At night, Felariel’s harbor district became a different world. The noise faded—the crashing waves, the sailors’ shouts, the haggling of merchants—all replaced by darkness and silence.

  Raizen moved quietly through the empty streets, where lonely oil lamps flickered against the salty breeze. Narrow alleys wove into a labyrinth, carrying the stench of seawater and rotting refuse from unseen corners.

  In the distance, the hoarse laughter of drunken men echoed from some inn. A woman with a thin shawl drifted past him, briefly eyeing the Dark Elf before vanishing into the shadows.

  No one paid attention to Raizen. And he paid no attention to anyone. He simply walked, letting the cold night air cut against his skin, letting the echoes of the afternoon creep into his thoughts.

  The harbor. Meredith. The letter. And the old captain, his voice as rough as the sea itself.

  "The boy died like a hero."

  Raizen closed his eyes, but his steps did not falter.

  “Arcadith. That foolish kid.”

  The brat whose eyes would light up whenever he spoke of adventure, of glory, of becoming a great adventurer.

  A part of Raizen had known all along. There was no easy path in this line of work. Someone like Arcadith—proud, idealistic, utterly convinced in his beliefs—was bound to meet this fate sooner or later.

  Raizen was not surprised. Not sad. Not angry.

  He just felt… empty. As if something had been carved out of his chest, leaving only a hollow space behind. His fingers tightened around the chain inside his coat pocket.

  "When everything crumbles, let this guide you."

  He let out a quiet chuckle, unsure if he was mocking Arcadith or himself.

  “The kid thought he needed this?” Raizen’s grip on the necklace tightened. “What he needed wasn’t some damned trinket.”

  “What he needed—”

  …

  Raizen stopped.

  Ahead of him, a flight of stone steps descended into a narrow street where lanterns still glowed, casting long shadows against damp brick walls.

  He sighed and kept walking. Dead was dead. Nothing could change that. So why did his chest still feel so heavy?

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Raizen trudged down the steps. He was not one to dwell on the past—it meant nothing to him. What was lost was lost. But tonight, as the empty streets swallowed his footsteps, the past wrapped around him like a serpent, squeezing tighter with each step.

  With every footfall against the cold stone, the image of Arcadith replayed in his mind.

  The day Arcadith was born. Raizen had witnessed it firsthand. He remembered it well.

  That night, a storm raged. Lightning split the sky, wind howled through the seaside town, and rain lashed against windows with a fury that seemed intent on tearing the world apart.

  Raizen had just retired from adventuring, intending to live out the rest of his years in peace, away from the blood and chaos of his former life.

  And then, wandering through the rain, he saw her.

  A woman with auburn hair, her soaked clothes clinging to her body, her swollen belly making every step a struggle.

  "She’ll give birth soon enough," he had thought as he passed her, "and bring another poor bastard into this world."

  But then—

  A sharp gasp. A ragged, pain-laced breath.

  Raizen paused, frowned, and turned back—just in time to see the woman collapse onto the muddy street, clutching her stomach as violent tremors wracked her body.

  “Shit.”

  For a few moments, he simply stood there, debating whether to walk away.

  But the sound of her labored breathing, the sheen of sweat on her pale face—he couldn't ignore it.

  Cursing his luck, he knelt down and picked her up.

  They took shelter beneath the eaves of a chapel, the rain drumming against the wooden roof. Raizen pounded on the door, shouting for help, but no one came.

  The woman didn’t have time to wait. Her body convulsed, her fingers digging into the damp ground as the pain intensified.

  Raizen crouched beside her, his hands slick with rain and sweat. He knew nothing about childbirth. He knew wounds, blood, and death. But this… this was not death. This was life.

  “Breathe,” he ordered, his voice low and firm. “If you want this child to live, then breathe.”

  The woman gritted her teeth, a groan slipping past her lips. She seized his hand—her grip so strong he nearly cursed.

  And then, through the chaos, a cry pierced the storm.

  A tiny, red, writhing thing slipped into Raizen’s hands.

  He was not used to holding something so fragile. But the moment the baby let out its first cry, that slick, shivering weight in his hands suddenly felt different.

  Strong. Full of life.

  The child’s eyes fluttered open—bright, unafraid, as if born to defy the world.

  Then, the chapel doors creaked open. An old priest rushed out, draping a blanket over the woman’s trembling shoulders. She took the baby, exhaustion and joy mingling in her weary smile.

  She turned to Raizen and placed the child in his arms.

  "He'll be a warrior," she murmured, "don’t you see? Listen to him cry—he’s already challenging the world."

  A warrior?

  Raizen had laughed back then.

  He did not believe in warriors. Or heroes.

  But the way the infant’s tiny fingers curled around his own—weak, yet full of life—held him still for a long moment, as the storm continued to rage outside.

  He had no idea, on that night, that he would become the one to raise that child. To train him. To watch him grow.

  And, in the end, to see him fall.