At sixteen, Nogare left the village behind. He'd buried his mother three years prior, and the whispers about the "cursed boy" had grown too loud to bear. The capital city was a maze of stone and steel, crowded enough that no one would notice if he kept his head down—and the Adventurer's Guild offered something he desperately needed: a reason to use his sight without revealing it.
The guild hall was a pragmatic hell—smoke-stained walls, shouting mercenaries, and contracts pinned to boards like scraps of meat for hungry dogs. Nogare signed his name in shaky ink, listing "scout" as his specialty. Within days, he was paired with three others who'd failed to form parties on their own.
Haruto was a brash swordsman with hair like fire and a mouth to match, always ready to charge headfirst into danger. Sakura, a healer with gentle hands and eyes that crinkled when she smiled, carried herbs and bandages like they were precious stones. Kaito was an archer who spoke only in nods and gestures, his dark hair falling over eyes that seemed to see everything—but nothing like what Nogare saw.
"First job's a goblin nest in the old forest," Haruto announced, slamming a contract on their table. "Easy coin. We'll be back by sundown."
Nogare looked at him, and his stomach dropped. Haruto's aura blazed with seething red—thicker and more violent than any he'd seen before. Overlaid on the swordsman's grinning face was the image of him charging into a narrow ravine, arrows and spears raining down from hidden ambushes.
"Wait," Nogare said quickly, forcing his voice steady. "The forest path's been flooded by recent rains. We should take the northern ridge instead—it's longer, but drier ground."
Haruto scoffed. "Northern ridge? That adds two hours to the trip! What's your problem, Mirai—scared of a little water?"
But Sakura nodded thoughtfully. "Extra time won't hurt, and wet armor slows you down in a fight. Let's take his advice."
They took the ridge. Halfway there, they spotted fresh tracks—goblins, hiding in the ravine below, exactly where the afterimage had shown. Haruto clapped Nogare on the back, laughing. "You've got a good nose for trouble, buddy!"
Nogare forced a smile, even as the terror of what he'd averted coiled in his gut.
The missions kept coming, each one a new torture.
In the mold-dark depths of the Bonehand Dungeon, he saw Sakura's afterimage clearly: she reached for a glowing mushroom on the wall, and a venomous serpent struck her wrist, its fangs sinking deep.
"Stop," he said sharply, stepping between her and the wall. "That mushroom's a lure—there's a nest of cave vipers behind it. Let me clear the way first."
He tossed a stone at the wall. The serpents hissed and slithered out, and Sakura's eyes went wide with shock. "How did you know?"
"Just… a feeling," Nogare said, his hands shaking as he helped her mark the area on their map.
With Kaito, it was quieter, but no less painful. The archer never spoke of his home, but one day when they passed through his hometown on the way to a mission, Nogare saw the gray, flickering aura around a young woman tending to a garden outside a small cottage. Kaito had stopped to drop off a pouch of coins, and Nogare knew—from the way the gray mist clung to her lungs, from the faint afterimage of an empty bed in her room—that she was his sister, and she would be gone by winter.
Kaito's own aura was a deep, cold blue that never faded. Nogare watched him practice his shots at dawn, and saw the ghost of him kneeling at a grave, bow broken at his feet. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words died in his throat. His mother's warning echoed in his head, as clear as the day she'd spoken it.
Weeks turned to months, and the party built a reputation. They completed every contract without a single casualty, avoiding traps, ambushes, and disasters that left other parties bloodied or broken. Nogare became known as the "Lucky Strategist"—the quiet scout whose bizarre hunches and alternative paths always led to success.
Haruto bragged about their streak at every tavern they visited. Sakura thanked him with warm meals and healing salves for his "sharp instincts." Kaito even clapped him on the shoulder once—a rare gesture of trust.
But while the party thrived, Nogare withered. He lived in a constant state of pre-emptive grief and terror, his mind racing to connect every color, every afterimage, to a way of keeping the people around him safe. He barely slept, haunted by visions of what could be. He barely ate, his stomach twisted by the weight of all he saw and could never say.
One night, after they'd returned from a mission to clear a bandit camp—one he'd kept them out of by suggesting they take a detour to "investigate a possible treasure cache"—Nogare sat alone on the roof of the inn, staring at the stars.
Haruto's red aura flared in his memory. Sakura's gentle face overlaid with the serpent's bite. Kaito's blue sorrow stretching out like a river to his sister's grave. He'd kept them safe so far, but every day, the colors grew clearer, the afterimages more vivid.
He was wearing a mask—of luck, of cleverness, of someone who simply had a knack for survival. But underneath, he was drowning in the pain of all the futures he carried alone.