Angel sat alone in the dark room.
The only light came from thin sunrays forcing their way through the curtains, cutting pale lines across the floor like weak blades that couldn't quite reach him. Dust floated through the air, drifting lazily, untouched.
Dark rings circled his eyes—deep, bruised shadows carved by sleepless nights. His once greyish eyes were vacant now, dull and unfocused, staring at nothing in particular.
Seven months had passed.
seven months since the fog.
Seven months since the farewell.
seven since the silence that followed.
His body was stronger—leaner, harder—but his soul felt heavier, weighed down by something training could never fully burn away. He trained every day until his muscles screamed and his hands bled, not to grow stronger, but to drown the thoughts that crept in when he stopped moving.
If he stopped... he remembered.
The laughter.
The warmth.
His mother's embrace lingering a second too long.
Angel clenched his fist.
Pain was easier than grief. Pain obeyed rules. Pain could be pushed through.
So, he trained.
Again.
And again.
And again.
His eyes scanned the room before landing on something that made them sting.
There, half-buried in shadow in the corner of the room, rested the buster sword.
The pommel was smeared with dried blood—dark and cracked like old rust. The blade had lost its polish, its surface scarred and worn, covered in scratches that told stories Angel didn't want to imagine.
His chest tightened.
That sword had once been a symbol of safety. Of strength. Of home.
Now it was just a reminder of what never came back.
Tears, round and heavy like pearls, rolled down his cheeks. His chest hitched, each breath shallow, as if his lungs were forgetting how to work—like he might suffocate if he let the pain rise any higher.
"You promised," he whispered, his voice breaking. "You said you'd teach me magic. You said everything would be okay... that it was just a trip."
His fingers clenched the bedsheets, knuckles white.
"You're gone..."
A soft knock broke the silence.
Knock. Knock.
"Brother Angel..." came a small, gentle voice from the other side of the door—young, innocent, unsure.
"It's me... Bell."
"Please, Bell... just go away," he stuttered, his voice rising despite himself.
The words left his mouth sharper than he meant them to, and the moment they did, regret hit him like a blade. He pressed his forehead into his knees, shoulders trembling. He didn't want to push him away. He didn't want to hurt him. But the ache in his chest was too loud, too heavy—there was no room for anyone else right now.
Everything went quiet.
All that remained were soft, broken sniffles, barely louder than breathing.
He was the worst.
He had made Bell sad.
He had made him cry.
A few minutes later, Bell's tiny feet pattered down the stairs toward the front door. His sniffles were loud and clear.
Then I heard heavy footsteps climbing back up.
Slam.
Z stood in front of me, a plate of food in his hands. His eyes held pity—but also something firm, unyielding. The look of a man who wasn't afraid to say what needed to be said.
"How long are you going to wallow and cry in here?" he asked.
"Just leave me alone..." I muttered. "Let me rot."
Slam.
Z kicked the bookshelf, the wood rattling violently.
"Get a hold of yourself, lad. I know you're grieving—but your parents didn't want you rotting in a dark room like this. They wanted you to become somebody, not this!"
"WHY SHOULD I CARE?!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "THEY'RE DEAD! THEY'RE NOT COMING BACK! SO WHY DO I HAVE TO KEEP THEIR PROMISES—?!"
Slap.
The sound echoed.
I froze. My face burned, my hand flying to my cheek as the sting spread like fire.
Z stared straight at me.
"Don't you ever say that again," he said quietly. "We honor the dead by living the way they wished we would. Your parents worked hard. They gave everything they had to stop a calamity. The least you can do is honor their wishes."
His voice lowered, heavy with truth.
"You are their living legacy. Proof that they lived—that their sacrifices meant something."
"I'm their living legacy?!" Angel shouted.
"Yes," Z replied calmly. "Now eat and stop sulking. Bell looks up to you, you know. If not for me—do it for him."
With that, Z turned and walked out of the room.
Angel remained silent.
A tear slid down his face as he picked up the piece of bread, his hands trembling before he bit into it. It tasted dry. Bitter.
But he swallowed.
He would grow strong.
He would change.
And one day—
He would take his revenge.
The next morning, Bell sat quietly at the table, picking at his breakfast. He was unusually silent, his shoulders slumped. The fact that his older-brother figure hadn't spoken to him since last night weighed heavily on his chest.
"Angel... nii-san?"
"Hm? Bell," Angel replied.
Bell turned so fast he nearly toppled out of his chair.
Standing in the pantry—literally pillaging it—was Angel. His mouth was stuffed full of fresh bread, sausage links hanging around his neck like a necklace as he rummaged through shelves with shameless enthusiasm.
Bell's ruby eyes began to gloss over, tears pooling before spilling down his cheeks. Then came the sniffles.
"Angel... nii-san!" he cried out, throwing himself forward and tackling Angel to the ground.
Angel immediately began choking on his bread, coughing violently as exaggerated, anime-like tears streamed down his face. He tried to push Bell away, but the boy clung to him like a magnet, arms wrapped tight around his waist.
From the outside, it looked less like a heartfelt reunion and more like someone desperately trying to wrestle a flopping fish out of water.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" Z snapped. "Cough that bread up, you little glutton! You're going to eat everything."
Angel paused mid-bite.
For a split second, the room went quiet—no jokes, no bravado. His grip tightened around the food, knuckles whitening. The ache in his chest stirred again, but this time he swallowed it down with the bread. Hunger burned in his stomach, deeper than just food. It was the kind that only strength could answer.
Then his shoulders squared.
"I need to eat, get stronger, and train," Angel said through a mouthful, a crooked grin forming. "So leave me alone, old man. You said it yourself—I've got a promise to keep."
Z clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Heh. Brat's using my own words against me now."
After finishing his food, Angel grabbed a wooden sword. He needed to train. His eyes—once cold blue—flickered to silver, sharp and focused.
"Nii-san, where are you going?" Bell asked, clutching his teddy bear.
Angel looked down at him. "Training. You're welcome to watch, Bell," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. Bell shook his head eagerly, eyes wide with excitement.
Z watched the exchange between Angel and Bell, a gentle smile on his face. "Conan... Yuna... your son will be all right. I will bless him and Bell—new heroes of their time, legends in the making," Z said, blue electricity sparking faintly from his eyes, crackling with energy.
Six years passed, marked by six winters, six autumns, six springs, and six summers.
Now fourteen, Angel was old enough to become an adventurer. He set his sights on the city of Orario, determined to climb the Tower of Babel and grow strong enough to uncover the truth behind the dark fog that had struck six years ago.
Angel stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his outfit. The long black coat hugged his frame perfectly, the leather soft but rigid enough to hold its shape. The high, structured collar brushed against his neck, giving him a sharp, commanding silhouette. Beneath the coat, a fitted black turtleneck blended seamlessly with brown leather straps that crossed his chest in a precise X, each strap worn just enough to show battle use.
His waist was cinched by a wide brown belt, the geometric buckle catching the faint sunlight that streamed through the window. Black gloves hugged his hands, the seams faintly worn but still strong, ready for training or combat. Fitted black pants led down into knee-high boots, the front splits and zippers adding both flexibility and a hint of style.
He moved once, watching how the coat shifted and the straps flexed with his body. Every piece of the ensemble screamed precision, discipline, and readiness—everything Angel wanted to embody. It wasn't just armor; it was a statement.
In the corner rested the Buster Sword, polished and cared for. Fresh wrappings bound the hilt, tight and new, while the edge of the blade had been recently sharpened. Even in the dim light, it gleamed—cold, heavy, and real.
Angel lifted it with care, the familiar weight settling against his back as he fastened the strap. With one last glance around the room, he headed downstairs.
Waiting for him were Z and Bell—now ten years old—both wearing small, knowing smiles.
"So… this is it," Angel said softly. He bowed his head slightly. "Thank you for taking me in, Z. I'll repay you someday. I swear it."
Z waved it off with a chuckle, though his eyes were gentle. "No need, kid. Your parents and I were good friends. That's enough for me." He paused, then smiled wider. "Just make sure you come back alive—and visit now and then."
Bell stood quietly beside him, fingers gripping the hem of Angel's coat.
Over the years, Bell wasn't the crybaby he used to be—but his eyes still betrayed him.
"Big bro… be safe out there. And don't worry—I promise I'll train every day," Bell said, forcing a brave smile.
Angel knelt down and gently patted Bell's head. "I know you will. You'll do great, little brother." His voice softened. "Get stronger… so one day, we can reach the deepest floor of the Dungeon together."
Angel smiled, sharp yet warm."We'll become legends. So don't fall behind, okay?"
"Yeah!" Bell said, a huge grin spreading across his face.
Angel straightened, turning toward the road ahead. "Good. Then… I'm off."
He didn't look back.
End of Chapter