The sun had barely risen.
Master Thomas stood outside the hut, still wrapped in light bandages. His posture was straight, but his eyes carried emotion.
Bolt approached — fully dressed in his old cloak, Thunder Sword at his hip, mask glowing, eyes determined.
Master Thomas (smiling faintly):
"Three years ago… you couldn't even control a spark."
Bolt chuckled.
Bolt:
"And you were a grumpy old monk who hated noise."
They both laughed quietly. Then — silence.
Master Thomas (softly):
"You don't need my permission, Bolt. You were always meant to walk your own path. But…"
He reached into his robe, pulled out a thin silver thread — a small amulet made from frozen sage crystal.
Master Thomas:
"…Take this. If you ever forget who you are… hold it close. It will remind you."
Bolt took the amulet gently, nodding.
Bolt (grateful):
"Thank you… for everything."
They embraced briefly.
Then Bolt stepped back, turned toward the forest path.
He didn't look back.
Under the mask, Bolt's eyes shimmered with tears — silent, hidden behind silver and rune.
He was happy.
He was sad.
Happy to return to the place where he was born — his village, his people, his forgotten roots.
Sad to leave behind the man who shaped him — the master who turned his scars into strength.
The winds of the valley whispered around him, carrying memories of laughter, pain, battle… and growth.
But Bolt did not pause.
Because now… he had grown.
He was no longer the clumsy, impulsive boy who had walked into the forest three years ago.
His shoulders broader, his aura steady, his mind calm, and his will unbreakable.
He had matured.
He had found his identity — not just as a fighter, but as a sage.
And not just any sage…
A Thunder Sage.
Not a failure.
Not anymore.
He walked forward — mask on his face, thunder sword by his side.
And ahead?
A new dawn.