The room had not changed in days.
Curtains drawn. A single mana-lamp burning low. Plates left untouched where they had been set down, food long gone cold.
Aiven lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes open but unfocused. Time passed in a strange, weightless way; hours dissolving into one another until even the idea of morning or night lost meaning.
They called it Catastrophe #3.
Only the third of its kind in recorded history. Thousands of years of floating islands, countless storms and wars, and only three events severe enough to earn that name.
Two of them happened long before Aiven was born.
And the third had to happen now.
It had to occur within his lifetime. Had to choose this narrow sliver of history, this single generation. And out of all the islands drifting in the endless sky, it had to pick Hearthport.
Not some uninhabited rock. Not a forgotten wilderness.
Hearthport. The place he knew. The place he had planned to return to. The place where Lyra lived.
The odds were absurd. Cruel. Almost deliberate.
Aiven found himself staring at the wall, a hollow laugh caught in his throat.
The day after Catastrophe #3, his parents arrived.
They stood awkwardly in the doorway at first, as if afraid to step too far into his silence. His mother tried to smile, hands clenched together, eyes red from crying she thought he wouldn't notice. His father spoke gently, carefully, like every word might shatter something fragile.
"I'm fine," Aiven said when they asked.
The words tasted like ash.
They knew better. Of course they did. A mother always knows when her child is lying to protect her. A father always recognizes the hollow look of someone who has lost something irreplaceable.
They stayed as long as they could.
His mother tidied what little she could; straightened a chair, pulled a blanket over him when she thought he was asleep. His father rested a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding, saying nothing at all.
In the end, there was nothing more they could do.
They left quietly, returning to their small island village, carrying worry they couldn't lighten and grief they couldn't share.
When the door closed behind them, the room felt even emptier than before.
That night, Aiven dreamed.
He was younger.
The air smelled of damp stone and moss, torchlight flickering against uneven cave walls. He could hear dripping water somewhere deeper inside, the echo of it stretching into the dark.
Lyra walked ahead of him, hands on her hips, glancing back with a grin.
"Lost already?" she teased.
"Just.. making sure we don't miss anything," Aiven replied, gripping his short sword a little tighter.
They had snuck out together—teenagers convinced the world was waiting just beyond the next corner. The cave had been nothing special, barely more than a shallow network of tunnels, but to them it had felt like a real dungeon.
Then the sound came.
A sharp screech echoed through the cave, followed by the scrape of claws against stone.
A small wyvern-like creature burst from the shadows; leathery wings half-formed, scales dull and uneven. It wasn't large. It wasn't strong.
But it was dangerous enough.
"Lyra—!"
Aiven moved without thinking.
The creature lunged, and he stepped between it and her, blade flashing clumsily as instinct took over. The fight was messy, frantic; steel scraping scales, his heart pounding loud enough to drown out thought.
The creature fell.
Aiven staggered back, breath ragged, a sharp sting blooming along his side.
Blood seeped through torn fabric.
Lyra spun on him instantly.
"What were you thinking?!" she snapped, grabbing his collar. "I could've handled that thing! You didn't need to—!"
Her voice caught.
She froze when she saw the blood soaking through his clothes.
"...Idiot," she muttered, anger draining into something raw and unsteady. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against his side. "You always do this. You always put yourself in danger first."
Aiven let out a weak laugh, wincing. "Guess I'm bad at learning lessons."
Her jaw tightened. For a moment, it looked like she might yell again, but instead, she exhaled sharply, forehead pressing briefly against his.
"... Don't scare me like that," she said quietly.
Then she pulled back, eyes narrowing, not angry now, but serious.
"If you're going to jump in front of monsters," she added, poking his chest lightly, "then you better get stronger. I'm not dragging you out of caves every time you get hurt."
Aiven blinked. "You wouldn't?"
She scoffed. "Oh, I would. Obviously." Her lips curved into a crooked smile. "But I don't want to babysit you forever, you know."
She stood, offering him a hand, her expression brightening just a little.
"One day," she said, glancing deeper into the cave, "we'll take on real dungeons. Proper adventures."
She looked back at him, eyes shining with confidence—in him, not just herself.
"But only if you promise you'll keep up."
Aiven took her hand, the warmth grounding him.
"I promise."
He woke with tears on his cheeks.
For a long moment, he lay there, staring at the same ceiling as before, heart aching with the echo of a promise made years ago.
He remembered what he had planned to do.
The words he had rehearsed. The decision he had finally reached. The future he had dared to imagine.
And the future that was gone.
"No," Aiven whispered hoarsely.
He sat up, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. His chest felt tight, but beneath the grief, something else stirred, something sharper.
"I won't regret anymore."
He stood.
Not because the pain was gone. Not because the fear had vanished.
But because he refused to let his life end as a series of almosts.
"I'll become an adventurer," he said aloud, voice trembling but firm. "For me. And… for you."
On Monday, he would submit his resignation letter—quietly, cleanly. No speeches. No drama. Just a line drawn between the life he had lived and the one he was choosing now.
Monday.
Today, though, was for taking the first step.
Before leaving his room that morning, he had opened the bottom drawer of his desk.
Inside lay his old gear—simple, worn weapons from his teenage years. A short sword with a nicked blade. A battered dagger with a loose hilt wrap. Tools he and Lyra had carried whenever they ventured beyond the village paths, pretending caves and forests were real dungeons.
They weren't impressive.
But they were familiar.
He had strapped them on without hesitation.
The guildhouse was loud.
Metal clinked. Voices overlapped. The smell of oil, sweat, and mana filled the air.
Aiven stood at the counter, hands clenched, as a bored-looking receptionist stamped his papers.
"F-Rank," she said flatly, sliding a small badge across the counter. "Entry-level only. Don't die."
"I'll try," Aiven replied.
He knew the pay would be poor; barely enough to scrape by. F-Rank work rarely paid well, and adventuring was unforgiving to beginners. Still, he wasn't chasing wealth.
He would try his best first.
The quest he took was simple.
Dungeon sanitation.
Dispose of unstable remains. Collect discarded materials. Clear debris.
Trash duty.
He didn't complain.
The dungeon was quiet.
Too quiet.
Its stone corridors were narrow and shallow, glowing faintly with low-grade mana veins along the walls. This was an entry-level dungeon; safe, predictable, designed for beginners.
Then he heard it.
"Aiven…"
A woman's voice.
Faint. Fragile.
He froze.
"…Help…"
His heart began to race.
"Hello?" he called, stepping deeper.
The dungeon shifted.
Stone groaned. Walls twisted. Paths folded in on themselves like broken reflections.
Aiven stumbled as the floor lurched beneath him.
Then the monster appeared.
It was wrong.
A towering aberration of fractured stone and distorted flesh, its form uneven, its movements bending space itself. Gravity seemed to warp around it, air shuddering as it roared.
"This... isn't possible," Aiven whispered.
He brandished the short sword he used during his teenage days, doubtful that it would do anything, but he tried anyway.
The creature lunged.
He dodged by instinct alone, but instinct wasn't enough.
The impact detonated in front of him, a violent shockwave ripping through the narrow corridor. His grip failed instantly. The short sword was torn from his hand, spinning end over end before clattering uselessly across the stone, skidding out of reach.
Aiven didn't even hear where it landed.
His body was already airborne.
He slammed into the dungeon wall with a sickening crack, breath exploding from his lungs. Pain burst through him in white-hot waves, every nerve screaming at once.
He slid down the stone, vision blurring.
He coughed.
Blood splattered the floor.
Somewhere in the distance, his sword lay still; silent, abandoned, as broken as he felt.
He tried to move.
His legs refused.
He couldn't stand.
Pain exploded through him.
So this is it, he thought bitterly. Trash duty. First day. Dying a ridiculous death.
"I'm sorry, Lyra," he whispered, voice breaking. "At least… I'll see you."
The words felt wrong the moment they left his lips.
Then, in his mind, he heard her voice—sharp, familiar, cutting through the haze of pain.
Is that really all you are?
His breath hitched.
Memories flooded in unbidden—her laughter echoing across open skies, her grip on his wrist when she dragged him forward, the way she always looked ahead, never back.
You didn't even try to live, she said. You talk like this is noble, but it's just running away.
He clenched his teeth, nails digging into his palms.
You promised me, her voice continued, quieter now, but heavier. You said you wouldn't stop. You said we'd keep moving forward, together.
The weight of it crushed his chest more than the impact ever had.
This wasn't how she would remember him.
Lying broken on a dungeon floor. Giving up. Choosing the easy ending.
Disappointment burned hotter than pain.
"No," Aiven rasped, forcing the word past blood and breath.
He refused.
He opened his eyes.
The monster charged.
Aiven forced himself upright, legs shaking, arms thrust forward in desperate defiance.
"I won't die like this!"
He thought he might die, but at least he didn't die without any fight.
Light erupted.
Not a flash, an eruption. Mana surged outward in a violent pulse, forcing the air to scream as a vast magical circle tore itself into existence beneath Aiven. Runes ignited one after another, layered and impossibly complex, spinning in concentric rings that burned with radiant lavender and white.
The dungeon groaned in protest.
Reality bent.
From the heart of the circle, a figure emerged. An elf.
Silver hair spilled freely down her back, long and luminous, tinged faintly with violet as if moonlight itself had taken form. Strands of it drifted unnaturally, buoyed by ambient mana rather than gravity. Her eyes—bright, vivid violet—opened with immediate awareness, sigils flickering briefly within them before fading into a lively, curious gaze.
At her side hovered a crystal-like orb, perfectly spherical and faceted within, refracting light into prismatic hues. It spun slowly in the air, chiming softly as if delighted simply to exist, its glow pulsing in rhythm with her mana.
She wore a fitted mage bodice of soft lavender and pearl white, trimmed with iridescent lines that shimmered as power flowed through them. Detached translucent sleeves fluttered around her arms, embroidered with faint constellation patterns, while a layered skirt of pastel violet and silver rippled like dusk-tinted clouds. Thigh-high stockings glowed faintly with rune accents, and her boots hovered a finger-width above the stone floor.
Power pressed outward from her presence; dense, overwhelming, alive.
The boss monster roared.
She didn't even look at it.
With a lazy flick of her hand, a blade of condensed mana sang through the air.
The monster was severed cleanly in two.
Stone, flesh, and distorted space split apart in silence before collapsing into dust.
The dungeon went still.
Aiven stared, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe.
The girl finally turned to him, hands settling on her hips as a playful smirk curved her lips.
"Wow," she said lightly, tilting her head. "You really know how to pick dramatic moments, Master."
And in that shattered dungeon, as reality slowly stitched itself back together, something new quietly began.