The wind rustled the grass gently, brushing cool fingers against Sarion's burning skin. He hadn't moved since Leif's boot tapped his shoulder—the boy's limbs still too heavy, his breath too shallow. But his eyes were open. Staring at the sky. Smiling faintly.
Footsteps approached.
Not Leif's. Lighter. Slower. A little uneven.
Sarion turned his head slightly. Mellisa.
She was still catching her breath too, strands of red hair sticking to her cheeks as she trudged across the grass. Her steps weren't hesitant exactly, but there was something reluctant in the way she moved. Like she was arguing with herself the whole way.
She stopped just beside him, crossing her arms awkwardly. Her eyes flicked away for a moment, then back to his face.
"…You did good."
Sarion blinked.
"I—I saw some of it," she added quickly, eyes narrowing defensively like she expected him to laugh at her. "Not all of it. But… yeah. You held your own. Kinda."
It wasn't exactly the grandest praise he'd ever heard, but coming from Mellisa, it felt like the sun had poked through a cloud. Sarion stared at her, blinking again—then gave a soft, almost uncertain smile.
"…Thanks."
His voice was hoarse, but the word came out steady.
He looked back up at the sky, but his thoughts were spinning again.
Held his own?
He remembered the fight too well. He'd given it everything he had—every ounce of strength, every scrap of instinct—and still, Leif hadn't even broken a sweat. The man could've beaten him blindfolded. Sarion had barely touched him.
And yet…
She praised me.
That had to mean something. Right?
Before he could think too hard about it, another voice cut in—light, calm, but unmistakably proud.
"You did better than when I tested you."
Sarion craned his neck up. Nin.
She stood nearby, her silver sword resting lazily across her shoulders. Her cool gaze met his, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"Much better," she added.
Sarion blinked again. Then… his mouth parted slightly in disbelief.
Nin. The Silver Sword. One of the greatest fighters in the world. A living legend. She—she—was saying he'd improved?
He couldn't stop the warmth that bloomed in his chest. Not just from her words—but from what they meant.
He'd grown.
Even just a little.
He wasn't standing still. He wasn't weak forever.
Sarion let out a quiet laugh, breathless but real, as he slowly rolled onto his side and sat up. His arms trembled. His body screamed at him to lie back down.
But he didn't care.
Because somehow, in the middle of exhaustion and aching limbs, in the middle of this strange, terrifying house filled with monsters disguised as people—he felt good.
He felt seen.
And maybe… that was enough for today.
Nin chuckled as she caught the look on Sarion's face—wide-eyed, stunned like someone had just handed him a crown and called him king.
"Don't look so surprised," she said, grinning. "You earned it."
But then her gaze shifted to the side, and her smirk sharpened as she caught Mellisa's expression—arms crossed tighter, cheeks puffed just slightly, lips drawn in a suspicious line. Trying very hard not to look jealous.
"Ohh…" Nin said slowly, stretching the sound like a cat toying with a mouse. "Don't tell me you're jealous, Mell?"
"I'm not," Mellisa snapped, a little too fast. Her face had gone pink. "Why would I be jealous of him?"
Nin raised a brow. "So you're saying you don't want me to say you did good too?"
"I didn't say that either—!"
"Because you did," Nin continued, voice mock-thoughtful. "Earlier today, during drills—you were sharper than usual. Focused. You almost looked like a real Fighter in training."
Mellisa's glare twitched, fighting a smile. "You're so annoying."
But her posture eased, and she tilted her head just enough to let her hair fall across her face—hiding the pleased look that bloomed there. Sarion watched her silently, a flicker of amusement and curiosity in his tired eyes.
Before the moment could stretch any further, a gruff voice cut across the grass like a blade through smoke.
"Tch. Stop pumping their egos, Silver Sword. They barely did a thing."
The old man had returned from the porch, hands behind his back, eyes like chipped stone. He cast a sideways glance at Sarion and Mellisa, then turned fully to the latter.
"And you, girl—don't let a few words go to your head. You still throw your lasso like you're trying to catch chickens in a windstorm, and your footwork's worse than a drunk mule on cobblestones."
Mellisa groaned loudly. "Why are you like this?"
Sarion stifled a laugh. Nin didn't bother hiding hers.
"Because if I was nice, you'd all be dead by now," the old man said simply, he then continued, "Get up. All of you."
Sarion blinked. "Where are we going?"
"Hunting," the old man said, glancing over his shoulder. "You think training ends when the sun dips? No. It ends when your arms fall off or something eats you."
Mellisa muttered, "Great motivational speech," under her breath, earning another laugh from Nin.
The old man just grunted. "Let's go before the good prey hides and the smart ones laugh at you."
Mellisa sighed, rolled her shoulders, and adjusted the coiled lasso hanging from her hip. She hesitated a second, then looked at Sarion.
There was something like... approval in her gaze. Maybe.
She looked away quickly, feigning interest in a squirrel.
Sarion stood, legs shaky but heart oddly steady.
The ache was still there—his body drenched in exhaustion, Leif's effortless beatdown still fresh in his memory—but the warmth hadn't faded. Nin's praise, Mellisa's look, even the old man's gruff attention—it all added up to something he didn't expect.
A step forward.
Small, maybe.
But real.
And his.
"Gather around," the old man said, planting his gnarled staff into the dirt with a dull thunk. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of command.
Mellisa immediately stepped in, lasso hanging from her belt, arms crossed but alert. Sarion blinked, confused, but followed her lead and stood beside her.
"What are we—?"
Before he could finish the sentence, a sudden gust of wind kicked up leaves all around them. Nin and Leif shot forward like arrows, weaving through the trees without a single word, their bodies a blur of motion.
Sarion barely caught more than a flash of silver hair and a streak of dark leather before they vanished entirely, swallowed by the forest.
"Wha—did they just—?"
"Yup," Mellisa said with a shrug. "Get used to it. They do that."
Sarion's eyes were still wide when he felt it.
A strange sensation. Like his feet weren't quite... touching the ground anymore.
His breath caught.
"Mellisa..."
"I know," she said, exhaling. Her boots were already a few inches off the dirt.
Sarion looked down.
So were his.
No push. No pull. Just a gentle rising, like the earth itself was letting go.
Higher.
And higher.
His heartbeat quickened. "Are we—?"
"Flying?" Mellisa grinned, though her voice was a bit tense. "Looks like it."
He turned to see the old man, still standing still... except, no—his robes drifted slightly in the air. He wasn't standing at all.
He was floating too.
No words. No dramatic wind or glowing runes.
Just... the air holding them like they weighed nothing.
Sarion's jaw dropped. "You're doing this... aren't you?"
The old man finally opened one eye, expression unreadable. "Took you long enough to notice."
Sarion gaped.
This wasn't normal. This wasn't even close.
He wasn't in a fancy noble carriage.
He wasn't in a dream.
He was floating.
Flying.
And it was only just beginning.
Sarion didn't realize how high they'd gone until the trees looked small.
Tiny, even.
The tops of them rustled gently beneath, like an ocean of green swaying in slow motion. Behind the house, he saw the village—a cluster of stone and thatched roofs nestled near the cliffs—and in front, was the forest, the open fields, glowing gold under the fading sun. It all looked like a painting, the kind hung in noble halls.
And he was flying over it.
No ropes. No mounts. No wings.
Just... air.
He laughed—sharp and startled, then again, louder. "I'm flying," he whispered, then shouted, "I'm flying!"
Beside him, Mellisa floated with arms crossed and an exaggerated yawn. "You're not that special, you know. I've been doing this for a while now."
"You screamed the first time," the old man grunted behind her.
"I did not!"
"You spun like a squirrel on fire and grabbed my leg the whole way up."
Sarion grinned, unable to stop himself. Mellisa's cheeks turned pink.
"Shut up, Gramps!"
"You call that respect?" the old man muttered. "Back in my day, kids who sassed their elders got thrown into trees."
"You did throw me into a tree!"
Sarion blinked between them, still stunned. "Wait, Mellisa... you were scared too?"
"I wasn't scared, I was just—" she glared at the old man. "I wasn't used to it, okay?"
He looked at her, then down at the world beneath him, spinning gently with each breath of wind.
His chest felt tight—but in a good way. Like joy was too big to fit inside it all at once.
"My father..." he murmured, eyes wide. "He could float... a little, just above the ground. He said that was already hard."
The old man gave a grunt of acknowledgment. "Rank 2. Yeah, that tracks. Not many get to feel this." His voice was rough, but his tone had softened. "Flying without wings... takes more than just strength. Takes control."
Sarion nodded slowly. "What do I call you?"
The old man raised an eyebrow.
"I mean... Mellisa's Mellisa. She calls you Gramps. I don't know what to—"
"Call him 'Old Wrinkle,'" Mellisa said sweetly.
"Call her 'Rope Rat,'" the old man muttered.
"Gramps!"
Sarion laughed, arms spreading slightly as he tilted through the sky. "Can I just call you, um... sir?"
"That'll do," the old man said. "Till you earn something better."
Sarion beamed.
The wind whipped gently through his hair, the sunset painting the sky in colors he never thought he'd see from this angle.
He was flying.
A real boy, in a real sky, surrounded by the most impossible people he'd ever met.
And in that moment—
He didn't feel small.
He felt free.
They floated higher as the breeze whispered past, soft and steady. Sarion still couldn't believe it. Each second was like a dream—too good to be real.
Beside him, Mellisa hovered quietly, arms loose at her sides, her gaze flickering toward him once, then again. Finally, she said, a little awkwardly, "You, uh… you don't have to call me Mellisa all the time, you know."
Sarion blinked. "Huh?"
"You can just say 'Mell.' That's what everyone calls me."
He looked at her, caught off guard. "Oh… okay. Mell, then."
A moment of silence passed.
Then the old man's voice cut through the air, dry as ever. "Well well… is the brat finally growing a heart?"
"Gramps," Mellisa groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Can you not ruin everything?"
Sarion chuckled, but then stopped as Mell did something strange. She turned slightly, facing the old man more directly, then lowered her head just a little.
"…Sorry," she said, voice quiet but firm. "For being rude to you earlier. I'll stop. I won't do it again."
Even the wind seemed to pause.
The old man blinked. "Well... Huh?"
"I mean it."
He scratched his chin, grumbling. "Tch. Fine. I'll… think about stopping the teasing too."
"Think about?! That's not fair!"
Sarion burst into laughter, nearly tipping mid-air.
The old man gave a snort that might've been a laugh, and Mellisa huffed, crossing her arms with an exaggerated pout—but there was a smile tugging at her lips all the same.
And as they flew through the open sky, the sun casting long streaks of gold across the treetops, Sarion felt something even warmer than the wind in his chest.
Not just wonder.
But something like family.
The trees parted, revealing a wide, sun-drenched clearing. Sarion's boots hit the soft grass with a gentle thump as the old man let them descend. He stumbled a little, then crouched and ran his fingers through the blades of green.
He had flown. Actually flown. Like an Arts User. Okay—through an Arts User. But still.
His heart thumped with awe.
"About time you slowpokes showed up," Leif's voice called out lazily.
Sarion looked up and saw him leaning against a tree, arms crossed, with Nin perched on a low branch above, legs swinging like she'd been waiting forever.
He blinked. "How are you already here?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
"They ran," Mellisa said with a shrug, landing next to him. "You'll get used to it."
"You won't," the old man grumbled as he touched down beside them, hands behind his back. "They're freaks."
"Hey, I heard that!" Nin called, grinning. "And I take it as a compliment."
Mellisa didn't waste time. "So why haven't you started the hunt already?"
Leif smirked, jerking a thumb at Sarion. "Because someone wanted to show off in front of the kid."
Nin gave an exaggerated wink. "We agreed—he gets to judge which of us is the better hunter."
"Wait—what?" Sarion blinked. "Why me?"
"Because you're cute," Nin teased.
Leif added with a grin, "And neutral."
Mellisa rolled her eyes. "This is dumb."
"It is," Sarion said, frowning. "I don't even know what to look for."
"Just trust your instincts," Nin said, hopping down from the tree with a twirl. "That serious little face of yours will do great."
"Don't let them rope you in, boy," the old man said—and then immediately grinned. "Though this should be very entertaining."
"Gramps, you're the one encouraging them!"
"I didn't say I was a good role model," the old man muttered, stroking his beard.
Sarion let out a long sigh.
Somehow, things kept getting weirder. And louder.
But… not bad.
Not bad at all.
Without realizing it, Sarion had started talking more. Laughing, even. Responding without hesitating. Just being… part of the group.
Not a guest. Not a burden.
Just there.
He didn't notice the change. But the old man did.
The corner of his weathered mouth twitched upward, almost a smile.
Almost.
Then his head tilted. "Five Golden Bears. Closing in."
Everyone froze.
Leif's eyes lit up. "Now we're talking." His hand slid to the hilt of his massive sword.
Nin grinned and unslung her silver blade, the metal shimmering faintly in the sunlight. "Five, huh? Guess it'll be quick."
Mellisa moved slightly behind the old man and crossed her arms. "They're really going to show off now…"
Sarion barely breathed.
Golden Bears?
That was—he knew that name. Dangerous beasts with hide like iron and strength enough to tear trees from the earth. Rank 3, maybe 4. One was enough to send a village into lockdown.
And there were five?
His body stiffened.
But then… he remembered what Mellisa had told him before.
The old man—Rank 6 Arts User, Rank 4 Fighter. Leif—Rank 6 Fighter. And Nin…
The Silver Sword. Rank 7 Fighter.
He stared at the three of them, watching as they readied themselves without a hint of panic. No, they looked… eager.
Like this was fun to them.
Sarion swallowed, heart racing, but for the first time… not in fear.
He was in the company of legends.
And they were about to prove why.
The ground trembled.
Sarion felt it before he saw them—heavy, rhythmic impacts that grew louder, closer, until they seemed to rattle his bones. His eyes darted toward the forest, and then they emerged.
Five massive figures broke through the treeline, each towering over any beast he'd ever seen. Golden fur rippled over muscles so dense they seemed carved from stone. Their claws, as long as blades, glinted under the fading sunlight. Their eyes burned a deep amber, glowing with an unnatural intensity.
Their sheer presence was suffocating.
Sarion's breath caught in his throat as a wave of pressure slammed into him, cold and unrelenting. His instincts screamed at him to run. His foot moved back on its own, ready to flee—
Then a hand landed on his shoulder.
"Don't be afraid," Mellisa said, her voice steady. She looked up at him, her usual teasing smile gone, replaced with calm reassurance. "You're not alone."
The words, so simple yet firm, stopped his retreat. He nodded stiffly, heart hammering, and forced himself to stay still.
The old man stood nearby, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He didn't move to help, didn't reach for a weapon—just stood there, like the beasts before them were nothing more than an evening distraction.
Leif, on the other hand, let out a low whistle. "Five big ones. Haven't had this much fun in a while." His grin widened as he drew his sword, the steel gleaming wickedly.
Nin chuckled, twirling her silver blade effortlessly in one hand. "Relax, Leif. I've got this." She stepped forward, her posture loose and confident. "Five's a good number for a warm-up."
Leif stepped forward, casually unsheathing his sword with a smirk. "I'll be generous. I'll leave you one."
Nin raised an eyebrow, scoffing as she twirled her silver blade in a lazy circle. "In your dreams, old man. If anyone's being left scraps, it's you."
"Oh, please," Leif said, glancing at her sidelong. "Last time we did this, I had to finish your bear too."
"That was one time and I slipped on blood," Nin snapped, trying not to grin. "This time, I'm taking four. You can have the last one if you're still standing."
"Talk big for someone who fights like she's putting on a show."
They glared at each other with the kind of heat only longtime rivals—or possibly siblings—could muster, both smiling wide enough to show teeth.
Sarion stared at them, wide-eyed, utterly baffled. They were arguing—not out of fear or panic—but over who got to fight the monsters.
The Golden Bears roared in unison, a chorus of sound so deep and feral it shook the trees, and something in Sarion's chest. He felt his knees weaken, breath stalling.
But then he looked at Leif. Then at Nin.
They were smiling.
The fight hadn't even started, and they were already enjoying themselves.
The forest trembled as the Golden Bears charged—but Nin was already moving.
In one breath, she vanished. In the next, she was dancing between the monsters, silver blade flashing like moonlight. Her movements were so fluid, so impossibly quick, Sarion barely followed them at all. One bear lunged—she stepped aside like it was nothing, slicing through its thick fur with a flick of her wrist. The second roared and tried to swipe, but she ducked under the blow and dragged her blade upward through its ribs without even looking.
The third never got close. It fell before it understood she'd even moved.
Three enormous Rank 3 beasts collapsed in moments. Nin landed lightly on a rock, adjusting her gloves as if she'd just finished stretching.
"Same as always," the old man muttered with a chuckle. "She could've done it with a blindfold."
Mellisa didn't look surprised. But she did look proud. "She really is the Silver Sword," she whispered with a quiet smile.
Sarion couldn't believe it. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the fallen beasts. It didn't feel real. That was… that was a legend moving right in front of him. That was what true strength looked like.
Then he heard a sharp whistle. Leif was looking his way.
He gave him a grin and a thumbs up. "Watch closely, Ion!"
And with that, he dashed forward into the last two beasts.
He didn't dance like Nin. He charged. A blur of speed and muscle and steel.
Leif's hands moved so fast they disappeared, his sword turning into a whirlwind of steel arcs. Each strike was heavy, fast, and precise—there was no wasted motion. The first Golden Bear barely had time to raise its paw before Leif carved through it, flipping over its back and slamming the hilt into the back of its skull. The second charged him—but he was already gone, already behind it, already bringing his blade down with a crack that echoed through the clearing.
Both beasts hit the ground hard. Neither rose again.
Sarion could only stare, mouth slightly open.
Was this what it meant to be strong?
Was this what he could become?
Then, a thought flashed into Sarion's mind, cutting through his awe like a cold breeze.
Wait… Golden Bears couldn't be eaten.
He remembered that clearly—something about the meat being too tough, too foul-tasting, even toxic if not handled by a specialist. And yet… they were here to hunt.
His brow furrowed as he turned to the old man. "But… if we can't eat them… then why did we fight them?"
The old man snorted, not taking his eyes off the clearing where Nin and Leif were now casually dragging the corpses aside. "Who said we fought them for food?"
Sarion blinked. "Then… why?"
"To protect the village, boy," the old man said simply. "Monsters roam these woods. If we don't clean up the area every few days, they'll get too close. And then it won't be beasts getting cut down out here—it'll be farmers and children."
The weight of that settled over Sarion like a cloak. Oh.
The old man gave him a sideways look, then chuckled. "Don't worry your little head, though. We'll find something proper for dinner in a bit. Preferably something that won't try to maul you first."
As Leif and Nin finished hauling the monstrous Golden Bear corpses into a pile like they weighed nothing, they exchanged a look—mischievous, almost dangerous—and then turned toward Sarion with matching grins.
"Alright, Ion," Leif said, resting his blade against his shoulder. "Be honest. Who was cooler?"
Sarion froze.
"Was it me?" Nin asked, sauntering closer with a gleam in her silver eyes. "Graceful, deadly, not even a drop of sweat. Or was it Leif, flailing around like a drunken squirrel?"
Leif scoffed. "Excuse me? When my hands blurred like that—that wasn't flailing. That was the First Step of the Black Death Style of Swordsmanship. A style I'll be teaching you starting tomorrow, by the way."
Sarion's mouth opened. Then closed.
Then opened again. "I—uh—"
"I mean, it's obvious, right?" Leif continued, ruffling Sarion's hair with a grin. "Come on, kid. I'm cooler."
"Ion," Nin said, leaning in. "Remember who took down three bears in, what, ten seconds?"
He looked between them, wide-eyed, unsure if he should laugh or cry. "I… I really don't want to choose."
Off to the side, the old man let out a snort. "Enough, you two. Stop bothering the kid. He just flew for the first time today—his brain's probably still rattling around in his skull."
Nin huffed. "Fine, fine."
Leif chuckled. "Fair enough, Ion. You're learning the art of diplomacy early."
Sarion let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding—and that's when he noticed Mellisa, standing a bit apart, quiet.
She hadn't joined in. In fact, she seemed… relieved?
His eyes narrowed slightly. Wait…
Before he had shown up—before he became the "kid of the house"—was she the one they'd been teasing like this every day?
Mellisa caught him looking and quickly turned away, but the faintest smile tugged at her lips.
...
Dinner went by quickly and quietly, just like lunch.
But unlike lunch—when Jon had cooked using supplies from the house—this time, they'd actually hunted the meal themselves. Jon still did the cooking (was he the only one who knew how to cook here?), but the ingredients were fresh… really fresh.
They'd brought back the meat from a group of strange, oversized fluffy sheep. Not the cuddly kind—these were massive, horned beasts with an aggressive streak. Not meat eaters, Leif had said, but dangerous to humans all the same. Rank 1 monsters. Which, for someone like him, meant they were basically walking meat sacks.
They'd taken down just one and given the rest of the meat to the nearby villagers, who had come out to accept it with big smiles and grateful words. Sarion had watched all of it through the window. Still, he hadn't actually stepped out of the house himself. He wasn't even sure if the villagers knew he existed.
...Actually, did they know who lived here at all?
Did they know the Silver Sword lived here?
Did they know that Klein—the infamous Shadow Assassin, the name whispered in fear across half the continent—was a housemate?
...
Sarion sat on the windowsill after dinner, staring out at the darkening trees, trying to figure it out. Wasn't Klein considered a villain? A murderer? He was wanted in the kingdom, wasn't he?
So... why hadn't anyone reported him?
Why did the villagers smile and take the meat like everything was normal?
As Sarion sat there lost in thought, a hand suddenly patted his head.
He flinched and turned around—only to freeze.
Standing behind him was a tanned young man with striking blue hair, a calm, unreadable expression on his face, and sharp, defined features that bore the elegance of the Eastern lands.
Klein.
The Shadow Assassin himself.
The exact man Sarion had been thinking about just moments ago.
Klein looked just as surprised to be there as Sarion was to see him, though his awkwardness came more from how he scratched the back of his neck and avoided direct eye contact than anything else.
"...Come with me to the backyard," he said quietly.
Sarion just nodded, still stunned, and rose to follow him without a word.
They stepped outside, behind the house, where the breeze of the night met them gently—cool and quiet. Fireflies floated lazily in the tall grass, and the distant chirps of nightbirds filled the silence.
Klein sat down by the door, his arms resting on his knees. Sarion sat beside him, still unsure of what this was about.
The wind brushed past them again.
Neither spoke. Not yet.
Klein cleared his throat softly.
"…How do you feel here, Sarion?"
The boy blinked.
Sarion. Not Ion. Everyone else had called him that by now—casually, easily, like he was already one of them. But Klein didn't. Klein used his full name, like it mattered. Like it meant something.
It caught him off guard more than it should've.
He opened his mouth… then closed it again.
How did he feel?
His thoughts drifted—unwillingly, at first—to the fire. To yesterday. Smoke choking the air, the heat scorching his skin, the screams of his parents. His sister's small hand slipping from his—her terrified eyes.
His heart ached. A deep, hollow throb.
He wanted to curl into himself.
But then—he shook his head.
And the images faded, if only slightly.
He thought of Nin grumbling and teasing like an older sister. Of Mell, cute and a little sharp, but always watching out for him in her quiet way. Of the weird old man with sharp eyes and strange riddles. Of Leif, loud and full of stories—his teacher, the only one who was as nerdy about legends as much as Sarion himself was. And of Jon—warm, silent, like a rock he didn't know he needed to lean on.
His hand curled into the grass beside him. He didn't know what this place was yet. Or who he was supposed to be in it.
But…
"…It's warm," he said at last, voice small but clear. "I like it."
Klein didn't reply right away. The man gave a faint nod.
And, just barely, a smile.
Klein shifted slightly beside him, the quiet breeze tugging at the hem of his long coat. His gaze stayed on the stars above, but his next words were low, careful.
"…And how do you feel about sitting with the Shadow Assassin?"
Sarion turned to look at him, confused.
It was such a strange question.
For two years—since he was five—he had heard that name whispered in fear. The Shadow Assassin. A villain who slaughtered nobles in Decartium, who used to be part of an evil assassin group. Teachers warned children never to speak his name. Servants would make the sign of warding at the mere rumor of him. He was a nightmare told to scare little lords like him into behaving.
And now…
Now that nightmare sat beside him. Calm. Awkward. Quiet.
He was the same man who had cut down the Black Tower invaders in a blink—who had wrapped him in warmth, carried him through the night, and brought him here. Who had given him food. A bed. A family.
And Mellisa's words still rang in his mind—how Klein had once loved someone, how he had lost his wife and unborn child to the Black Tower, and how he'd built something called the Revengers… not to rule, not to destroy—but to make sure the same thing didn't happen to others.
Sarion stared at his knees, thinking.
The wind rustled again, and for a while, he said nothing.
Then, slowly, he spoke. "I… don't know."
He glanced at Klein. "But I don't think you're evil."
The man beside him didn't move.
But after a moment, Sarion heard it—the faint sound of breath let out, as if something had loosened in Klein's chest.
"…Thank you," Klein said, voice softer than before.
And neither of them spoke for a long while after that. The breeze was enough.
The silence between them wasn't heavy—it was peaceful. The kind that came not from having nothing to say, but from no longer needing to.
Sarion glanced at Klein again. In the quiet, with the moonlight brushing across his face, he didn't look like a monster. He didn't even look particularly scary. Just… tired. Maybe a bit sad.
Was he young? Middle-aged? Sarion couldn't tell. He looked like someone who had lived too many lives in one lifetime.
But evil? No. That word no longer fit. Maybe he wasn't a perfect man—maybe he still had blood on his hands, made choices Sarion wouldn't understand. Maybe he was even bad in some ways.
But evil?
Sarion was sure now—he wasn't.
The wind shifted again, carrying with it the soft creak of wood as Klein slowly stood up.
He looked down at the boy, eyes gentle under the faint silver glow of night.
"Goodnight, Ion," he said.
Sarion blinked. The change was small, but he caught it. Ion—not Sarion. Just like the others.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"…Goodnight," he replied softly.
No name. No title.
But warm all the same.
—End of Chapter.