"Goodnight, Mom," Ragan said from the bottom of the stairs.
His mother turned from the kitchen, spoon in hand, apron still on. "Don't stay up too late. The mountains are quiet, but the mosquitoes are still bloodthirsty."
He smiled. "Got it."
She pointed the spoon at him like she was casting a spell. "And don't forget—take your bag up and don't leave your shoes in the hallway."
He saluted half-heartedly and bent to grab the duffel bag and then got his shoes from the hallway.
The stairs creaked the same way they used to, old wood groaning under his weight. The hallway smelled like cedar and faint laundry soap. The floor felt uneven near the closet. Nothing had changed.
When he pushed the door to his room open, the hinges squeaked the same note he remembered as a kid.
The room was smaller than it used to be. Maybe he'd grown. Maybe the walls had just crept in a little over time. The posters were gone, but the pinholes remained—tiny scars from old obsessions. The desk still sat under the window, stacked with dust and old notebooks. The bed was freshly made. The blanket was new, but the mattress still dipped a little in the middle.
He dropped the bag at the foot of the bed and sat.
For a few minutes, he just sat there, breathing. Listening to the wind against the window. Listening to silence.
Then he pulled out his phone and started scrolling.
He didn't check messages. There weren't many of those.
Instead, he went straight to the shopping apps.
Groceries first. Essentials. He made a list in his head and knocked them all out in a few taps—stuff his mom would never buy herself. Better rice. Fruit that didn't bruise in a day. Health supplements. A new kettle. Then he ordered her a brand-new microwave and a proper rice cooker with too many buttons. Added a few cleaning tools to the list.
Then the house.
He started looking
into contractors. Quiet ones. Efficient ones. The kind that didn't ask a lot of questions. There were a few options even out here—small-town guys who did side jobs. He flagged a couple for tomorrow. He figured someone had to know who to call.
His thumb hesitated over the screen.
He added a training dummy. A new bokken. A floor mat.
He stared at the order confirmation for a while.
The money didn't even put a dent in the account.
He locked the phone and tossed it onto the bed beside him.
The room went quiet again.
He leaned back, exhaling slowly. It felt strange to feel this light. Not happy. Not peaceful. Just... not heavy.
But as soon as he let that thought linger, it hit him.
That feeling.
The same one from the station. From the train. From the corner of his eye every time he thought he saw something that wasn't there.
Pressure.
Not pain. Not fear.
Just the unmistakable sensation that someone was watching him.
He sat upright slowly, eyes scanning the room. Nothing obvious. No shadows out of place. No creaks. No movement.
But it was there.
He stood and walked toward the window.
Outside, the street was empty. Just the yard, the old power line, and the neighboring houses sleeping under the moonlight. Nothing moved.
Still, his skin itched.
He turned.
And she was there.
Sitting on his desk like it belonged to her.
Vael'thari.
The Aspect of Unyielding Will.
Her form was smaller again, not the towering blade-empress from the realm of swords, but she still radiated the same gravity. Her presence bent the space around her ever so slightly, like the air was adjusting itself just to make room.
"Your mother," she said softly, "is a kind soul."
He didn't answer immediately. He was still trying to get his heart to stop racing.
"How long have you been watching?"
"Long enough."
She swung one leg slowly over the other, posture relaxed. Her voice had a calm strength to it.
"I wasn't trying to frighten you," she said.
"Yeah, well," he rubbed his arm, "mission accomplished anyway."
Her eyes flicked toward the wall behind him, then back to him. "The house is clean. But the town is not."
He frowned. "What does that mean?"
"You've been seeing them, haven't you?" she said. "The flickers. The shapes. The ones that cling to others."
He didn't respond. He didn't have to.
She nodded. "They are not hallucinations nor tricks of the eye."
"Then what are they?"
"The Unseen," she said, as if the word should already mean something. "They are echoes of emotion, warped and swollen into form. Some small. Some ancient. They exist where pain festers and will breaks."
"You mean like… ghosts?"
"Some are remnants," she said. "Some are born from suffering. Others are accumulations. The sorrow of many over many years, coagulated into something real."
He sank onto the bed.
"Why can I see them now?"
"Because your soul has been carved," she said. "When the Archeblade marked you, you became more than flesh. You carry divine weight. The world cannot hide its cracks from you anymore."
Ragan stared at his hands. They didn't feel any different. They still looked like his.
Vael'thari continued.
"Most of what you see will not harm you. They feed on the people who created them. The broken. The angry. The forgotten."
"But some… will come after me."
"Yes."
She stood and stepped lightly across the room. Her presence barely made the floor creak, and yet every step echoed with purpose.
"There are spirits born not just from emotion," she said, "but from desire. From rage so sharp it pierces through realms. And when such a thing sees you, an Avatar of Will, it will want to devour you."
"Why?"
"To take your title. Your strength. To twist your resolve into something grotesque. To wear your name while spreading its own emotion."
"So like—if there's a spirit made from jealousy, it wants to make me jealous?"
"No," she said simply. "It wants to make you a carrier. To turn your will into envy itself."
He swallowed.
"They won't all attack you," she said. "But if you interfere—if you take from them—the hunger will come."
He was silent for a moment, then looked up at her.
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Survive. Grow. Shape your resolve until it can no longer be bent by such things."
She walked back toward the desk, then turned and leaned against it slightly.
"You intend to train here."
He nodded. "The old dojo's still standing. Figured I'd run through the basics."
She sighed, a small smile flickering at the edge of her lips.
"You are hopeless."
"Thanks."
"You can swing a blade," she said. "Your instincts are clean. But the blade doesn't evolve through repetition alone."
"I'm not trying to evolve it yet."
"You are the blade now," she said. "Every moment you let yourself stagnate is a moment the sword sleeps. If you want to wield it properly, you must fight opponents that test you. Push you. Force your instincts to grow teeth."
"Right now," he said, "I'm just trying to remember what it's like to enjoy life."
She didn't argue.
She simply nodded.
"I won't force you. I never will. That is not what Will is."
He looked at her again.
She was watching him. Not with judgment. Not even with frustration.
Just… patience.
Like the sword itself was waiting for his swing.
She began to fade.
Her form unraveled into starlight, threads of silver dust drifting back into the shadows of the room.
"Sleep well, Ragan Hart," her voice echoed gently. "Tomorrow, will bring what it brings."
He sat there for a long time.
Eventually, he lay back.
The moonlight through the window stretched across the floor like a blade.
And he stared at the ceiling, whispering to himself—
"I hope everything works out."