Elior trudged through the streets of Arcadia, his steps heavy, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. His clothes were soaked with sweat and grime from the Veilworld, and his hair stuck to his damp forehead. The city seemed impossibly ordinary after the misted, dangerous expanse of the Veilworld, yet it pressed down on him with the weight of reality. Every familiar street corner, every shopfront, every neighbor he passed reminded him that he had returned without glory, without triumph, only with exhaustion and failure.
The small apartment building where his mother lived came into view, and his pace quickened. He wanted nothing more than to collapse beside her, to feel a fleeting sense of safety even as the failure of the day gnawed at him. He opened the door and stepped into the dim hallway, the familiar scent of herbs and faint smoke greeting him. It should have been comforting, yet it only highlighted how far he still had to go.
"Elior," a soft, strained voice called. He turned to see his mother in her wheelchair, the frame of her body fragile, the exhaustion etched in the lines of her face. Her eyes lit up briefly at the sight of him, a glimmer of hope mingling with worry. She pushed herself slightly forward, hands trembling on the wheels. "You are home. Tell me, what happened? What is your root spirit?"
Elior paused, swallowing hard. He had hoped to convey some pride, some excitement, perhaps a spark of victory. But the words stuck in his throat. His root spirit had bonded, yes, but it was not the powerful companion he had imagined. It was small, delicate, almost useless against the threats he had faced. Worse, he had used his one-time token to escape. The flaming lion still waited in the Veilworld, and he had left it behind.
His shoulders slumped. He lowered his gaze, trying to hide the tears that threatened to spill. "It is… the Farsight Wisp," he said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
The name drew her attention, but she could see the gloom in his expression. He did not smile, did not stand proud. Instead, he looked hollow, exhausted, and broken in a way that even the stories of children returning from the Veilworld could not capture. Her heart clenched, and she knew before he spoke any more. The spirit had not saved him. The trial had not gone well.
Before she could say anything further, a few neighbors pushed their way into the small apartment, curiosity gleaming in their eyes. They were polite in tone, but their interest carried the weight of judgment, the silent curiosity of those eager to see whether the young man had truly succeeded.
"Elior," one neighbor called, a hint of teasing in her voice. "So what is your root spirit? Something strong, I hope?"
Elior managed a nod, but his eyes remained downcast. His hand brushed against the hilt of his sword, still damp with the remnants of Veilworld mist, and a shiver ran through him. The neighbors leaned in slightly, eager for a story of bravery, of triumph. But they were about to be disappointed.
His mother, sensing the tension in his posture, pushed herself forward in her wheelchair. "Everyone," she said quietly, yet firmly, "please leave. Give us some privacy." Her voice carried authority, but not anger. She wanted to shield her son from the additional weight of judgment.
Some of the neighbors hesitated. A few cast glances at one another, murmuring faintly.
"I knew he was trash," one whispered, almost under her breath. "Just a poor child of a sick mother trying to rise. Nothing more."
Another shook her head slightly, lips pressed tight. "He will never succeed. He is weak, and his mother cannot save him."
A third looked on with feigned sympathy, a gentle smile on her lips, but her eyes betrayed a quiet satisfaction. Their hearts were not cruel, not entirely, but they were glad to see their assumptions confirmed. Elior's spirit, which he had believed held promise, had not yet proven itself.
Elior did not look at them. He did not hear their whispers clearly. The words were like distant echoes, unable to pierce the fog of his exhaustion and despair. Instead, he sank to the floor beside his mother's wheelchair, letting his back press against the wall. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to calm the storm of thoughts racing through his mind.
She wheeled herself closer, hands resting lightly on his shoulder. Her touch was weak but steady, a grounding force in the whirlwind of his emotions. "Elior," she said softly, "do not mind what they think. You are alive. You returned. That is all that matters right now."
He shook his head, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. "Mother, I…" His voice broke. "I thought… I thought the spirit could save me. Any spirit… I thought no spirit was useless. I thought… it would protect me. But it could not fight. It could not…" His words faltered, a sob catching in his throat.
She did not interrupt him. She simply let him speak, letting the weight of his emotions spill out. She had seen him struggle before. She had seen him fall, she had seen him fail, and yet she knew that these moments would shape him into someone stronger, someone who could endure. Her own weakness did not lessen his courage, even if he did not yet realize it.
The neighbors had left, retreating with their judgments and whispers fading into the corridor outside. The apartment was quiet once more, the only sounds the faint hum of the city outside and the soft wheeze of her breathing. Elior leaned his head against the armrest of the wheelchair, staring out the small window above the sink. The clouds drifted lazily across the sky, white and gray, moving as though time itself was slow and indifferent.
He could not help but think of the Veilworld, of the lion that waited just beyond the gate, of the treasures he had yet to find, and the power he had yet to gain. A pang of guilt stabbed at him. He had fled, and yet his survival meant he could still act. He could still return, still grow, still change the outcome of the battles to come.
His mother reached out, hand brushing the back of his head gently. "We will face tomorrow together," she said quietly. "Rest now. You need strength for what is ahead."
Elior did not respond immediately. He continued to stare at the clouds, thinking of failure and hope, despair and determination. His fingers brushed against the small, almost imperceptible wisp hovering near his shoulder, its golden eyes faintly glowing. He had thought it was useless, but it had given him something. Awareness. Vision. Perhaps guidance in ways he did not yet understand.
For the first time since leaving the Veilworld, he allowed himself to breathe slowly, to let the rhythm of life in Arcadia soothe him, even just a little. He knew that the path ahead would be brutal, full of hardship and danger. Yet in the silence, in the companionship of his mother and the faint presence of the Farsight Wisp, a spark of resolve began to grow.
Elior leaned his head back, eyes following the drifting clouds. He had failed, he had fled, and yet he was still alive. And that was enough for today. He would gather strength. He would learn. He would return.
But for now, he simply sat there, beside his mother in her wheelchair, staring at the clouds, letting the city move around him, and letting himself feel the weight of what he had endured.
The journey had only just begun.