The world has never truly stopped moving.
It was humanity that, one day, chose to do so.
There was a time when traveling was considered natural—
when cities were not built to be lived in forever,
but as places to rest before taking the next step.
Back then, people walked without certain maps.
Knights were not born from titles or noble blood,
but from a simple, dangerous decision:
to walk farther than everyone else.
That time has passed.
Now the world exists in what people call the Age of Calm—
an era without great wars,
without disasters that shook entire continents,
without changes that could no longer be controlled.
In this era, doors are closed neatly.
Risks are measured.
Danger is removed before it can even grow.
Vire—the subtle current flowing through bodies and the world itself—
still exists.
But it is watched, guided, restrained,
so it will never again give birth to the madness of the past.
Many call this progress.
Many call it safety.
Yet no one dares to ask
what was lost along with that peace.
On the continent of Auren, there stands a city called Loxra.
A stable city.
A safe city.
A city that chose to stop.
Loxra is not small.
It is where many journeys come to an end—
where knights hang up their swords,
where those who wield Vire choose gentle currents
over wild, uncontrollable waves.
Nobles and commoners live side by side.
They eat the same meat.
They look toward the same tomorrow.
Ordinary people still laugh.
The nobles of Loxra do not.
Not because they are weak—
but because they are descendants of those
who once walked too far,
saw too much,
and reached a single conclusion:
The world is too dangerous to be left free.
So the gates were closed.
Choices were narrowed.
Vire was allowed to flow—
but only as far as was deemed safe.
And like all cities that stop for too long,
Loxra slowly forgot
what it felt like to step forward without certainty.
Near the western gate, at the edge of the city,
stood an old tavern that had barely changed
for decades.
Its wood darkened by age.
Its floor scarred by boots and blades.
The scent of alcohol and burnt wood
permanently clung to the air.
This was where Eiran grew up.
He was only twelve years old.
Thin, sun-darkened from spending too much time outside,
his hair never stayed neat for more than half a day.
He wasn't the owner.
Not an official worker.
And certainly not a customer.
Yet everyone there knew him.
"Oi, Eiran!" someone shouted from the corner.
"If you break another glass, you're cleaning the whole floor!"
Eiran turned with a grin.
"If I break two, do I get a free drink?"
Soft laughter spread through the room.
Not loud laughter—
but the kind shared by people
who had lived alongside one another for too long.
This tavern wasn't a place of constant joy.
But here, between old stories and healed wounds,
people still remembered
what it felt like to speak without fear.
Eiran sat on a wooden stool near the large table,
cleaning a glass that didn't need cleaning.
He was always like that.
Always there.
Always listening.
Stories of cities beyond Auren.
Of knights who walked alone
and never returned.
Of lands missing from official maps,
where Loxra's laws meant nothing.
And stories of the past—
a time when the world hadn't yet chosen to stop.
"Back then," an old traveler said in a rough voice,
"people didn't ask how safe their steps were."
He took a slow drink.
"They only asked
whether the step was worth taking."
Eiran stared at the wooden table.
The deep sword mark on its surface
had been there long before he was born.
"Then why," he asked quietly,
"does no one step forward anymore?"
The room fell silent.
The old traveler smiled faintly.
Not a happy smile—
but the smile of someone
who knew the answer wasn't comforting.
"Because the world learned," he said,
"that peace
is easier to protect
than courage."
Outside, the city bell rang.
Perfectly on time.
As always.
Eiran stood and walked toward the door.
From there, he could see Loxra's towering walls,
standing firm between the city and the outside world.
He didn't know why,
but every time he looked at those walls,
his chest felt tight.
As if something beyond them
was still moving—
and Loxra was pretending not to hear it.
Eiran didn't yet know what he would choose.
He didn't even know
that one day
the choice would no longer wait.
But one thing was already clear,
even if he couldn't put it into words:
The world may have chosen to stop.
But not everyone was born to accept that choice.
And on that day,
inside an old tavern at the edge of Loxra,
a small step
quietly began to take shape.