walking anyway, boots dragging heavier with every step.
Some hero I am, I thought, the words bitter on my tongue. Nothing but a fucking fraud.
Even with this second life, I'd told myself I could do something incredible. Be someone people could actually look up to. Protect the ones who couldn't protect themselves. Instead I just keep hurting the people I swear I'd protect. I keep failing like a bumbling moron.
I walked until my legs burned and my chest felt hollow, until I finally found an empty bench under a half-dead tree at the edge of the square. I dropped onto it like my strings had been cut, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
A long, shaking sigh tore out of me.
All I do is talk a big game. Make myself feel important. Try so hard to be the hero… when I can't even protect one single child. I'm a fraud. A walking lie.
It's amazing I can even live like this and not feel ashamed.
I feel like an empty shell. Like there's nothing left inside me anymore.
Even back in my old life I did nothing. Accomplished nothing. I had all the time and freedom in the world and I wasted every second of it. I could've done anything — anything — but I didn't. I just… existed. A coward then. A coward now.
I thought coming here would change me. I really believed it.
But nothing changed.
I'm still the same worthless piece of shit I always was.
And the worst part?
I don't know how to fix it.
I don't even know if I can.
-------------------
Lea Florence Monad
Most people know me by a different title.
The legendary Stalker.
Daughter of Valentinus Monad. Raised in the Monad Charity House, where lost children were given a second chance at life.
None of that mattered right now.
Because the man sitting on that bench looked like he was one breath away from collapsing.
I'd only noticed him by accident. I was on a self-directed hunt — tracking the latest abominations the alchemists had been cooking up in the undercity. My steps were silent by habit, presence dialed down to that of an ordinary passerby, when my gaze snagged on him.
He was hunched forward, shoulders curled in like the weight of the world had finally won. I slowed, then changed course.
As I drew closer he lifted his head just enough to notice me. Our eyes met for half a second — sharp golden irises catching the light — before he looked back down at his hands, like even that small effort had been too much.
I remembered him.
The young demi-human who'd walked into the Hunters Association all those months ago. The one who hadn't flinched when I stared him down. Same broad build. Same quiet intensity. He even carried himself a little like that masked boar I'd heard rumors about… but whatever. I shoved the suspicion to the back of my mind.
He looked battered. Old scars crisscrossed his arms in pale white lines, layered over fresher cuts that were still angry and red. A rough beard shadowed his jaw, and exhaustion carved deep hollows beneath his golden eyes. The faint metallic scent of blood clung to him — old and stale, like it had soaked into his skin and refused to leave. I ignored it.
Even slumped forward on the bench, he was a large man. Broad shoulders curved inward under a weight that had nothing to do with fatigue alone. His forearms were thick with the dense muscle of someone who fought often and survived doing it, hands rough with old calluses from gripping steel. The kind of hands that had swung a weapon far more times than they'd ever held anything gentle.
Dust and dried blood stained his clothes. The sleeve of his shirt had darkened where fresh blood had seeped through the fabric, but he didn't seem to notice anymore. His posture had the quiet heaviness of someone who had simply run out of strength to keep standing tall.
Messy dark hair fell forward slightly as he leaned over his knees, head bowed, eyes fixed on the ground between his boots like he was searching for something buried there.
Even exhausted like this, something about him still felt dangerous. It wasn't the wounds or the scars. It was the stillness — the kind you only see in someone who has faced death more than once and walked back from it every time.
And right now, that same man looked like he had nothing left.
I stopped a respectful distance away and spoke softly.
"You look like you've been through hell."
He scoffed under his breath. "You don't say."
Then he went mute again.
Silence settled between us, thick and heavy. The man stayed hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground.
I didn't leave.
"You're bleeding through your sleeve," I said quietly.
He glanced at the dark stain spreading across the fabric. "I noticed."
"Then why are you sitting here instead of getting it treated? You know that can get infected, right?"
He rubbed a rough hand over his face and let out a long, exhausted breath. "Because that's the least of my problems."
I studied him for a moment. "People usually come out here when they want to be alone. It's quiet."
He didn't answer right away. He kept staring at the dirt between his boots.
Noel paused. His voice came out low, almost to himself. "I tried to be a hero. Thought if I pushed hard enough, fought hard enough… I could actually make a difference for once." A bitter laugh scraped out of him. "Turns out I'm just a clown that's really good at falling for my own jokes."
I didn't interrupt. Something in his tone sounded too familiar — like echoes of my own past I'd buried years ago.
He kept going, words spilling out like he couldn't stop them anymore. "I kept trying to save people… but they'd either die in the process or just get recaptured again. I tried my hardest with the children. They're the most innocent things in this rotten world, and even then I failed." His fingers tightened together until the knuckles went white. "Every single time I think I finally did something right… something goes wrong."
I let the silence stretch for a few heartbeats, then asked softly, "Do you know what the Monad Charity House is?"
He shook his head, still staring at his hands.
"It's an orphanage," I told him. "A place that takes in children who don't have anyone left."
That made him look up.
"My family runs it."
He frowned, confused. "So… what?"
I crossed my arms. "It's obvious, isn't it? You want to protect children. Why not do it somewhere it might actually work?"
He stared at me for a long moment, like the words had to fight through fog to reach him.
"You're suggesting… what?"
I met his eyes steadily. "Establish a branch of the Monad Charity House right here in the city. You'd run it. You'd be the director — the one actually building the place where kids can grow up safe. Fed. Loved. Given a real future instead of the streets or the slavers."
He stared at me like I'd just spoken another language.
"You don't even know me," he muttered. "You just met me five minutes ago."
"I know enough."
He frowned, jaw tightening. "No, you don't." His voice hardened a little. "You just heard some guy whining on a bench. That's not someone you hand an orphanage to."
I didn't look away. "You're sitting here beating yourself up because children got hurt," I said calmly. "Most people wouldn't care that much."
"That doesn't mean I'm qualified."
"No," I agreed. "But it means you'll try."
He scoffed quietly, shaking his head. "You don't understand. I keep failing them."
"That's because you're trying to save them one fight at a time." I nodded toward the city sprawled behind us. "I'm telling you to build a place where they don't need saving in the first place."
That finally made him pause.
He looked down at his scarred hands again, thumb slowly tracing an old white line across his knuckles.
"…And the Empire just lets that happen?" he asked, voice low.
"If it carries the Monad name," I said simply, "they'll think twice before interfering."
Silence stretched between us once more.
He exhaled slowly, almost like he was testing the weight of the idea.
"…An orphanage, huh," he murmured.
His thumb kept brushing over those old scars.
"That's… a lot different from what I've been doing."
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AN
woo hopefully yall don't hate sappy stuff. Think next chapter will be the epilogue of this arc.
Anyways have a good day.