"This sun… it's a little too bright."
Faen raised a hand and rubbed hard at his eyes with the back of it, as though he could block out the overly dazzling light that way.
He sniffed, his voice carrying a faint rasp of complaint, as if the tears gathering in his eyes were nothing more than irritation from the glare.
He kept that posture until the three figures had completely faded into three tiny silhouettes on the horizon—until they could no longer be distinguished at all.
The wind blew down from the north, carrying with it the chill of Dragon Valley's depths. It tousled his white hair and dried the last trace of moisture on his cheeks.
Slowly, he lowered his hand.
The forced ease on his face had long vanished, leaving behind a stillness that did not belong to a child his age.
...
He turned and walked back to the cabin in silence.
Creak—
The wooden door opened with a familiar sound.
Inside, nothing had changed.
Simple. Neat. Almost austere.
A wooden table. Two chairs. A crude stove.
Every object felt like an anchor to memory.
He could almost see Alfia seated in that chair, eyes closed, listening quietly to the wind. He could almost see her brow crease faintly at the noisy laughter of children outside.
He could almost smell it—the faint scent lingering in the air. Beneath the wood and dust was her fragrance: cold and refined, like a winter rose blooming atop a snow-covered peak.
He could almost feel it—the pressure of her emotionless gaze when he had done something wrong. That weight alone was enough to steal his breath.
Eight years of moments—arguments, bruises from training, silent dinners, the occasional awkward display of concern—
All of it surged back like a tidal wave.
Clear as if it had happened yesterday.
"Goodbye, Alfia."
Faen tilted his head upward, blinking hard in a futile attempt to force the warmth back down.
But this time, the tears would not obey.
They slid silently down his cheeks, dripping onto the old wooden floor and darkening it in small, spreading stains.
He knew better than anyone.
"See you tomorrow" had been nothing more than an illusion.
A lie he told himself so he wouldn't break down in front of them.
Alfia was dying.
An incurable illness—one that even the gods could do nothing about. A decay of the soul itself.
The price of the talent that had once made the gods jealous.
He also knew why she and Zald had left.
They would become Absolute Evil.
With what little life they had left, they would ignite the potential of Orario's new generation of adventurers—becoming the cruelest and most effective trial on their path to growth.
They would use their own destruction to compose a hymn of hope.
How noble.
How merciless.
He knew he could not stop her.
That woman was stubborn beyond reason.
Once she decided on something, not even the gods could turn her back.
And what right did he have to try?
A burden she had picked up from the wild?
A mere mortal who could not even receive a Falna?
He could do nothing.
Helplessness wrapped around him like a tightening net.
To watch the person you loved walk unflinchingly toward ruin—while you stood frozen in place, unworthy even to reach out,
It felt like a dull blade carving repeatedly into his chest.
Every breath tore at him.
For the first time, Faen understood what it meant to have one's heart ripped apart.
For an ordinary child, eight years of being raised might have blossomed into familial affection.
But Faen carried the soul of an adult.
Over time, something had changed.
He saw the pain hidden beneath her icy exterior. He saw the loneliness of the sins she bore alone.
Compassion and admiration had fermented into something else.
Something called love.
Even if it had always been a one sided thing.
"But…"
Faen clenched his fists. His nails bit deep into his palms, the sting cutting through his spiraling thoughts.
"I'm not in despair."
He murmured to himself, a wild and stubborn light flickering in his eyes.
"In this world, when an adventurer dies, their soul returns to Tenkai… Fine. Then I'll go to Heaven myself and drag your soul back."
"My system can summon beings from imagination… Then somewhere out there must exist a miracle—an artifact that restores life, a power that bends causality itself."
He would not accept this ending.
He had no right to drown in grief.
And no time for despair.
Alfia chose to fight in her own way.
Then he would fight in his.
...
Time is the fairest flowing sand—it waits for no one.
Seasons turned.
Spring faded into autumn; cold gave way to warmth and back again.
Six years passed in the blink of an eye.
The northern village remained as it always had—quiet and peaceful.
One morning, the cabin door opened.
A tall young man stepped out.
He was sixteen now.
His once-short white hair had grown slightly longer. The childish softness in his blue eyes had faded, replaced by depth and composure.
Time had sharpened his features. His handsome face carried a faint but constant distance from the world.
"Faen, off to train again? You're diligent as ever."
The neighboring blacksmith, hammer slung over his shoulder, called out with a laugh.
"Morning, Uncle Hark."
Faen gave a small nod.
He walked through the village, greeting each passerby before heading toward a familiar stretch of forest outside its borders.
It was his secret base.
His training ground for the past six years.
Though he still could not receive a Falna—still could not become an adventurer, he had not missed a single day of training.
He honed his body and technique in the harshest, most ancient ways imaginable.
Preparing for the day that would inevitably come.
Six years ago, not long after Alfia and the others left, the event that shocked the world erupted—
The Great Feud.
Passing merchants brought news from Orario.
They spoke of a battle that lasted seven full days—later known as the "Seven Days of Darkness."
To Faen, those stories were not distant legends.
They were real. A real deal.
He knew.
Alfia.
Zald.
Even the god Erebus, whom he had met only once—
They had completed their mission.
He knew Alfia had passed her will and hope on like a spark to the next generation of Orario's heroes.
But he would not allow it.
Why should your hope be entrusted to others?
Why should your sacrifice exist only to elevate someone else's greatness?
Faen grit his teeth.
The wooden sword in his hand moved faster, slicing through the air with sharp, whistling force.
He would change everything in his own way.
With his own will.
He would stand before her himself.
Defeat her properly.
And tell her—
Your hero can only be me.
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