As he grew older, those were the days the boy practiced swinging his sword, fell, and got back up again. Arcadith grew up without a father. His entire life had been confined to this port town—filled with the stench of fish, the sight of ships docking and departing, and the endless brawls of drunken thugs.

  The boy was always running around the town, causing trouble everywhere. He could never sit still. Always brimming with energy, always rushing home to boast to his mother about his "great victories"—defeating an older kid in a fight, climbing a ship’s mast without falling, or catching a fish with his bare hands.

  Raizen, by then a retired adventurer, merely watched the boy from a distance. He had no intention of interfering. He wanted nothing to do with anyone anymore.

  A kid like that—what could he possibly dream of? But Arcadith was different. From a young age, he clung to Raizen, eager to hear the stories of the Dark Elf’s past adventures.

  "Uncle Raizen! You used to be an adventurer, right? Tell me about your adventures!"

  At first, Raizen simply waved him away. But the boy was stubborn. Every day, he lingered outside Raizen’s room, waiting for him to come out, asking question after question. Over time, Raizen grew used to having the kid around, though he would never admit it. And whenever he saw Raizen wield a sword, Arcadith would follow, his eyes filled with fascination.

  "Uncle Raizen! Teach me!"

  At first, Raizen refused. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew—knew that once someone took up a weapon, there was no turning back.

  But the boy was more persistent than he expected.

  Then one day, when Arcadith was eight years old, he saw a few drunkards harassing Raizen outside a tavern. The boy was not afraid. He ran forward, picked up a wooden stick, and charged in like a young beast defending its territory. Of course, the result was predictable—Raizen picked him up like a stray puppy and tossed him aside.

  From that day on, Arcadith trained by himself—slashing at rotten sandbags, falling and getting back up over and over again. Until one day, Raizen, tired of watching the kid swing his wooden sword so clumsily that he nearly sliced his own leg, sighed and threw him a real sword—old, rusty, but still sharp enough to kill.

  "Take it."

  The boy’s eyes widened.

  "Really?"

  Raizen shrugged.

  "If you want to be an adventurer, at least look like someone who can survive."

  Arcadith gripped the hilt with both hands. And he never let go again.

  Through sparring matches, survival lessons, and his first wounds—Raizen was never gentle. He didn’t teach Arcadith like a brother, nor like a mentor. He threw the boy into reality.

  "No one gives you a second chance. If you’re not fast, you die."

  "There is no such thing as honor in a fight for survival. If you have to kick someone in the groin to win, do it."

  "Never trust anyone. Trust is a dagger at your back."

  But Arcadith was different. The boy had faith. He believed in comrades he hadn’t even met yet. Believed in the glorious adventures he would embark on. Believed that being an adventurer meant protecting others, not just killing to survive.

  Raizen once thought that foolish mindset would get him killed.

  But in the end…

  In the end, that very belief saved countless lives in the Drowned Catacombs.

  Raizen opened his eyes. The cold mist seeped into his lungs, pulling him back to the present. But whether he wanted to or not, the memories continued creeping into his mind, as if the night itself was whispering voices from the past. Dragging him back to the days when Arcadith returned after conquering a dungeon.

  The first time the boy cleared a dungeon, he was barely seventeen. He returned to town, his armor torn, covered in dirt and dried blood, but his face beamed with exhilaration.

  "Uncle Raizen! I did it!"

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  The boy leaped off his horse, pulled a blue mana crystal from his pouch, and held it up like a trophy.

  Raizen glanced at the stone, then at the boy.

  "You survived?"

  "Of course! I even saved my team from a trap!"

  Raizen scoffed, crossing his arms.

  "If you had died, now that would’ve been surprising. But surviving? What’s there to brag about?"

  Arcadith pouted but still grinned. Raizen could see the pride in his eyes. Back then, he thought, Fine. If you’re good enough to survive once, try again.

  And Arcadith did. He never stopped.

  From low-tier dungeons with weak monsters to ancient ruins where ancient magic still haunted the stones. Each time he returned, he carried new scars, new stories, and an ever-sharpening gaze.

  Once, he came back with a deep gash across his shoulder, his cloak soaked in blood.

  Raizen remembered that night—he had been sitting in the inn’s lounge, his cup of Robusta still half-full when the door burst open. A figure stumbled in and collapsed onto the floor.

  Arcadith.

  Raizen walked over, pulling the boy up.

  "What stupid thing did you do this time?"

  Arcadith only laughed, unbothered by the pain. He patted the pouch on his belt, where mana crystals and ancient relics glowed faintly under the dim lantern light.

  "I won again."

  Raizen scoffed and tossed a healing salve at him.

  "Next time, come back in one piece. Don’t make your sister worry."

  Arcadith chuckled, his smile as unwavering as ever, as if nothing in this world could kill him.

  One time, he returned not with wounds, but with a new title. A silver badge, engraved with a lion’s insignia, gleamed under the candlelight as he placed it on the table before Raizen.

  "Now you can’t call me a rookie anymore."

  Raizen stared at the badge. The symbol of Rank B. He took a sip of Robusta.

  "Tch. Not bad. But you’re still far from Rank A."

  "Then I’ll prove you wrong."

  And Arcadith did. The last time he returned, he bore the glory of a Rank A adventurer. No longer the reckless kid running around town.

  He had become a true warrior. His hair was a little longer, his eyes sharper, his steps steadier. But what hadn’t changed was the fire in his gaze—still burning as fiercely as the first time he held a sword.

  He stepped into the inn and tossed an A-rank medal onto the table in front of Raizen.

  "It’s done, old man."

  Raizen stared at the medal, then smirked.

  "Hmph. Still not dead yet?"

  Arcadith laughed heartily, slapping him on the shoulder.

  "Not yet! But I have something to tell you."

  He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with excitement, like a child seeing the ocean for the first time.

  "I found something. A newly emerged dungeon—untouched."

  "It’s in the middle of the Nereidian Sea. A sunken city has resurfaced."

  "If I conquer it, I’ll be the first to set foot in those ruins."

  Raizen frowned. A dungeon no one had claimed? Not even the Rank S adventurers? He studied Arcadith. Did this kid even understand what he was playing with?

  He had been about to stop him.

  But when he looked into the boy’s eyes—those eyes that never wavered—he knew that no matter what he said, the kid would go anyway.

  So he only huffed and downed the rest of his Robusta.

  "Just make sure you come back."

  Arcadith grinned.

  "Of course. You still owe me that Robusta recipe."

  Raizen clenched his fists. The cold seeped into his skin. Those promises… They were nothing but empty words. Arcadith never came back.

  The day Arcadith left. The harbor that morning was shrouded in mist. The boy stood there, on the ship's deck, his cloak fluttering lightly in the sea breeze. Those same eyes—bright, filled with determination.

  "Uncle Raizen! I'm going to become an S-rank adventurer!"

  "I'll make the name Raizen Silverclock shine with glory!"

  Raizen simply crossed his arms, watching from the dock. He didn't respond. But just as the ship was about to depart, Arcadith leaped down from the deck, ran toward him, yanked the necklace from around his neck, and grinned mischievously.

  "You said this helps people find their way out of hardship, right? Then I'll return it when I come back!"

  He had wanted to curse. To snatch it back. But the boy had already dashed away, and the ship had set sail with its sails unfurled.

  And Arcadith—with that radiant smile—vanished beyond the waves.

  That fool, the boy who once stood before him with burning determination… was now just a story, told by a ship captain who barely escaped death.

  The necklace lay in his hands once more. Cold. Empty. As if everything was just a cycle of fate.

  Raizen stopped walking. The night stretched on, quiet and endless. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  That boy was dead. Gone. So why… why did these memories cling to him so relentlessly?

  Raizen lowered his head, feeling as if the whole world was sinking. The night remained silent. No one spoke to him. No one offered comfort.

  Because the only one who could say, "I'm home."

  Now rested beneath the cold, unfeeling sea.