I fiddled with the bow tie that felt like it was trying to strangle me to death.
Other kids pointed and laughed at my outfit, whispering to each other like I was some kind of joke.
Older women pinched my cheeks, complaining that I was too skinny and needed to put some meat on my bones.
The men of the village laughed loudly, clapping me hard on the back as if that alone would make me stronger.
The rural village—tucked away behind mountains and drifting clouds—was alive tonight. The sweet scent of honey-glazed meat mixed with rum, cakes, lavender, and every kind of food and sweet imaginable.
Stalls packed with games and prizes lined the streets, lanterns swaying gently overhead.
It felt good.
It felt safe.
The autumn breeze kissed my face, gentle and familiar—nostalgic, almost inviting. I sat alone on a wooden bench, a warm cup of cider cradled in my hands, letting the noise of the festival wash over me.
"Angel! Get over here—I want you to meet someone!"
My dad's shout cut through the crowd like a battle cry.
I flinched.
I turned to see him standing beside my mother, his face flushed red. She had one hand over her face, clearly embarrassed by his volume. Let's just say... when my dad started drinking, he became a completely different person.
Standing next to them was an old man.
He wore a wide, jolly smile, the kind that made deep wrinkles crease around his eyes. Resting in his arms was a small boy with snow-white hair and striking red eyes. The child clung tightly to the man's chest, trembling slightly, hiding his face like a frightened kitten.
Shy. Afraid.
If I had to guess, he couldn't have been more than four years old.
I walked over, glancing first at my dad, then at the old man—and finally at the small boy tucked into his arm.
My father, still boisterous and far too loud, threw an arm around my shoulders.
"Angel! I want you to meet Z and his grandson—little Bell!" he said with a jolly laugh.
The old man—Z—chuckled and crouched down in front of me. Without warning, he reached out and ruffled my hair.
"So you're Conan's son, huh?" he said, eyes glinting with interest. "You've got sharp eyes. I can tell already—one day, you'll become powerful."
He grinned wide, like he'd just found a new piece on the board.
I wasn't sure why... but the way he looked at me made my skin prickle.
The party went on late into the night—filled with laughter, music, and simple joy.
I hadn't felt this good in a long time.
In my previous life, things were rough. You couldn't really be a kid. You were forced to grow up too fast, to carry weight you weren't ready for. I guess you could say this world wasn't perfect either—it had its share of scumbags—but it wasn't the same.
Here, people cared.
They watched over you. They corrected you, guided you, and when you fell, they helped you back up instead of pushing you down.
Right now, I was sitting beside Bell.
Even then, I could tell—somehow—that he was special. Not because of destiny or prophecy, but because of how pure he was. Too innocent for his own good.
His big red eyes looked up at me as he held my hand, tugging gently, pointing at everything he wanted—game stalls, food carts, shiny prizes.
"Angel," he whispered, barely loud enough to hear, "that one..."
I smiled and stood.
"Alright," I said. "But just one game."
His face lit up like I'd handed him the world.
Normally, I should've been pissed at my dad for dumping babysitting duty on me without warning.
But I decided to let it slide.
After all, if he ever tried to get back at me, I could always point out this little favor I did for him.
Does that make me a terrible person?
Some people would say yes.
Others would definitely say yes.
But let's be honest—
You would too.
Then I heard them.
I heard the whispers, drifting like smoke through the crowd.
"Did you hear about the village in the west?" one guy said, taking a slow sip from his mug of beer. "They say the entire settlement is plagued with... dark omens."
The other guy just shook his head, eyes wide. "Yeah... it's fucking crazy. The shit I hear. They say the whole town is covered in some black fog."
A waitress scurried past, her hands shaking as she cleaned the dirty mugs. She kept glancing at the patrons like she was expecting something to happen.
Even the older men and women at the stalls stiffened, their laughter fading into murmurs. Some fiddled with their stuff; others clutched their kids tighter.
I watched all of this, and suddenly the warmth of the festival felt distant. The sweet smell of honey-glazed meat, baked goods, and cider didn't comfort me anymore. It felt faint, like a memory, overshadowed by the unease threading through the village.
For the first time that night, the laughter around me sounded hollow.
I felt Bell grip my hand tighter.
His small fingers curled around mine, trembling slightly.
"Angel... is it true? Do you think the evil fog will come into the village?"
He asked it innocently, his big red eyes wide with fear.
I gave his hand a gentle squeeze, trying to steady him.
"Everything will be fine, Bell. Now let's go get something yummy to eat," I said with a kind smile, squeezing his small hand.
Bell looked up at me, searching my face like he was trying to decide if he should believe me. His grip tightened for just a second longer, his fingers cold against mine.
Around us, the festival noise kept going—people laughing, mugs clinking, music playing from somewhere near the center of the village. It all felt normal. Too normal.
Then Bell's shoulders relaxed.
"Yes! Let's go!" he cried, his fear washing away as excitement took its place. He tugged at my arm eagerly, already pointing toward one of the food stalls.
I chuckled softly, letting him guide me through the bustling crowd, the warm aroma of roasted meat and sweet cider drifting all around us.
After grabbing a bite to eat, Bell and I wandered further into the festival. That's when we noticed a crowd gathering near the center of the village. A few men stood in a loose circle, all of them holding wooden swords. Their builds and posture made it obvious—they were former adventurers. Beside them stood several kids, each gripping a blade almost too big for their hands.
A competition.
I squinted at a sign posted near a row of benches where people were already sitting, waiting for things to begin.
Looks like a junior cup... a swordsmanship tournament for kids.
That explained the excitement.
My eyes drifted toward one of the men standing near the front, arms crossed confidently as he spoke to the others. I recognized him instantly.
"Mr. Benard!" I called out.
The older man turned, then broke into a wide smile when he saw me.
"Angel, my boy!" he said warmly. "What brings you here? Don't tell me you've come to sign up for the competition?"
I blinked, surprised.
"Me? A tournament?" I asked, rubbing the back of my head. "I didn't even know we were having one today."
Benard laughed, deep and hearty.
"Really? I'm shocked your father didn't tell you. All he ever does is brag about what a prodigy his son is," he said with a toothy grin.
Before I could respond, I felt a small tug on my sleeve.
Bell was staring up at me, eyes wide with awe, practically sparkling.
"Angel... are you a swordsman?!" he shouted; his voice filled with shock and excitement.
"Yes," I said with a smile on my face.
Bell looked at me like I was some kind of hero.
It made me uncomfortable.
Benjin glanced between the two of us, then smiled knowingly.
"So," he said, lifting his quill and dipping it into the ink, "are you signing up or not?"
I hesitated for half a second, then shrugged.
"Yeah... I guess so."
"Awesome!" Bell cried out, bouncing on his heels. He clapped his hands together, giggling like he'd just been told a bedtime story.
"I can't wait to see!"
Benjin chuckled and scribbled my name down with quick, practiced strokes. Once he finished, he tore off a small tag and handed it to me.
"Number seven," he said. "Don't lose it."
I looked down at the number resting in my palm.
Seven.
For some reason, it felt heavier than it should have.
Sitting in the waiting area, I clutched the wooden sword in my hands, a mix of excitement and fear twisting in my stomach. This was my first time fighting anyone who wasn't my father. My pulse thumped in my ears, louder than the chatter of the other kids around me.
Quiet footsteps echoed against the wooden floor. I looked up.
A girl stood in front of me, her posture rigid, her expression calm and reserved. Her armor caught the moonlight streaming through the windows—polished, well-made, and clearly far beyond what any regular villager could afford. In contrast, my bronze armor was worn, scratched, and faintly scented with the sweat of training.
"Can I help you with something?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
The girl merely lifted her chin, her gaze calm and steady, quietly assessing me. Her eyes were sharp and calculating, the kind that could make someone shrink back without a word. I could tell immediately—she wasn't concerned with me, not yet, but she was watching closely.
The tension didn't last long. A booming voice cut through the air:
"Number 27 and Number 12! Please step forward!"
The waiting area fell silent. The sound reverberated like a drumbeat through the wooden hall. My grip tightened on the sword, knuckles white.
It was time
Stepping into the arena, I felt the weight of the wooden sword settle into my grip. The dirt beneath my boots was packed hard from countless matches before mine.
My next opponent stepped forward.
A boy older then me, a bandana tied around his head, spiky blond hair sticking out in every direction. His armor was decent—better maintained than mine—and his amber eyes locked onto me with something ugly behind them. Hunger. Obsession.
Like he was already picturing himself winning.
"Listen, kid," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Before this even starts, I'll give you a chance to walk away. Don't be too hard on yourself—I'm the greatest, after all."
He laughed loudly, soaking in the crowd's attention.
I didn't respond.
Instead, I shifted my footing and slid into the stance my father had drilled into me a thousand times. Knees bent. Core tight. Sword angled just right. Breathing steady.
The laughter stopped.
The boy clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed.
"Tch. Your loss," he scoffed. "Don't cry when I beat your ass."
He dropped into his own stance, blade raised high, aggressive and reckless.
I exhaled slowly.
Talkers always swung first.
Then, in a flash, our wooden swords clashed, the sound of cracking wood echoing through the arena. Dust kicked up from our feet as we pushed and shoved, each of us trying to overpower the other.
The boy slammed his shoulder into me, trying to knock me off balance. My legs slipped on the dirt, and I fell hard onto my back, my sword sliding out of reach.
But I wasn't down for long. I swung my legs, kicking at the edge of his armor plate. He stumbled back, eyes wide with surprise.
Seizing the moment, I rolled forward, snatched my sword from the ground, and lunged. My wooden blade smacked against his bandana‑covered head with a sharp thwack. He staggered, and I pressed forward, forcing him to retreat step by step.
Our movements blurred—strike, parry, push, dodge. Dust swirled around our feet like a storm, and every swing made the air hum with tension.
"You going to fucking pay!" He roared out. He charged like a mad man; he was in a thrusting stance.
He charged at me with reckless speed, eyes wild, bloodlust written all over his face.
If I didn't move—this was it.
I rolled just as his wooden blade came crashing down where my head had been. Dirt sprayed into the air. Before he could recover, I snapped my leg out, kicking his foot from under him.
He stumbled.
I surged forward, leaping into a horizontal strike, swinging like a cleave meant to take him off his feet. The impact rang out as he barely managed to block, our wooden swords slamming together with a violent crack.
I didn't stop.
I kept pressing—strike after strike—forcing his guard higher, heavier. I could feel it. His arm was starting to shake. His breathing was uneven.
Then—
Something slammed into my stomach.
The air exploded out of my lungs as I spat saliva and stumbled back, my body skidding across the arena dirt. Pain flared through my gut as I barely caught myself.
"You little shit!" he roared.
Before I could fully recover, his wooden sword smashed against my arm. The impact sent a jolt up to my shoulder, forcing me back another step. I gritted my teeth, tightening my grip on the sword.
And then—
I saw it.
Openings.
Too many.
His stance was broken. His balance was off. Every swing was wide. Every breath was rushed.
It was over.
I moved.
In a blur of motion, I struck—low, fast, precise. His legs. His arms. His back. Each hit landed before he could react, forcing him backward, shattering his rhythm completely.
The arena went quiet.
Gasps rippled through the stands as people stared—not at brute strength, but at efficiency. Control. Skill far beyond my age
I stood there, chest heaving, wooden sword still raised.
Victorious.
The crowd roared with excitement as my opponent slumped to the ground, unconscious.
I let out a slow breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. My hands throbbed, the sting sharp and familiar.
When I flexed my fingers, I could already feel it — rough patches forming across my palms. New calluses.
Proof that this wasn't luck. Proof that I'd earned it.
The following battles was slightly more difficult, but nothing I couldn't handle.
Eventually, I stepped forward—and there she was. The girl from before, hood still pulled over her head, a wooden sword gripped tightly in her hand.
She looked no older than twelve or thirteen. Slowly, she pulled back her hood, revealing long, elegant ears that marked her as... not entirely human. Her blond hair cascaded down her back, catching the light like strands of spun gold. Her blue eyes were calm, steady, and sharp, as if she was quietly assessing everything around her.
A subtle tension radiated from her posture—rigid, controlled, precise. Even at this distance, I could tell she moved with a kind of skill I hadn't seen before. Something about her presence made me pause—not from fear, but from recognition. There was a quiet confidence to her, measured and deliberate, that made her dangerous in a way no display of strength could match.
When she finally stepped closer, she didn't speak. She simply lifted her chin, her gaze sweeping over me with calm curiosity. It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't contempt. She was just... observing. And that was enough to make me feel small.
Play ▶ Chrono Cross Opening
"Before we start, I'd like to know the name of the person I'll be battling," she said, her voice calm but firm, carrying a quiet confidence that made me pause for a second.
"Angel. Angel Cru'uzu," I said, tightening my grip on the wooden sword in my hands. My knuckles whitened as I adjusted my stance slightly, feeling the familiar weight of the practice blade. "And you?"
She lifted her head, letting the hood of her cloak fall back to reveal long, pointed ears. Blond hair tumbled past her shoulders, catching the moonlight that filtered through the arena's open roof. Her green eyes glittered, sharp and piercing, like they had been blessed by the forest itself. "Ryuu. Ryuu Lion, from Rymilua Forest," she said, her tone measured, almost like a predator sizing me up before a hunt.
I took a slow breath, letting my gaze sweep over her stance, the way she held the sword lightly but ready, the subtle shifts in her weight that told me she knew exactly how to move. I'd seen plenty of beginners try to fake confidence, but Ryuu… she had control. Patience. Precision.
"Looks like this is going to be interesting," I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to her, though I knew she had already heard. She tilted her head slightly, almost smiling, though I wasn't sure if it was amusement or a warning.
I felt the arena around us—the rough wooden floor beneath my boots, the distant murmur of the crowd waiting in anticipation, the scent of roasted meat and sweet cider still lingering in the air. It was strange how alive everything felt here, even though this was just a practice duel. My pulse quickened, not from fear, but from the thrill of the challenge.
Ryuu took a step forward, her sword swaying lightly in a relaxed but ready stance. "I hope you're prepared," she said, voice soft but carrying an edge that made my spine tingle.
"Always," I replied, crouching slightly, sword angled forward. "Let's make this a fair fight."
A hush fell over the spectators as we both readied ourselves. Every movement, every breath, was measured. The air between us felt charged, almost like the world itself was holding its breath for the first strike.
Then she vanished—like wind slipping through leaves.
I didn't see the strike.I didn't even have time to react.
The impact was brutal, fast, and terrifyingly precise. Pain exploded through my leg as it buckled beneath me, my balance shattering instantly. I crashed to one knee, breath ripped from my lungs. My stomach lurched and I gagged, coughing up what little of the feast I'd managed to keep down.
I clenched my gut, vision swimming, sweat pouring down my face. The crowd's roar dulled, replaced by a sharp ringing in my ears.
Ryuu stepped back and slid her wooden sword to her side. Her expression—once calm and focused—shifted into a faint frown.
"…I thought this battle would last longer," she said quietly. "Too bad. I really wanted to test myself against you."
She turned, as if it were already decided.
My teeth ground together.
I forced myself upright, my leg screaming in protest, knees shaking as I stood. My face was pale, eyes bloodshot, breath uneven—but I didn't fall.
"W–Wait!" I rasped, my voice raw. "It's… it's not over yet."
She stopped.
Silence fell over the arena.
I straightened my spine, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. Despite the pain, despite the tremor in my legs, a grin slowly spread across my face—wide, stubborn, and unyielding.
"The battle," I said through clenched teeth, "is just getting started."
Ryuu turned fully to face me now. Her blue eyes narrowed, studying me anew—not as a weak opponent, but as something unfinished. Something stubborn.
She raised her sword again, stance shifting, sharp and controlled.
"Then prove it," she said coldly."Prove to me that you're worthy of crossing swords with me."
The air grew heavy.
Pain throbbed through my body, but my grip tightened around my sword.I didn't step back.
I stepped forward.
I thrust forward.
Planting my foot into the dirt, I pushed with everything I had left. My sword lashed out in a flurry of strikes—horizontal slashes, diagonal cuts, anything to break her rhythm. I pressed forward relentlessly, trying to overwhelm her through sheer momentum.
It didn't work.
The moment our blades met, I was driven back.
Her counters came with equal ferocity, but unlike mine, they were refined—precise, perfectly timed. Each deflection flowed seamlessly into the next, her wooden sword snapping against mine with controlled force that rattled my arms.
She wasn't fighting me.
She was guiding the battle.
Ryuu moved like a leaf caught in the wind—never resisting directly, never forcing strength against strength. She slipped past my attacks, redirected my blows, and struck only where I was weakest. Every step, every turn, was effortless and cruelly beautiful.
I clenched my jaw, muscles burning, lungs screaming as I struggled to keep up.
No wasted motion.No hesitation.
Only skill.
And in that moment, I understood.
She wasn't just faster or stronger.
She was on another level entirely.
I skidded across the dirt like someone yanking a carpet out from under me.
Pain exploded through my back and shoulders. My lungs burned. Everything hurt.
But it wasn't my body that screamed at me to move.
It was my soul.
I coughed, grit scraping my tongue as I pushed myself up on shaking arms. One of the straps on my breastplate had snapped loose, hanging uselessly at my side. My chest heaved, vision swimming, but I forced my feet under me.
Don't stop.
I clenched my jaw, teeth grinding as I staggered upright.
"Pain is just noise," my father's voice echoed in my mind."Listen past it. The moment you focus on how much it hurts—that's when you lose."
I let out a raw, guttural roar and lunged forward.
The world narrowed. No crowd. No fear. Just Ryuu.
I drove my weight into the charge, foot slamming into the ground as I pushed with everything I had left, wooden sword snapping forward in a desperate, reckless arc—not to win—
—but to prove I was still standing.
Then I felt the tip of her wooden sword drive into my gut.The air left my lungs.I slumped to the ground.Cheers blurred together—and then everything went black.
I lost.
A new day.A new beginning.
I slipped outside before the village fully woke, the morning air cool against my skin. Ryuu's face lingered in my mind — calm, distant, untouchable. The elf girl had proven one thing clearly:
I still had a long way to go.
Even with the so-called hero template buried inside me — a power that wouldn't even awaken until a god or goddess granted me a Falna — I refused to rely on it alone. I didn't want borrowed strength. I wanted skill. Discipline. Proof that I deserved the sword in my hands.
I planted my feet before a wooden training dummy and swung.
Slash.Step.Pivot.
Again and again.
I practiced basic forms — horizontal cuts, diagonal cleaves, thrusts — correcting my stance, tightening my grip, forcing my breathing to stay steady. Sweat rolled down my neck, but my focus never wavered.
Too slow.Guard too open.Footwork sloppy.
I adjusted and swung again.
I was so absorbed in training that I didn't hear footsteps behind me.
Whack.
"Ouch! Mom—what the—?!"
I spun around, clutching my head.
Standing there were my mother and father, fully geared like they were heading out on an expedition. Beside them stood old man Z, smiling as always — and tucked close to him was Bell, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
I blinked.
"…Why are you all packed?" I asked.Then I squinted. "And why are you geared up?"
My father chuckled, a wide, proud grin stretching across his face. "It seems like that ass-whooping really got you fired up, boy! Ha!"
That grin vanished instantly when my mother slammed her elbow into his stomach.
"Ignore your father," she said, voice sharp but warm. "That girl was an elf. They have higher magic and speed than ordinary humans like us — blessed by the spirits, children of the forest. Keep practicing, and you will be strong. And when I come back, we'll start your magic training properly," she added, smiling at me.
My father reached down and placed his hand atop my head. "Your mother's right. I'm proud of you, Angel. You went out there like a warrior. Even outmatched, you still stood your ground."
"Mom… Dad, thanks," I said, though a strange tightness settled in my stomach. "But where are you going?"
"You must have heard," my mother said, her voice gentle but firm. "There's a nasty fog over in one of the villages. Don't worry — we're only going to investigate. For now, I want you to stay with Z and little Bell until our expedition is over, okay?"
"Yeah, sure," I said, though unease coiled in my chest.
"Good. But that doesn't mean you slack off on your training," my father added, wagging a finger.
"That's right," my mother chimed in, her eyes brightening. "I'll be testing you on spell types and their duration, so be prepared, mister!"
She gave me a cheerful smile, then pulled me close, hugging me tightly. She pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, cradling me against her chest like she was afraid to let me go. For a moment, the tightness in my stomach eased, replaced with a warm reassurance only a mother could give
After the embrace and the goodbye, I walked with Bell and Z, my heart heavy and my chest tight. The warmth of my parents' arms still lingered on my skin, but the emptiness left behind was sharper than I expected. Each step felt heavier, as if the world had grown larger and lonelier in an instant. I wanted to turn back, to call out for them one last time, but the silence of the forest answered me instead.
I never saw my parents again.
End of a chapter! Thanks for watching, hope you liked the Chapter, and see you guys next time.