A few days had slipped by in a blur of exhaustion, Ezmelral's body and mind throbbing with the ache of her first brutal week of training. She'd endured it all—the relentless sword drills, the harrowing dives into the past's corruption, the endless cycles of grief in the Shadow Realm—and now, at last, came the reward. Sunday. Her free day. And she knew exactly what question burned brightest in her heart.
She bolted out of bed with a thud that echoed through the room, the jolt sending ripples of pain through her sore muscles. Ouch— but she shook it off, whispering to herself that a moment's discomfort was nothing. Hastily dressing, she hurried downstairs, her footsteps light despite the weariness clinging to her bones. For a fleeting instant, she paused, gazing at the vast living room, the empty kitchen, the silent halls. The house was immense, a labyrinth of rooms and floors forged from elements themselves—but it felt hollow. Cold. Devoid of the warmth that once defined her world.
Memories flooded in: her mother bustling in their cozy kitchen, the sizzle of breakfast filling the air; her father bursting through the door with his woodcutting axe slung over his shoulder, a bundle of logs in his arms, ready to stoke the fireplace against the morning chill. Laughter, chatter, life. Here? Endless silence, echoing like a void that swallowed sound.
Pushing the pang aside, she opened the front door and stepped out. There, in the open field, stood Raiking—tall and unyielding, his presence radiating the sun's steady warmth, crimson eyes calm as he waited for her.
She froze for a beat, then shook her head to clear the haze. Reprimanding herself inwardly, she called out, "Master!" and dashed toward him.
Raiking turned, his gaze appraising. "How shall we spend our free day?"
Ezmelral hesitated, her earlier excitement dimmed by a subtle undercurrent of sadness in her voice. He noticed, his expression softening just a fraction. "You choose."
Her eyes drifted to the nearby lake, its surface shimmering like a mirror under the morning light. A memory surfaced—how she'd begged her dad to take her fishing once she turned thirteen, only for him to warn her off. Too dangerous, he'd said. Beasts lurk in those waters, sprout. Wait till you're older. The thought stung, freezing her in place.
Raiking followed her gaze. "Do you want to visit the lake?"
She shook her head quickly. "No... I mean, I want to fish, but... Dad always said it was too risky. Beasts in the oceans and all—unsafe for kids like me."
He regarded her quietly, sensing the distortion in her words, the way past and present blurred in her grief-stricken mind. "I'm here now," he said softly. "I'll protect you. If you want to fish... you can."
"Really?" she whispered, her eyes widening, a spark of hope cutting through the shadows.
He nodded.
For the first time since arriving in this strange new life, a genuine smile tugged at her lips—small but bright, like sunlight piercing clouds. "Mhm! Let's fish!"
They turned together, heading toward the lake by the house, the water's gentle lap a soothing promise amid the forest's whispers.
Ezmelral and Raiking stood at the lake's edge, the water's gentle lap a soothing murmur amid the forest's whispering leaves. But reality often defied expectations, and for a few awkward moments, they lingered there—staring at the shimmering surface, the silence stretching like an unspoken question, neither quite sure how to bridge the gap from intent to action.
"I've... mainly read combat books," Ezmelral admitted finally, her cheeks flushing a bit as she kicked at a pebble, sending it skittering into the shallows. "I don't know how to make a fishing rod... or, um, how to actually fish."
Raiking paused, weighing his words—he couldn't reveal that he had no need for food, sustenance a relic of mortal frailty long left behind. Instead, he bent the truth just enough. "I've spent most of my time wandering," he said evenly. "No chance to learn such things."
Ezmelral's brows shot up, her head tilting in surprise. "Aren't wandering swordsmen famous for fishing? Like in the stories—sitting by rivers, contemplating life while reeling in dinner?"
Raiking cleared his throat—a rare, almost awkward cough—as he scrambled for wisdom to mask the slip. "One shopkeeper sells armor, another cloth," he intoned, his voice taking on a sage-like timbre. "They tread the same path but arrive at different destinations."
Ezmelral blinked, then nodded slowly, absorbing the proverb with wide-eyed earnestness. "I see... You're right, Master. We shouldn't judge by appearances."
"Exactly, exactly," Raiking replied, a subtle relief smoothing his features as he wormed his way out of the corner, the awkwardness dissipating like morning mist.
Staring at the lake's tranquil surface, Ezmelral crossed her arms, a small frown creasing her brow. "So... what are we supposed to do now?"
Raiking's eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief. "I have a solution." He extended his hand, channeling his unique Essence—the ground rumbling faintly as roots erupted from the soil, thick and sinuous, their tips sharpening to lethal points. They plunged into the lake like spears in a frantic game of whack-a-mole, stabbing at the depths with rhythmic precision, water splashing in chaotic sprays.
Ezmelral watched, transfixed, until one root finally halted—quivering with tension, something massive hooked at its end. They exchanged a nod, a silent accord, and gripped the root together. Raiking tempered his strength to Mortal Realm levels, matching her pull; they heaved with all their might, muscles straining in unison. With a final, triumphant tug, the root surged free—hauling a colossal sea creature from the depths, its scaled body thrashing wildly as it arced through the air.
The beast slammed to the ground with a earth-shaking thud, its enormous form—easily the size of a small hut—flopping desperately, gills flaring, fins slapping the dirt in futile bids for escape. Ezmelral's face went slack with stun, her eyes bulging at the sheer magnitude of the thing, its iridescent scales catching the light like armored jewels. Raiking, meanwhile, furrowed his brow—it looked... familiar, a nagging echo from some distant memory he couldn't quite place.
The creature's struggles weakened, its massive body heaving in ragged gasps. Raiking plucked a slender root from the ground, handing it to her like a makeshift dagger, his nod signaling the task ahead: end its suffering.
Ezmelral approached hesitantly, the root heavy in her small hands, its tip still dripping lake water. She raised it high, but paused—her arm trembling, eyes locked on the beast's fading gaze. "I... I can't—"
"Sea creatures like this feast on lost children," Raiking said quietly, his voice cutting through her doubt. "You're not taking a life—you're preventing deaths."
The words steadied her. With a determined mhm, she plunged the root downward, piercing the creature's vital spot. It convulsed once, a final shudder rippling through its massive frame, then stilled—its breathing slowing to nothing, the light in its eyes flickering out like a doused flame. Ezmelral withdrew the root, blood staining its length, and stared at the lifeless form, a whirlwind of triumph and sorrow churning in her chest—victory over the catch mingled with the ache of what it represented, a step into a world without her family's guiding hands.
With a determined nod, she turned to Raiking. "Make an axe," she instructed, pointing to the forest's edge. "Chop some wood while I set up a cooker for the fish."
Raiking glanced at the massive creature's tail, then summoned a thick root from the earth with a subtle gesture. He shaped it mid-air—splitting and honing its end into a rough but functional axe-head, the blade gleaming with an unnatural sharpness. Without a word, he strode into the trees, his swings precise and powerful. Each chop felled a trunk with a resounding crack, wood splintering like thunder—but in mere moments, new growth erupted from the stumps, bark knitting and branches unfurling thanks to the lingering empowerment of Eden's Roots, the forest healing as swiftly as it was wounded.
After two hours of tireless labor, stacks of logs balanced on his shoulder, Raiking returned to find Ezmelral had improvised a skewer from sturdy branches, propped over a shallow pit she'd dug with her hands. "Toss the logs in," she said, wiping dirt from her palms. "Then use your Fire Essence to light it."
He complied, dumping the wood into the pit and igniting it with a flick of his fingers—a controlled blaze roaring to life, flames dancing hungrily. "Now carve the tail," she added, handing him a makeshift tool from the roots.
Raiking sliced the massive tail free with ease, passing it to her. She impaled it on a long wooden skewer—thrusting it through one side and out the other—then rested it across two elevated roots, sturdy as iron bars, to roast over the fire.
They tended the meal together, Raiking channeling Air Essence to rotate the skewer with gentle gusts, ensuring an even cook. For hours, as the sun dipped low and the aroma of searing flesh filled the air, they talked—not of battles or Essences, but of life's simple threads: village festivals with dancing under starlit skies, the quirky traditions of harvest feasts where families exchanged handmade charms for luck, the diverse foods of distant lands like spiced berries from southern groves or hearty stews simmered over communal fires. Random, lighthearted exchanges that wove a fragile normalcy amid the ruins of her world.
Finally, after stubborn persistence, the meat yielded—tender and cooked through, its scales crisped to perfection. They nibbled in companionable silence at first, the flavors bursting on her tongue like a rare gift. Then, during this quiet reprieve, Ezmelral set down her portion, her eyes meeting his with that burning curiosity she'd held back all week.
"What is the other solution?" she asked, her voice steady, cutting through the crackle of the fire.
In the shadowed corners of Raiking's mind, Eidolon's whisper slithered like mist through cracks. Ahh, she's posed the question. What now—lie, or bare the truth? Will you shoulder responsibility... or let history repeat its cruel jest?