While the match was going on, Naze approached his wife's abode little by little. On the quiet road leading out of the arena, Naze walked between his daughters. His steps were light, unhurried, the faint sound of his wooden sandals brushing against the stone. Ouake held his left hand, while Ouale clung gently to his right. For once, the world did not seem so dark to him.
He could hear the rustle of their hair as the wind played through it, smell the faint scent of lavender soap they used that morning. Every small sound, every heartbeat beside him, felt like the melody of a life he thought he had lost forever.
As they reached the outskirts of the town, the sight of a small, worn-out cottage came into view. It was surrounded by wildflowers and a crooked fence—fragile, but still standing. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney.
"There…" Ouake whispered. "That's home."
Naze stopped. His hand trembled slightly as he reached up, adjusting the black strip of cloth over his eyes. His throat tightened.
He took a long, steady breath. "I remember… she loved white lilies."
"Yes," Ouale said softly, smiling through tears. "She still plants them every spring."
Naze's face tilted toward the gentle breeze, as though trying to catch the ghost of a familiar scent. For a moment, he said nothing—just stood there, the strong general suddenly fragile before the threshold of his past.
"Wait," he said quietly, raising one hand. "Let me approach first."
The twins nodded, though their fingers clung to the edge of his sleeve. They didn't want to let go—not now, not after all the years of emptiness had finally been filled.
Naze took a slow breath and stepped forward. The small path that led to Nymia's cottage was lined with white lilies and wild roses, their petals swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. Each step he took felt heavier, as though the earth itself remembered his sorrow. The creak of the old wooden gate, the rustle of leaves overhead—every sound tugged at his heart like an echo from another life.
From inside the cottage came a faint humming. The melody floated through the open window—simple, tender, and achingly familiar. It was the same tune she used to hum while tending to his wounds long ago, when he returned from his difficult days with nothing but bruises and hope.
When he heard it, Naze froze. His blind eyes widened beneath the cloth. His sword hand trembled; his lips parted, but no words came.
"So…" he whispered, his voice breaking. "She still sings."
Behind him, the twins exchanged a glance. They had never thought that their father, this great swordsman would be like this—vulnerable, trembling, human. To them, he had been a legend, a name wrapped in mystery and fear. But now… he was just a man yearning for the warmth he had lost.
He approached the door. The petals brushed against his legs as if bowing to witness what fate had long delayed.
He knocked—twice, softly.
Inside, there was a pause. Then her voice, still gentle and musical: "Who is it? Give me a moment."
There was the sound of water being scooped and then poured, followed by fabric rustling as she dried her hands. The latch clicked, and the door opened.
The woman who stood there looked older than the memories he carried—but her eyes, her eyes were still the same. Kind. Deep. The eyes that once looked into his soul and saw the man, not the warrior.
She blinked when she saw the twins, then her gaze lifted to the man standing before her. For a moment, confusion and disbelief crossed her face.
"Mommy!" the twins cried together, rushing into her arms. They hugged her tightly, their laughter breaking through the heavy air.
Nymia's smile faltered when she looked back at the man. Her arms still held her daughters, but her posture shifted—instinctive, protective. "I'm sorry," she said cautiously. "Can I help you? Why are you with my daughters?"
Her tone was calm, but her stance was that of a mother hen ready to strike at the first sign of threat.
"Mom," Ouake said quickly, words tumbling out. "That's Daddy! He's been watching over us for weeks. He found us and told us everything—you were right! Prince Aloysius took his sight, and he's been living all this time thinking you were gone. We begged him to come with us—to see you. We thought it would make you happy."
The world seemed to stop.
Nymia's breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded so fast it almost hurt. Her eyes darted back to him—older, yes, broader, his jaw marked by years of battle—but even beneath the changes, she saw the same man she had once loved.
She reached a trembling hand toward him, hesitated, then covered her mouth as tears burst forth. "Naze…" she whispered, the name barely escaping her lips.
He nodded weakly, his blindfold dampened by his own tears. His voice cracked. "Nymia… I'm home."
She stepped forward, unable to restrain herself any longer. They met halfway, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as he held her tightly, his sword slipping from his hand to the floor.
The years of distance, the pain, the waiting—collapsed into one trembling embrace. She kissed his cheek, his forehead, his trembling lips, and he returned it with the desperation of a man who had been lost too long.
Behind them, Ouake and Ouale exchanged wide-eyed looks. Their faces flushed with embarrassment as they slowly backed away from the door.
"Let's… give them a moment," Ouale whispered.
"Yeah," Ouake replied with a grin. "Mom's… busy."
And as they stepped aside, the scent of lilies filled the air—sweet, pure, and eternal—witnessing the long-awaited reunion of two souls who had finally found their way back to each other.
Back on the stage…
The tension was electric. Dust swirled in the air as Balt Joe, the ice mage of the Oradonian Order, spread his arms wide. The temperature dropped sharply, a frosty mist rolling over the stage. His lips moved quickly in a chant—ancient, sharp, and laced with power.
A shimmer formed in front of him. Crystals of ice twisted and solidified into the shape of a massive spider. It hissed—its limbs clicking as jagged fangs formed from frozen shards.
"Go," Balt commanded.
The spider leapt forward, spitting silvery webs of ice that crackled as they cut through the air. The audience gasped at the creature's uncanny realism—the Oradonian mages were known for their control, but this… this was artistry.
Gabriel Ealt, standing opposite in his martial robes, tilted his head slightly. He hadn't moved an inch since the spider's creation. The glow of the sun caught the edge of his blade, still sheathed at his hip. Then, with one sharp breath—shing!—the sword was drawn.
In a single motion, he slashed upward.
The ice spider shattered mid-leap, its body exploding into thousands of glittering fragments that rained across the stage like diamond dust.
Gasps erupted through the crowd. Balt Joe blinked, his concentration breaking for an instant.
Gabriel didn't waste time. His feet moved so swiftly that his form blurred, the signature of his "Feather Drift" technique—light, graceful, and unpredictable. He was upon Balt in seconds.
Panic flashed in Balt's eyes. He stomped the ground and threw both arms up. "Ice Wall!"
A thick barricade of ice burst up from the floor, jagged and glimmering. For a moment, it looked impenetrable—solid as a fortress.
But before Balt Joe could even catch his breath, a sound cracked through the air—like thunder splitting a mountain.
CRACK!
Gabriel's sword had already torn through the wall, his strikes clean and precise, his rhythm like that of a seasoned musician cutting through notes of battle.
Balt staggered backward, shards flying around him. His breathing grew shallow as he raised another hand, summoning frozen mist to cover his retreat.
What do I do? he thought, his heart pounding. I have the power of ice, yet this barbarian… this man who wields his sword like a dancer—he's driving me back!
His anger surged, mixing with humiliation. He was a mage of the Oradonian Order—trained by the finest minds in the Empire—and yet this swordsman with wild eyes and tattered sleeves was forcing him into defense.
"Don't get cocky!" Balt roared, spreading his palms outward. The mist thickened, condensing into spikes of ice that circled him like fangs of a beast.
But Gabriel only smiled faintly. His eyes sharpened, his stance lowering.
"You talk too much," he said simply.
And with that, he vanished—leaving nothing but a gust of wind and a trail of shattered frost behind him.